Page 66 of On the Edge

Atlas

I am,to put things delicately, freaking the fuck out. There is something strange about the way time is moving right now—barreling forward like a sprinter off the starting line. How could it be possible that tomorrow is the last day campus is open, but Christmas had been only yesterday?

I can tell it’s bothering Henri, too, particularly since his hockey season ended and his calendar has had a great deal more free time. Free time which he mostly spends with me, and mostly spends worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, looking nervous. Several times in the past few weeks he’s tried to start a conversation with me, and even without letting him get on with it, I knew exactly what kind of conversation it was going to be. Each time, I’d distracted him and each time he’d looked a little more crestfallen.

And then, to top everything off, I’d received a call last week from my dad, explaining that he’d “had a scheduling mishap” and would no longer be able to pick me up fromthe airport when I flew home. Reading between the lines, I was able to deduce that he’d forgotten his promise from months ago when he booked my ticket. He had, as per usual, forgottenme.It was a not-so-gentle reminder that distance from Henri would not do me any favors. He’d be here in South Carolina, and I’d be back in D.C., and eventually he’d forget why he ever put in the effort for me in the first place.

Unable to stand the way my insides feel as though they’re being shaken about, I light up a cigarette and stand next to my window. My phone rings, and I glance down to see my dad’s name on the display. I am really not in the fucking mood, and his calls never provide anything but distress. Even so, he’s my dad and I can’t very well ignore him. Something could be wrong with my brothers.

Filling my lungs with as much nicotine as I can manage, I answer the call with trepidation and a hefty dose of resignation. Two phone calls in less than two weeks is not a good sign.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Atlas. I need to talk to you.”

Obviously, I refrain from saying. Closing my eyes, I angle the phone away from my mouth and take another drag of my cigarette. If Dad notices the sounds of me smoking, he doesn’t comment.

“Okay. About me coming home?”

“Sort of. I heard from your mother.”

My elbow bangs against the wall as the words hit me like a lightning bolt. Instinctively, I know he’s not talking about my stepmother despite him always referring to her as my mom. The tone strongly suggests he’s talking about mymom.

“What?” I whisper, and hate myself for the tiny spark ofhope that flares in my chest. I’m too old to care if she wants me. Too old to need her.

He huffs in annoyance. “I’ve been sending her emails periodically through the years, updating her on her son. Not that she ever replied,” he adds testily, even as the words are like a knife in my chest. “The emails were never returned as non-deliverable, though, so I kept at it. This is the first time she’s sent one to me.”

I open my mouth but words don’t make an appearance. I’m stuck on the fact that he’s been emailing her about me for years—years—and she’s never replied. I’ve always known she didn’t care about me, but being slapped in the face with it randomly feels like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. I knew I shouldn’t have answered this call.

“What did she say?” I finally manage to ask.

“Well, I’d told her when you started college that you were in your first year at South Carolina U. As I said, this is the first I’ve heard back, but apparently she is living in Florida.”

My hand shakes violently as I bring the cigarette to my mouth. Unfortunately, not even nicotine can save me from the high-speed wreck I fear this conversation is heading toward. My nerves, which have already been brittle with the end of the school year looming, feel raw and exposed.

“She remarried years ago, and apparently has a two-year-old. Her husband works infishing.” Dad snorts, and I can easily picture the contempt on his face. “That’s not why I’m calling, though. Apparently, she’s decided that now the time is ripe to reconnect. She asked me to pass along her phone number in case you wanted to give her a call.”

Me, give her a call. Even now, it would be me coming to her when she’s the one who left in the first place. My chest hurts so badly, I fear I might be having a heart attack.

“She knew I was going to school in South Carolina?” I clarify. “You told her when I started?”

“Yes. No reply, naturally.” Another disdainful sound. He hates being ignored in any capacity.

She’s been in Florida this whole time, I realize. Only a couple states away from where I’ve been going to school, and she couldn’t even be bothered to reach out, let alone try and visit. My own mother, and I was nothing more than an email to be ignored and a son to replace. I will myself to feel angry, but can’t manage more than a sort of panic-induced numbness. The sort of feeling you have when you’re experiencing a terrible day, and one bad thing happens after another, so you just learn to accept it.

“So, the ball is in your court now,” Dad continues, casually throwing grenades without waiting to see if any have landed. “I told her I’d pass along the message. Do with it what you will.”

“I don’t…”

“Anyway, we’ll see you tomorrow, or whenever you get home. I’ll text you your mother’s phone number.” He’s already done with the conversation. Message passed along, time to get on with his day.

“Dad, wait—” I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen. He’s already hung up.

Exercising what I consider to be an incredible amount of self-control, I lay my phone gently on the bed instead of smashing it against the wall. It pings with a message, but I ignore it the same way I intend to ignore my mom’s new phone number. I’m not going to call her up and beg her to love me—if Dad had waited more than five fucking seconds, I would have told him to not even bother sending it over.

The doorbell rings, making my already galloping heartjump.Henri. I’d forgotten that we’d made plans for today. Forgotten, that in my fucking delusional state, I’d allowed him to get too close. Thank you, Dad, for the reality check.

Panic eats at my insides until I’m almost sick with it. So much so, in fact, that when I answer the door of my shared house and see Henri’s handsome face on the other side, my vision tunnels dangerously. The lizard part of my brain is screaming at me to run. Self-preservation is my default state, and today Henri is a threat.Breathe, I remind myself, and work to unclench my fingers from the doorhandle.

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