24

Atlas

What started off as a summer promising to be the worst of my life, has somehow managed to be the best. Perhaps it’s that they’re getting older, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt quite so enamored with my siblings. Nearly every single day this summer was spent in one or both of their company, and had it not been for that, I’m not sure I would have survived. At the very least, I would have ended the summer as an alcoholic.

Add in the fact that Henri and I are now speaking daily, and really, what the hell do I have to complain about?

Dad drives me back to the airport, awkwardly trying to make stilted conversation. I apply only half of my attention to the chatter, and eventually he stops trying. I’m glad. It’s hard to talk when all I can think about is the fact that soon I’ll be back at school and in the same postal code as Henri.

I want to see him, while feeling afraid of what might happen if I do. In all our chats, he hasn’t mentioned wanting to meet up, and neither have I. We’ve carefully danced around the topic of school, using classes and hockey to distract us from the fact that we can no longer use distance as an excuse not to connect.

I know I made a mistake. I know I hurt him, and that’s not something I can easily forgive myself for. Henri has, but I can’t. And if I do—what then? I still don’t trust relationships, myself, or other people.

But I trust Henri, and that’s what matters.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I unclip my seat belt as Dad pulls up to passenger drop-off. He gets out of the car and pulls my suitcase from the trunk, before shoving his hands into his pockets and standing awkwardly next to me.

“Well,” he says, “let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I give him an uncomfortable, one-armed hug which he returns belatedly, only as I start to pull away.

“Have a good semester,” he calls to my retreating back. I wave a hand in acknowledgment of the words, but can’t trust my voice. Any reminder of school starting, and being back on the SCU campus, tightens my throat to the point of discomfort. At this rate, even if I do see Henri, I’m not sure I’ll be able to force any words out.

The flight to South Carolina is unremarkable, as is the Uber I pick up from the airport. By the time I’m walking through the front door of my shared house, I’m feeling distinctly travel worn. I need a hot shower, hot food, and a warm bed in an air-conditioned room. Hefting my suitcase, I head up the stairs toward my room. I’m the last of my roommates to arrive, as indicated by our house group chat. Nate drove in yesterday morning, and the two newest roommates— replacing those who graduated last semester—moved their stuff in the day before.

My room looks exactly the same as it did when I left it. Small and nondescript as it is, I can’t help but feel a tug of something like happiness when I look around. I like it here. Dropping my suitcase on the floor, I open it up and pull out the bare minimum of supplies needed to wash an airport off of one’s skin, before heading into the bathroom for a shower.

I do less showering, and more standing under the hot water in a trance. Henri’s already here and tucked happily away in the spare room of his friends’ house. He’d gone home to Germany for a quick visit with family before classes start, and even with that time change between us, we’d somehow managed to talk every day. I’d told him I’d be back in South Carolina today, and he’d responded that he’d be back a couple days prior—neither of us took it any farther than that. No offers to grab coffee or meet up for dinner. If we are friends, it is quite possible that Henri prefers we remain the virtual kind. I can’t blame him.

Walking back across the hall to my room, toiletries clutched in my hand and towel flung over one shoulder, I step in to find Nate stretched out on my bare mattress.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, smiling wide beneath his summer tan. His eyes look impossibly green against that brown skin, and his brown hair is shot through with sun-bleached strands. He looks like he’s just come back from Australia, not a ranch in Montana.

“Not particularly,” I tell him.

“I named a horse after you. New filly—mean as all hell. Bit me on the shoulder,” he rattles off. As usual, he’s completely unperturbed by my rudeness. “So, her name is Atlas. Better than Daisy, which is what it was when we bought her. I have never met a horse less like a daisy.”

“You named your horse Atlas because it bit you,” I summarize, feeling oddly pleased with this. He grins. “Fair. Have a good summer, then?”

“I did! The best—the literal fucking best. You?”

“Fine.”

Nate thinks about that answer for a second, parsing through the tone and trying to figure out whether that “fine” leans more toward good or bad. Swinging his legs slowly over the side of the bed and sitting up, he pats the bare mattress.

“Sheets?”

Tossing my damp towel over the dresser, I bend over my suitcase once more and pull out the new set of sheets. Nate takes them silently and together we make up the bed. That done, he carefully lies back down and pillows his head under his arm, watching me. I sigh.

“Okay, fine. I talked to Henri,” I admit.

“Mm-hm,” he hums. “Called him to yell at him some more?”

“To apologize.” Nate’s eyebrows shoot upward. Frowning at him, I start unpacking my suitcase. “So, that’s that. We’re friends.”

“I saw him yesterday when the team got together for a meeting with Coach Mackenzie. He’s captain this year—Vas, that is. Not Coach.”

“Oh. That’s cool.” I don’t know what, if anything, being captain of a hockey team entails, but I know Henri was probably thrilled and embarrassed by the achievement in equal measure. I bet he tried to talk his coach into giving the job to someone else .

“Vas looked like he wanted to fucking melt into the floor when Coach announced it. Everyone agreed it should be him, though. We love that guy.”

“Yeah,” I agree, because I’m well aware of how highly Henri is regarded by Nate and his teammates.

“Vas is looking good, too.” My head snaps up. Nate is still draped across my bed, fingers idly playing with his cellphone as he talks in a casual, offhand way.

“Okay.” There really isn’t anything else to say to that.

“You are an impeccable conversationalist,” he notes. I toss a pair of rolled-up socks at his face, but he bats them away with the reflexes of an athlete. “You going to meet up with Vas?”

“Probably not.”

Nate sighs and stretches, wincing a bit. He sees me catch it and lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “Broken ribs.”

I blink at him, trying to perform the mental calculus that will make that add up. It doesn’t.

“I didn’t think you’d started practice yet,” I say slowly, still trying to remember how his training schedule went last year.

“No, we haven’t. Not until tomorrow. Ranch accident.” He grins at me, inviting me in on the joke. I don’t laugh—remembering the moment two years ago when Nate came back from Christmas break with twenty-seven stitches in his arm after he was kicked by a horse and its hoof cut him. Ranch accidents seem to happen too frequently for my taste.

“Fuck. How long are you out?” Nate looks at me like I’m insane. I can’t see how that was the wrong question. Playing hockey with broken ribs seems like a distinctly bad idea.

“I’m not telling Coach. Bruised ribs are nothing—I’m not missing any games during my last season.”

“Broken,” I correct .

“Whatever. Same thing.” He grins again. Again, I don’t return it. As far as I’m concerned, there is a big leap between bruised and broken. “Listen, it’s nothing. Don’t tell Vas.”

“Jesus, I won’t. I already told you I’m not going to see him.”

“Right.” Sitting up, he rolls his eyes. “But see, I know how much you love hearing my opinion, so?—”

“No.”

“ So ,” Nate continues, raising his voice a little bit in case I try to interrupt again, “my opinion is you need to pull your head out of your ass, and go talk to him.”

“We do talk,” I grumble.

“Atlas, I’m telling you right now, if you want something to change, then you’re the one who’s going to have to make it happen. You told Vas to fuck off, and he’s too nice and respectful to fight you on that. If friends is really what you want, fine. I’ll shut up about it. But if it’s not, you have to talk to him. You .”

I can’t even be annoyed at the unsolicited advice. He’s right. Henri could give Victorian etiquette lessons to gentlemen in the nineteenth century, he’s so proper. Any overtures past our virtual relationship will have to come from me. I told him to leave, which means it’s on me to ask him to come back.

“Yeah,” I agree morosely. Do I want to get back to what I had with Henri? Yes. Am I sure that’s the best decision for him and myself? No. Relationships scare me. Feelings scare me. Fucking Henri , with his floppy brown hair and pretty blue eyes, scares me. I am so beneath him, it’s a miracle he looks at me at all.

“I’d better go. I want to grab my shit from the bookstore before I head over to Marcos’ apartment. ”

He tries to stretch again, but only gets his arms halfway above his head before he flinches and drops them back to his side. His shirt pulls up with the minor movement, and I catch a glimpse of a black bruise snaking around his pelvis. Did he hurt his hip, too? Maybe I should tell on him to Henri.

“Nate, let me see that fucking bruise.” I take a step toward him and put a hand out, meaning to catch the hem of his shirt. He shoves my arm away.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Wait a second, who the hell is Marcos?” I yell after him as he walks down the stairs.

Henri

I am taking German this semester.

Atlas

sounds tough think you’ll pass?

Henri

By the skin on my teeth.

Atlas

LMFAO

by the skin OF your teeth

Henri

Ah, yes. When I read that back, I see now that teeth do not have skin.

Atlas

why are you taking german?

have you been lying to me this whole time and you don’t actually speak german

do I even know you at all??

Henri

I am actually Czechoslovakian spy, here to infiltrate the NHL. I am working my way up to become commissioner. Then, I will control hockey as I wish and will create a super team of all the best players. We will be the best team in the world. We will take over.

Atlas

……that was oddly specific

Henri

Delete these messages.

Atlas

is your name even Henri

Henri

My name is Dvo?ák Al?běta Drobńy but this is confidential. I will now have to kill you.

Atlas

stop it right now I can’t fucking stand you

Henri

Atlas, this is only a joke. You must learn to not take things so serious.

Atlas

oh my god

Henri

I tried to make up the most crazy of names.

Atlas

you succeeded

I’m a little ashamed of the smile on my face as I sit on my bed and text back and forth with Henri. People who grin at their phones are idiotic. But it’s impossible not to, especially when Henri’s in this goofy sort of mood. He always seems so hesitant to tell jokes—like he’s worried people won’t pick up on the humor—so when he does, it feels like a rare, special treat.

Henri

German they teach in school here is different than German we speak in Germany. It will be interesting.

Atlas

huh so like it’s proper german but you speak slang?

Henri

Perhaps? We are only in the third week, I will have to keep you informed.

Atlas

god yes what the hell will I do without german class updates

Henri

And you? How are classes going? You have told me nothing of what you are studying this semester.

Atlas

well, I decided to go heavy on the art courses

taking a bunch of pottery/ceramics/painting things

Henri

What! But this is incredible! I am happy you will be doing what you want. You did not enjoy Creative Communications.

This is such a grossly incorrect statement, it’s laughable. The class was a drag, sure, but the company more than made up for it. I’d subscribe to a lifetime of Creative Communications courses if it meant Henri was sitting next to me.

Atlas

thanks I’m excited it should be fun

they have open wheel nights over in the studio

My heart is pounding as I type. The moment the instructor had mentioned that we were free to come in during the open session—and free to bring a guest—my thoughts had immediately gone to Henri. It had taken a Herculean amount of self-control to refrain from texting him right then and there, asking if he’d like to join me. That was two weeks ago, when classes started.

Today, I’ve decided to say fuck self-control and ask him if he wants to join. The thought of Henri leaned over a pottery wheel, hands mucked up with clay and lips pinched in concentration is enough to get me half-hard and aching with want.

Henri

What does this mean? Open wheel nights?

Atlas

sorry

like a pottery wheel

it’s just nights when the studio is open for us to come fuck around and make stuff and we are allowed to bring guests

you should come with me sometime

Locking my phone, I drop it down onto the bed beside me and breathe out hard. I’ve seen the man’s dick, for fuck’s sake, I should not be nervous about asking to spend time together in a classroom. The chime of my phone startles me. Two measured, deep breaths and I check it.

Henri

When and where?

Shall I wear the khaki?