Page 56 of Atlas

He pulls back, nuzzling my glistening fingers with the side of his face. It’s strange, but I happen to likedifferent. “I don’t know how to talk about this. It started when I was ten.”

Jesus Christ. Ten? I know what it’s like to go through a rough time and be exposed to things that no kid should have to live through, but this isn’t that. I got through the trauma, and maybe it altered my brain chemistry or changed who I would have been, and not having my mom with me certainly impacted Lynette and I in vastly different ways, but it’s not comparable.

My trauma was from exterior forces. Atlas’ isn’t. I shouldn’t call it trauma. What your brain decides for you is not a tragedy. Although, the fact that he’s never been able to talk about this or get trust someone enough to get help, is a terrible thing. I don’t just hurt for him now. I hurt for every version of him.

“Dealing with stuff as a kid is hard. Being a teenager is rough too. It must have been exhausting.”

He bows his head. “The good days were good, but the bad ones were so bad that I just wanted out of my head.”

“I’m sure your head is also a great place. Or, it could be. We just need help getting there. That doesn’t mean fundamentally change who you are. Who you are iswonderful.”

He takes my hand again and presses the back to his forehead, sighing like he would if he was sick. “I don’t even remember what it’s like not to feel bad. Nervous. Edgy. Like I’m crawling in my skin some days, but it’s not bugs. It’s lies.” He brushes his lips over my knuckles and my heart practically tears out of my chest and gushes a river of pain for him. “That’s not true. Since I met you, it’s toned down. Sometimes, I’m even hungry. There are moments of true peace. I’m not saying that you have to be medicine. Just that I feel I have to strain way less to find my center when we’re together.”

“I’m so shattered that you’ve gone this many years dealing with this alone.”

He tucks my hand, pulling me in against him, guiding it straight to his heart. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought I’d scare the fuck out of my parents.” The steady beat throbs against my fingers. “I was afraid as a kid that I’d get put in a mental hospital. I had this image, for a long time, of them being super scary. I still think they’re scary.”

“Is that why you joined the club? For an outlet?”

Was he hoping to find a place where he’d finally fit in, where duty, and sometimes violence, could fill the void. A place where he wouldn’t have to pretend because men are accepted there for who they are, and it’s just a fact that most of them are looking for some sort of family and come with a whole trolley’s worth of baggage.

He keeps my hand pressed to his heart and shakes his head. “Working with my hands was a way to focus my mind, but that wasn’t the promise of getting to work on cars all day wasn’t the only reason. I like being on my bike. The Mustang is the only small space I’ve ever been okay in. I would never get behind the wheel of anything knowing that I might have a panic attack. I trusted myself enough at that point to know what my limits were and like I said, usually I have more than enough time to pull over before it hits. Today was… I don’t know. It came out of nowhere. Usually there’s more of a lead up to it.”

“Maybe it’s everything that’s happened these past few weeks.”

“Maybe.” His thumb strokes the pulse point in my wrist. “But that’s not on you, you hear me?” His eyes are the deepest blue that I’ve ever seen, and they sparkle with sincerity.

“I do.” I curl into him and drop a kiss on his forehead. I want to take care of him in the big ways, but in the small thingstoo. That’s my love language. “Is there something you like to eat all the time, even when you’re anxious and you feel sick?”

His brows knit together. “Strawberry ice cream. I love the fruit too, or the yogurt. Not the candy. Never candy.” He tilts his face to graze the side of my neck. “You. You smell like ripe berries.”

“Do you want me to go get you some strawberry ice cream?”

“As long as it’s followed up with you after.”

I search his face, hesitant only because I don’t want to hurt him. His back is torn up, but so are his insides. He’s not burning with desperation or despair, but there is a question there.Is this okay?

“I’ll always be here.” I find my way to his mouth and skim my lips over his. He’s not the one trembling. I am. I want to tell him how much I love him, but I think I’ve said enough. He’s overwhelmed. I don’t want to make it worse. “I’ll always be behind you.” My hand lands in his head, twisting and pulling him further into me. “Whatever you need, I’m here.” His arms wrap around me, pulling me down into his lap. We hold each other tightly, already a part of each other, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, his heart mine and mine his.

If he’s wrecked, I’m wrecked. His pain is my pain. His joy my joy.

He knows.

I know.

We don’t need any other words, at least for the moment.

Chapter 17

Atlas

We’re in Seattle at a mid-range motel. Ostensibly, we’re here to look at bikes. It’s a good cover story because it’s true. I want to get something that has another seat for Willa. Something old and junky that I can rebuild. Maybe she’d like to do that with me after hours. I wouldn’t be the first guy to have their old lady or even their kids running around the place in the evenings or on a Sunday afternoon. Some of the guys just grunt about the kids thing, but I don’t mind. It’s good to teach the next generation some skills that will stick with them for a lifetime.

Since we were just going to look and my Mustang is still in the shop, Willa drove. She took the truck, even though driving around Seattle with it isn’t the most pleasant experience. She’s from the city, so it didn’t seem to give her much added stress. At least the cab is spacious, and with the window rolled down all the way, the air sucking and screaming in for the hour long drive, it didn’t feel quite as claustrophobic. Willa’s been trying to help with my anxiety and has sent me the names of some doctors who I could make an appointment with. She’s not being pushy about it, and I’m honestly going to give it a try this time.

I know that if I’d told my parents about this, especially when I was younger, they would have wanted to help me just as badly, but knowing my mom, she would have smothered me with her fixing. And back then, having someone make a big fuss about it would probably be even more anxiety-inducing than the anxiety.

Willa gave me a choice. She would have stood by me in whatever I decided.

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