Page 36 of Atlas

“Sort of. Kind of. My sister is dating one of the bikers.” Agatha calling them vultures rings through my brain. “Not one of the ones here today. Bullet. He’s back at the club with her. She’s their lawyer.”

“Double dipping.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. “I’m glad. She didn’t exactly have a lot of happiness in her life before she met Bullet.”

“She’d approve of your choice then.”

“In time. Or maybe straight up. I just can’t say anything until I’m sure.”

I turn onto the paved road, the silence so nice after listening to the tires rumbling down that back road. Traction isalso a huge bonus. I don’t know how to those guys get their bikes safely down all that gravel.

“Are you not sure?” Agatha asks, sloughing off the stillness like the dust whipping off the truck.

“I am- it’s just- maybe not the right time. That doesn’t change how I feel, but it’s a good thing to protect the beautiful, fragile things in life.”

“You don’t plant seeds in the dead of winter. At least not most seeds.”

I nod. “That’s it exactly. Atlas probably doesn’t even know that he loves deep and harder than most people, but he loved someone with his whole heart wide open, and she broke it and broke him. Whether it was real love or not isn’t the point. He thought it was.”

“And you’ve been waiting for him to heal.”

“I was, until I- couldn’t wait anymore.” I know how that sounds, and I wish I could frame it better. “All my life I’ve been in such a hurry for everything. I want to go slow with this. I don’t want him to offer me anything that I might damage, and I have a history of doing that.”

“That’s just life. Growing up. Maturing. Learning from mistakes. Your thoughts sound selfless and mature to me. You might not know if he’s ready, but he put himself between you and a vest full of grenades plus a loaded shotgun. That means something.”

“He was a sort of bodyguard before he was my friend. Old habits die hard.”

She makes a hissing sound, which is probably just wind passing through her dentures. It could also be disgust. “You couldn’t see his face from behind his back, but I did. It wasn’t just old habits.”

“All my life, men have wanted me because I look the way I do. Big ass, big boobs, blonde hair.”

“It’s not just the boobs and the butt,” Agatha insists. “That will only take you so far.”

“Usually just far enough to be in a bad place with all the wrong people.”

“It’s your face, dear. You have the face of an artist.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, laughing. “I can’t draw or paint, and I’m certainly never going to be a sculptor or get into pottery. Atlas is the talented one when it comes to his hands.”And his tongue.

I shiver, breathing hard at the memory of our night, and our morning together.

It was the first time in my life that I woke up next to someone and didn’t regret it.

I guess that’s part of growing up too. Looking hard at your life and figuring out where you keep going wrong and intentionally making changes.

“I meant that you have an interesting face. The kind of face that arrests an artist or would stop a photographer in their tracks. You have that unique shape, those huge blue eyes, that perfect nose and bow lips. It’s your cheeks, I think. They’re so prominent, like two apples. You don’t see that on many people.”

“Thanks,” I respond wryly. “I think.”

“And I think it’s all going to work out. You haven’t just been growing up. You’ve been growing a tender, compassionate, thoughtful heart. A true one of those is about as rare a commodity as your face.”

“Jesus,’ I breathe, my eyes stinging. “I’m starting to rather enjoy your backhanded compliments.”

“Get used to them, dearie. You’re in for more than a few if this drags on.”

Chapter 11

Atlas

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