Page 4

Willa

“P ut the mask on, Atlas. Barns are dirty and dusty. There could be mouse shit, bird shit, other shit. All of that could carry disease.”

Atlas crosses his arms and tilts his face in such a way that his long hair falls forward in waves that shimmer in the sun. His stubborn expression only highlights the chiseled planes of his face, and his eyes spark with defiance.

The sun is unrelenting today. We’re in a June heatwave, which is pretty much unheard of with Hart’s more temperate climate. Staring at the man right in front of me who is nothing short of sports magazine cover gorgeous, my skin breaks out in goosebumps while sweat trickles down the back of my neck and beads at my temples.

“I don’t think a little mask is going to help.”

He flicks the N95 back at me so that it sways in my outstretched hand.

“Don’t be a donkey’s ass,” Georgia snaps, grabbing the mask from me and forcing it at her brother. “Put it on Simon.”

I try very hard not to smile. Watching these two together is pure magic. People expect Atlas’ ego to be the size of this entire fucking state because he looks the way he does, but he’s actually soft spoken and kindhearted. The guys at the club rib him good and he jokes around with them, giving as good as he gets, but with his sister, he’s much softer.

He rolls his eyes at her, takes the mask, and walks it over to the Harley he restored. He hangs it on the handlebars next to his helmet. “There. I know where to find it if I need it.”

I swallow back the urge to curse at him for his stubbornness and angle myself towards the ramshackle cedar barn instead.

As far as old barns go, it’s about as decrepit as they come, but looks like it won’t fall in on us when we venture inside. The farmhouse at the top of the circular driveway which loops around the whole yard and encompasses several other outbuildings and sheds, is in a little better shape, but not much. At least some of the house’s white paint remains, but the barn’s red has long stripped away, leaving fuzzy graying boards behind.

“Are you sure she said it was okay to just take out whatever we want?”

I drove around this whole area a few months ago, in search of places that might be hidden gems when it came to picking. I had this one on the list, and a few weeks ago, I knocked on the door of that little white farmhouse.

Agatha is lovely. She asked me in for tea, and when I explained to her what it was I wanted, she said that I was welcome to come back.

“She gave us the go ahead. I told her that I’d make a pile outside the barn, and she could come inspect everything to make sure she’s okay with selling it, and then she could give me a price. I thought that was fair.”

“And she said the whole barn is full?”

“To the rafters.”

Georgia rubs her hands in glee, then slips on her white mask, snapping the yellow elastic straps around her messy bun. Her dark blue eyes peek out over the top, long lashes sweeping up and down.

“Safety glasses?” I produce a set from my bag. I have bottles of water, my first aid kit, gloves for all of us, as well as extra masks. I like to come prepared.

“And a hard hat probably,” she quips, eyeing the barn. “I’m kidding. I don’t think the roof will come down on us.”

“It’s not a bad idea for next time.”

Georgia borrowed some old clothes from her mom and a pair of ancient sneakers. I have my steel toed boots on, old jeans, and a hoodie. I’m going to swelter in it and I’m already sweating, but being protected from insects, vermin, scrapes, and rusty nails is important.

I take the lead, Georgia behind me, Atlas grumbling good naturedly in the rear. He wasn’t grousing so much when he found the motorcycle love of his life a while ago.

That day is pretty much the epitome of even if I live to be a hundred, his joy at uncovering that bike will live rent free in my head forever and always.

He and Jodie broke up right as Lynette and I moved to Hart. I’ve known the Atlas he gives to the world and more, because he’s let me in at times, but I’d never seen him happy the way he was that day. Enraptured. Enthralled. Captivated. I watched the life rush into his eyes and was breathless at the transformation. Maybe also a little bit irrationally jealous of the bike, because it brought him such joy.

I don’t know what it would take to have him look at me that way.

When I pry the heavy wooden main door open, a cloud of dust and a swarm of flies hits me straight in the face. I duck, screaming into the mask, waving my hands frantically.

Atlas shoves past his sister and puts up his fists, ready to fight whatever just scared the shit out of me.

“Motherfucking raccoons!” He yells. “Come out and fight like men!”

“It was just flies.” My face gets hot. I can’t believe I lost my mind like that. “I just didn’t expect to get nailed with a swarm in the face like a cloud of bats blasting out of a cave.”

“That’s still really gross,” Georgia says sympathetically. She blinks into the gloom.

I sweep my gaze around behind the safety glasses. They make me feel vaguely nauseous, but they’re tight to my face and prevent a lot of the dust from getting in my eyes. The boards either were never pressed tightly together, or they’ve warped with time, leaving large cracks that let in a decent amount of sunlight into the whole barn.

The thing is packed. Not to the roof, at least. We can still start from the front and work our way back, clearing paths.

I’m aware that this is fodder for most people’s nightmare, but to me, it’s a simple equation. Piles of junk equals happy place. I’m pretty much salivating here. Every step I take into the barn raises enough dust to choke on.

I set my hand on Atlas’ arm. His skin is warm, baked from the sun, but that’s not why it scorches my palm. “It’s really dusty. Want to wait by the door so I can pass things out to you?” His face softens just a little and I press my luck, giving him big puppy dog eyes probably magnified by the safety glasses. “Please?”

“I think unless you’re wearing the mask, you shouldn’t be in here,” Georgia agrees. “You have to make it in one piece for dinner tonight or Mom will be so disappointed.”

“We also don’t need you getting mouse or bird poo viruses.”

“Are you sure?” He’s ready to play the hero and defend us from the horrors of this place, but the only horrifying thing I can see is about forty-two years of accumulated grime.

“I’m sure.”

“Scream again if you need me.” He throws back his head and laughs, the slanting sunlight playing over his golden mane, sparkling like his eyes really are the sea.

I’m temporarily mesmerized by his mouth, watching the strong column of his bronzed throat vibrate, captivated by the way the sound rolls through his shoulders and chest, all the way down to abs you could literally scrub clothes on.

I’d be the clothes. I’d love to volunteer. Just saying.

Fuck .

I need to stop looking at him like that, or Georgia is going to notice it’s not just all the old junk that I’m drooling over.

He retreats to the door and steps outside, probably relieved to get out of here so he can breathe, though he’d never say so. He might not have a big ego, but he does have his pride.

“Boys and their dumb pride,” Georgia mutters, echoing my thoughts exactly.

Okay, not exactly. If she knew my real musings about Atlas, she’d puke right into that mask she has on and that would be a true catastrophe.

We make a path, pushing and piling things to the side to reveal boxes, crates, suitcases, and old trunks.

“This is so overwhelming,” Georgia mutters, moving a stack of old magazines that I’m going to look through when I get a chance.

“It’s a lot to take in. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not overheating?”

“No. I really like it. It’s dirty and kind of gross, and totally overstimulating, but I can see how exciting it would be to find that one special thing. Even just rescuing a bunch of the regular stuff from rotting is so amazing.”

“It’s a time capsule for sure. Agatha said she hasn’t been in here for decades. A lot of this stuff belonged to her parents and her siblings, as well as extended family. When someone died, they just moved it all in and forgot about it.”

“I hope unearthing it doesn’t bring back bad memories for her. Or good ones, but they’re sad too.”

That’s the last thing I want to do. Agatha is so sweet. “Nostalgia is tricky. It’s so wild how something might look like trash to one person, but if another had that item growing up, finding it again becomes priceless to them.”

She nods so hard that her mask half slips off and she has to adjust it. “My parents have this super ugly old clock on the wall in their kitchen. I guess you probably saw it when you’ve been at the house. It was a wedding present, so it’s been there forever. If they ever got rid of it, I’d have to say that I’d miss it, but I didn’t even realize that until right now.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” I give her a quick scan to make sure that she truly is doing okay. We’re into the thick of the dust, and the air is close to the point of stifling. I’m soaking wet, and she has to be feeling it too. “You look lovely, by the way. That’s a great vintage sweater.”

“It’s pretty much going to be a sacrifice after today.” She shoves a few boxes aside before reaching for one labelled ‘TOYS’ to crack it open. She has great instincts. Vintage toys are one of the best things to find, at least in my opinion.

Sure, it would be great to find a piece of art or a random vase or necklace worth millions, but those are unicorns. I’m more about keeping my expectations realistic.

“I’m great with laundry. I can wash them for you if you want.”

“Oh goodness, these are just throw-aways.” She starts rifling through the box. “She won’t be mad. Whoa! Look at this!”

I hustle over and we go through the box together. The whole thing is pure magic . Lots of stuff from the forties and fifties, and a few from the sixties. There are tons of little figures, cast iron, a few plastic pieces that are in surprisingly good condition. The dolls, however immaculate they might be, are still the stuff of nightmares.

“Ooh, look! Here’s a monkey like the one you have at the shop.” It’s true. Pearl could have a friend, although this one is in good shape and flocked all over. “And what are these?” Georgia pulls out a few marionettes. “Oh lord, these are frightening!” She laughs so hard that dust puffs off the front of her mask.

I fold the box back up and carry it to the front of the barn, setting it by the door. Atlas is nowhere in sight, but I’ll call him when I have a stack.

***

That incredible toy find sets the pace. For the next few hours, Georgia and I dig and dig and dig. We find tons of old books and magazines, antique clothes, tools, soft furnishings like lace tablecloths and curtains, hats, gloves, shoes, ancient tins and jars, oil signs, a few radios and clocks, a whole chest of silver flatware, old radios and typewriters, a box with brass décor, lamps, and a bunch of old artwork wrapped in plastic and taped in cardboard so fragile that it flakes away when we handle it.

I uncover a Hoosier cabinet that has seen better days, and find several chairs, end tables, and the pie safe of my dreams. There’s even an old jukebox in the corner.

In the end, Atlas has to mask up and help us carry the heavy stuff out. The pile on the lawn grows, transforming into a mountain.

If Agatha is watching us from the house, I hope she’s getting a kick out of this.

This is pretty much the best pick of my life. I’m so happy I brought all the spare cash I had on hand.

The hardest part is knowing when to stop, but despite nearly reaching my breaking point for soaking through my clothes and seeing black spots that aren’t related to dust or tricks of the sunlight in the barn, I press on.

Behind me, Georgia and Atlas are manhandling a trunk of old clothes.

“Your trailer is going to be full,” Atlas calls, his deep, rich voice muffled through the mask but still sending a dark shiver trilling up my spine. “Let’s call it.”

I know that I have to haggle over price and load yet, plus still drive back to Hart and get cleaned up in time for dinner. We got here early, but we’ve been at this for hours, and time slips away when you’re having fun.

Or not, as Atlas would probably say.

I promised to pay him, and I’ll make sure he accepts, even if I have to give the money to his parents or slip it to Bullet.

I do one last sweep of the still crowded area. I could come back here and pick for days. Maybe I will. No, fuck that. No maybes about it. I’m definitely coming back.

The humped top of a gorgeous steamer trunk catches my eye off in the corner at the very back of the barn.

There’s a second door back here, and the weird thing is, when I look across the pile of stuff, it appears as though there’s been a path cleared recently. Maybe Agatha tried to do a bit of cleaning before I came? She said she hadn’t been in here, but maybe she meant other than trying to get the back door open. She might have been worried that I wouldn’t even be able to get into the barn.

There isn’t the same layer of grime and dust here, but maybe that’s because at the back, the boards are gapping far apart, letting in more light than at the front or the sides. Instead of blowing dirt in, the wind could have forced it all to the front.

Apparently, the flies too.

Never forgetting that one either. Shudder.

“Atlas! Georgia! I just want this trunk!” I clear a path to it, so that by the time my help arrives, I can grasp one of the leather handles on the side and tug. I try again, but the thing won’t budge. It must be stuck to the floor. “Oh my god, it’s heavy.”

“We’re not taking that old beast.” Atlas circles around it. He’s covered in grime and so is Georgia. They still look fabulous, but I can’t imagine I look any better than yogurt left out in the sun. For three days. “It’s locked.” He grasps both handles and tries to lift it, but it doesn’t budge. “And it’s insanely heavy. There could be a body in there for all we know.”

Georgia squeals and starts flapping her arms. “Don’t say that!” She snaps. “Eww!”

I work my way to the front, brushing past Atlas. The hairs on my arms stand on end from the contact. I drop down and rub my gloved fingers over the metal lock. It’s old. Probably as old as the trunk itself, which is at least a hundred years, though I’d guess more.

“This is a true steamer trunk and she’s gorgeous. There’s no way I can leave her behind.”

“If there was a body in there, I think it would just be bones by now, and a whole lot lighter,” Georgia points out.

“That’s disgusting. Can you imagine how horrible it would be to cut the lock off and find that?” Atlas makes a fake gagging sound.

Yes. For real. I can’t imagine that he’s been a saint doing his club stuff. I know some of the men there have had to have killed someone in the past, and that it wasn’t in the far distant past, before they joined the Satan’s Angels. There’s no one I’d trust my big sister with other than Bullet, and he was a soldier for two decades. He’s never said so, but I’m positive he’s killed people.

It’s so crazy that Atlas is shuddering about this old trunk.

“This is a sweet old lady.” I’m not going down the direction of club business. I have to rationalize other ways. “She’s owned this farm for a long time and her parents before her. I’m pretty sure they don’t have skeletons stashed in their barn.”

“You never know. Just because she looks sweet doesn’t mean she’s not a serial killer.”

“Oh Jesus, now it’s more than one body?” Georgia shakes her head. “Come on, Willa, I’ll help you carry it to the trailer.” She takes one handle and motions me to the other.

“No, I’ll do it,” Atlas sighs. “At least it’s not crazy dusty like the rest.”

He bends his legs and in an astounding feat of strength that causes all his muscles to ripple and bulge, as well as the veins running along his forearms to pop, he braces himself and then hefts. The trunk literally groans and grunts, but comes off the ground.

Once he’s got it picked up, Atlas doesn’t waste time. He hurries out with it, bowed under its weight. We race after him and watch him set it down in the middle of the pile.

He straightens, and I’m about to tell Georgia that she should unmask and grab some water while I go get Agatha, but I don’t get a chance.

Atlas goes rigid, but then he sways. I almost think he’s playing when he staggers, it’s that exaggerated, but then he goes down hard, landing on the grass on his side. If he’s playing us, he’s really damn good at not moving.

Georgia and I are both so shocked we can only stare, and then stare at each other.

Fuck. If he jumps up at me after scaring me like this and laughs in my face, I swear I’m going to kill him myself.

Except… he’s not jumping up. He’s not moving at all.

“Oh my god!” I rip my mask off and go running.

Georgia’s right behind me, yelling her brother’s name. “Simon!”

I hit the ground right beside Atlas, scooping his head into my lap and cradling it before it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have moved him.

I tear the grimy mask off and stoke his beautiful face.

He’s clammy, with a dirt ring around his face where the mask was. It’s clean underneath, but he was probably telling the truth about not being able to breathe in it and it’s hot . He was doing all the heavy lifting out here in the sun and I was just letting him .

“Here!” Georgia drops down beside me with one of the water bottles from the bag. I set it under the tire of the truck, where I could find the most shade. They were chilled before, and now they’re not so cold, but she upends it over Atlas’ forehead.

He stirs, his eyes flickering before they open. They aren’t focused, which is scary as hell, but after another bottle gets dribbled over his face and neck, he blinks and focuses on my face.

“Oh, thank fuck.” I tilt his face up, giving him a bit of height so Georgia can tuck the water bottle against his lips and slowly give him some.

I should have made sure that everyone stayed hydrated.

I didn’t demand that Atlas do anything, but he would have felt pressured to keep up with us. We at least had the shelter of the barn. It’s blisteringly hot out here. Worse than in the barn by far. I can’t believe that we’re still only an hour from Seattle and not in the damn desert.

“Thank fuck,” I whisper again. “You scared the shit out of us.”

I can’t stop stroking his cheek. I try to force myself to quit, but that only results in me smoothing my fingers over his hair, damp with perspiration and water, gritty from all the dust kicked up in the barn.

“It was the mask,” he croaks. “Told you that you can’t breathe through those things.”

I’ve known Atlas for just about a year and in all that time, I’ve seen him sad and mad. I’ve heard him laugh and I’ve known him to scowl. I know how loyal he is to the club and how hard he worked on the old factory building he bought, with a single minded devotion. We camped out on the floor in sleeping bags when we worked on renovations long into the night, and went to class together early the next morning. We studied together. Ate packed lunches side by side. Horsed around, sweated, and freaking bled together. But, in all this time, I’ve never seen him sick.

“I think you have heatstroke, Simon. Just stay down there for a second and catch your breath. I’m going to pour the rest of this water on your head to cool you down and you should drink the last of this bottle.”

“Don’t breathe a word of this to Mom and Dad,” he groans. “The last thing I need is for them to worry more about me than they already do.”

“You ride a bike and you patched in with a biker club when you were eighteen. I think they have a right to worry.”

He cracks a lopsided grin that makes my heart race. I hope that he can’t feel my pulse kick up in my wrists. I’m very aware now just how close I am to him. His head is in my lap.

In. My. Lap.

I’m touching him the way I could only have dreamed.

Yes, it was done out of care and sheer panic, but I’m still holding him and now that he’s awake and looking up at me with eyes as deep as twin wells, it hits harder.

I draw in a shuddering breath. Seeing Atlas’ big body so silent and still, prone on the ground, scared me senseless. He’s normally so full of life, with his magnetic charm and all his vitality. It was horrible seeing him brought to a crashing standstill. Of all people, I know how quickly life can change. My mother died when I was ten. My brain still can’t compute what’s happening right now. I can’t because I don’t ever want to go there.

My stomach churns violently just thinking about something ever happening to Atlas.

Honestly, I could watch him fall in love with someone else if that made him happy, even if it killed me, but I could never stand to see him so badly hurt or sick that he wouldn’t recover.

I don’t cry often, but tears sting my eyes and ache in my nose. I clench my jaw to hold them back. I’d look like an utter imbecile if I let them fall.

“Hey now!”

My head snaps up at the shout from down the driveway. I never saw a more beautiful sight than Agatha hobbling her way carefully over to us, a wooden pail and a ladle swinging in one hand like we’ve time warped back into the eighteen hundreds.

She’s rocky on her feet and I feel terrible that I wasn’t there to help her down the long, twisty gravel driveway. Georgia rushes over, and it’s only when I see her take the pail for Agatha that I realize she has a big blue towel in her other hand and it’s absolutely sodden.

“It’s a brutal hot day,” she says in her soft, lisping voice. “I thought you could use this.’

Atlas doesn’t get to protest, not even politely. I take the towel and slap it onto his forehead. It’s a hand towel and covers most of eyes too. He shoves it up, shooting me a dirty look that speaks volumes as to just how much he likes being fussed over. He’s embarrassed at what happened, but I don’t care that he doesn’t like it. He’s getting it anyway.

I had this thought that I could wait. That I’d be here, patient, in the background. That our friendship was the most important thing in the world. All of that is true. I know what a risk and a disaster it could be to push towards anything more, but we’re both so young that I hadn’t lost the concept of immortality.

Georgia passes me the metal soup ladle, full of cold water. I bring it to Atlas’ lips. He tries to grab it, but I knock his hand away and pour so that he has to drink. He does. Deeply. It’s not the first time I’ve been transfixed by his mouth. He’s clean shaven today, but in the past, he’s had a patchy beard that the guys at the club made fun of him for. It didn’t look bad on him. I’d wondered what it would feel like, chaffing against my face or between my thighs. There’s nothing to detract from his strong jaw, carved cheekbones, or that beguiling mouth.

I could lean forward just a few inches and meet his mouth with mine.

I tip too much water as my hands shake. He nearly chokes, and then gently shoves it aside. He’s had enough of us trying to help him. He rolls off me and shoves himself into a sitting position. He immediately presses the wet towel to his forehead, but probably because he’s seeing black spots.

Georgia takes the ladle from me, dips it, and drinks gratefully before passing it over. Our water bottles are empty, and I take long mouthfuls. The water is from a well, I’d say, with a distinct metallic taste that reminds me of blood, but the ice cold wet is heaven going down my dusty, dry throat.

I jump up. “I was just going to come up and get you to discuss pricing,” I say to Agatha after replacing the ladle in the bucket. I take her arm and guide her over to the giant pile.

We face the pile and I’m about to start listing off items that aren’t visible, going through in my head what I think would be a fair price for everything and then give a total, when Agatha drops a bomb on me.

“You should just take it all for free, dear. And go and die off my property.” She’s got one hell of a poker face before she cackles.

“My goodness, we’re not going to sue you. Atlas is fine. He just got overheated and couldn’t breathe with the mask on.”

“I was just joking. I hope you all live long lives yet.”

“You and me both.” I get that strange, burning, waterlogged feeling in my chest and tear ducts again. “I couldn’t possibly take anything for free. I’d like to come back and pick again. My trailer will be packed full for today.”

“It’s powerful hot out. A good time to take a break.”

“That too.”

“You’re welcome back anytime if you bring your gentleman friend with you. He’s a sight for sore old eyes.” Agatha glances Atlas’ way and cackles again. It grows into a raspy guffaw that starts seesawing in and out and ends on a snort. I have to laugh with her, it’s such a wild sound. “Oh, I know I’m an old crone now, but you should have seen me back in the day. I was quite a catch. You should have seen my late husband too. Whooooweee!” She laughs so hard again that I swear her dentures are in danger of blowing out of her mouth. “I’m just messing. You’re welcome back anytime. You can pay me then.”

“Oh, no, Agatha, I couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t know what I had this time.”

Her lips scrunch, emphasizing all her wrinkles. “Let’s call it a grand then?”

“Seriously? You’re way undercharging me.”

She smiles so sweetly. “I’m just glad these things will go to people who can use them and love them again. They saw a lot of good memories, and that means more to me than money. I’m well set, sweetie.” She pats my hand. “The place might look rundown, but I only have my son, Phil, to leave it all to, and he’s not interested. He’ll probably bulldoze everything and sell the land. He’s already established. A lawyer in Washington.”

“My sister is a lawyer too.”

“Well, then,” she sighs, and in that sound, I can hear her loneliness.

This farmyard is over an hour from Hart, but I vow to make more time to come out here and visit her, if she’ll have me.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks, if that works?”

“It certainly does. Just give me a call ahead of time and I’ll have cookies waiting for you. I’d offer you some now, but you all look in need of cold water alone, and it was so hot I didn’t dare turn on the oven, so you’re SOL on that front.”

Hearing old people curse is a trip. It’s hilarious. “Thank you.”

I’ve always been a hugger and even though it’s sweltering and I’m filthy and sticky, I open my arms, and Agatha falls into the hug. She’s delicate, her bones frail, her long hair twisted up in a bun so wispy that spots of her scalp shine through, pink and vulnerable. I’m extra careful with her.

“Thank you. You’re a life saver. Literally.”

After I pay Agatha, Georgia and I do most of the loading. We force Atlas to sit in the shade that the big, enclosed beast casts. He grumbles about that until we need him to load the heavy pieces.

After I close it up and slip the locks on, I’m thoroughly exhausted. Forget paying just Atlas, I need to offer Georgia something too. If she won’t take money, I’ll be sure to give her some of those paintings from the shop that she was eying up yesterday, or whatever she’d like from today’s haul.

Atlas walks casually over to his bike. Georgia and I exchange panicked glances. We’re both red faced and streaked with grime and Atlas doesn’t look any better. He might think he’s fine, but there’s no way he’s getting on that bike.

“Simon!” Georgia yells, storming over. “You get in the front seat of that truck right now. Someone else can come back for your bike with you tomorrow.”

Atlas scoffs, slipping his helmet on and rolling his shoulders back stubbornly. “I’m fine. Just got overheated.”

“You passed out! There’s no way you’re driving back home. You could kill someone else, you moron.”

“I know I’m okay. This happened all the time in football games.”

Georgia picks up the bucket, which is still mostly full, storms over to the bike, and douses her brother with it.

I gasp as he sputters. “Georgia Marie!” He leaps off his bike, racing after her. She drops the bucket, screams, and pelts it across the lawn, straight for the truck. She hurtles into the back seat and slams the door on her brother before he can get to her.

By all rights, Atlas should resemble a drowned rat at this point. He’s sopping, sweaty, and dirt encrusted. That just heightens his attraction. He’s not paying attention to me, and I let my guard slip just enough that my eyes roam down his wet black t-shirt. It’s plastered to his muscular shoulders, his abs heaving against the cotton with every breath. His hair is drenched and slicked closer to his face. He looks like he just got out of the shower.

Wet t-shirt competitions shouldn’t just be for women.

My belly cramps and my thighs burn. I can’t blame it on the massive amount of physical labor either.

I tear my eyes away from him with great effort. “I’ll return Agatha’s bucket and the towel. I’ll ask her about leaving the bike.”

Atlas ignores me. There’s no way he’s leaving his bike. So he thinks.

I’m with Georgia on this one, and as I collect the bucket, I snatch the key from the bike. He can probably figure out how to start it without, seeing as he’s a mechanic, but I want to make it as hard as possible for him.

After checking with Agatha that it’s okay to leave the bike, I make sure I’m wearing my no nonsense face by the time I get back to the truck. I point at the front seat. “Get in, please. If we’re going to get back to Hart and get cleaned up before dinner, we have to leave now.”

Atlas is still wearing his stubborn face, but Georgia can hear me, and she clicks the locks up so we can get in. I dangle his key from my fingers.

“It’s either ride with us or walk back.”

I’m in the driver’s seat before he can corner me and wrangle the keys from my hand.

As hot as that would be.

Fuck .

I don’t know what happened to me today, but it’s like someone has been broken up. My resolve, my patience, my reticence, shattered.

I grasp the wheel hard, even though it’s hot enough to scorch my palms.

Atlas finally turns and stomps around to the passenger side. “Thank god,” Georgia breaths. “Thank freaking god.”

I’m not the least bit religious, but I have to agree. I’ll get us safely back to Hart. I’ll drop Atlas and Georgia off at their parents’ house and then go and get cleaned up. A cold shower and a little bit of space and I’ll have my head put neatly back together for dinner.

And every day after.