Page 11 of Atlas
“You aren’t going to tell me you feel sorry for me?” I asked cautiously as I watch her write the letters and do some kind of god awful scrollwork in an effort to make it look fancy, I assume.
She scoffs, “Of course not. Why would I feel sorry for you? We all have obstacles to overcome. You seem to be overcoming yours just fine.”
“But you’re really smart, and you read a lot.” I state as I gesture to the large bookcase taking up one side of her livingroom. Hundreds, there are hundreds of books, all displayed in a very pleasing and organized way. I have no idea what constitutes a library but I swear, she has one in her apartment.
Ren shrugs as she rips the page and starts over, unhappy with her floral work around the writing. “Yeah, I read, you don’t have to. Nor do I expect you to read to me. Your pancreas works and mine doesn’t, we all have shit.”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh as I sit on the floor next to her on the couch. “I think your diabetes is a little different than my dyslexia.”
“They are, goddamn it!” She growls as she rips off another page, her brows furrowing in either concentration or irritation or maybe both? “But they are the same in the sense that neither of us can help it. It’s nothing we did and we have to just find a way to keep moving forward. So no, I’m not going to feel sorry for you. I may feel bad about the situations you’ve dealt with because I can empathize. But pity is something that I get often and I hate it. I wouldn’t do it to someone else. Ugh! Why!” She yells, and I snicker while placing my hand over top of hers.
“I’ll tell you what,” I smile while trying to ignore what just the touch of her hand is doing to me. “You write the words and I’ll draw the little pictures you want, okay?”
Chapter 4
Lauren
When I was growing up, certain expectations were placed on me. Being the first born child of a well-renowned surgeon and judge, my life was mapped out from day one. I had always been okay with that though. I like lists, plans, and I like having all my ducks in a row. So, at nine, when my school project was to write about what I wanted to be when I grew up, the five-page essay I turned in detailing every single plan I had up to the age of thirty-five was apparently alarming to my teacher. I remember her calling my parents in, who didn’t come – they sent Abigail, my nanny. My parents were too busy to be leaving work to go to school meetings. Plus, how would that look if Judge and Dr. Locklear had been spotted at their daughter’s elementary school for a meeting?The scandals.There would be rumors that we were losing money, that I was troubled. It would completely ruin their image. And my parents are all about image.
Which is why I went to law school instead of pursuing my crazy dreams. It is why I was to marry another lawyer by thirty, have at least one but no more than two children by thirty-five and be ready to jump off a cliff when I catch my husband banging the secretary and or nanny before forty. See? All planned perfectly from start to finish. No surprises.
At sixteen, I went through this rebellious phase. It’s kind of silly to call it rebellious, though. Most teens were sneaking out to drink or party, have sex or whatever. But not me. No, my big middle finger to my parents was my plan to run away, go live in the mountains and do voice over work. God, that was my dream, to be able to escape the real world and become the characters I read in books. I would listen to all the big books on CDs and dream of getting to be just like them. So, I planned to run, but unfortunately my mom found out my plan– because I was a teenager and used Dad’s credit card to get a bus ticket. They were so furious with me. I was irresponsible, ridiculous, and ungrateful. I wasn’t taking my life or my health seriously. How was I going to pay for my medication? My insulin? All of my inevitable stays in the hospital?
So, like the good daughter I was… and still strive to be, I threw my no longer hidden dreams of a cabin and a job I loved into the trash. I pushed all of those words they shouted at me into a box so that it wouldn’t affect my relationship with them, but I would still be able to hear them if I ever thought to try to step out of line again.
I still continued to read stories to my younger siblings, Henry and his twin sister, Adeline. They are about to turn twenty-one, but due to our age difference and the lack of attentive parents, I was seen as their mother figure. As kids, they always would want me to read them stories because I “did the voices'' whereas Abigail would just read what was written. Reading out loud to Henry and Adeline was the only part of my dream I allowed to stay alive. I became the best daughter I could. Graduated top of my class in high school, college and finally, law school. I worked harder than anyone else to make my parents proud,not that they showed it ever or said it. And I dated one abusive man after the other because they were the “proper fit” for me. Successful, wealthy, high class. Right, maybe in public. Behind closed doors, I was degraded, yelled at and lied to. But never hit–until Andrew.
Andrew was the first that got physical with me. I allowed it, stupidly. I allowed it because I’m “the good daughter”. Andrew was the one that would check off all their boxes on the husband list. He is the one that when my parents saw, they smiled. Smiled like I did something right. It didn’t matter how much I didn’t want to be there. Or even that he was hitting me–not that I told them, though Mother did see a bruise on my wrist once. I thought for sure she would put two and two together. But she just looked away and drank her wine. Two weeks later, he hit me for the last time. Atlas made sure of that.
“Your total will be five hundred seventy-two dollars and thirty-one cents.” The older woman behind the glass divider says to Atlas and I.
I watch as Atlas doesn’t bat an eye, he just smiles politely and slips his credit card, along with our IDs, to the woman. Glancing over at the dark-haired man, I can’t help but stare for a second. He's so tall and built. My eyes travel over the black button-down shirt he has on that fits his tapered waist perfectly. It’s funny how, minus the hand tattoo, he could actually pass for someone my parents would approve of. As long as they didn’t know his name, educational background, or profession. Or that he rides a motorcycle, yeah they would hate that… or his criminal record. Yep, as long as he stood there, not moving or speaking, he would definitely get my parents’ approval.
“So I owe about three hundred.” I whisper to myself as I pull out my phone to put the amount in my note app. Atlas’ hand lands over my screen and I’m now staring at his black and grey realism skull tattoo on the top of his right hand.
“I know my soon-to-be wife did not just offer to go dutch on our wedding service and try to make me look like a cheap asshole in front of this lovely clerk.”
Shit.How fucking stupid am I? We are supposed to be playing this like we are in love. I give him what I hope is an apologetic smile, though by the growing look of concern spreading over his features, my guess is it’s not working.
“Okay, I’m here!” Janie’s bright voice echos as she struts in wearing a tight emerald green halter dress that ends above her knees and glittery gold strappy heels. Her curly red hair is done and wild and wow, she looks like she’s really going to her best friend’s wedding. My eyes land on the reluctant giant of a man walking behind her, her boyfriend Fox. His eyes scan the area in that protective, possessive way he does with Janie. Fox has had to learn the hard way that Janie is a social butterfly about eighty-five percent of the time. Mix that with her obvious good looks and her warm energy that just draws you in, it’s safe to say she gets checked out, often. Fox being the large, massive“lumbersnack caveman hybrid”that he is–Janie’s words–gets to spend his time glaring and growling at everyone that turns to look in my best friend’s direction.
“Where is your wedding dress?” Janie asks after hugging me. “These places usually rent them out.”
“How would you know that?” Fox asks skeptically.
Janie flashed him a cheesy grin. “I’ve gone to many of these chapels for influencer weddings.”
I feel my cheeks getting hot and I shake my head. “I’m happy wearing this.” I say, gesturing to my jeans and my old law school t-shirt.
Janie stares from my clothes back to my face and I watch her upper lip curl. “You’re kidding. Look at how I’m dressed, and the guys! Come on, let’s at least look, I know it’s not a bridalboutique, but you know I can turn a sack into a gown easily.” She goes to pull my arm and I want to cry when Atlas speaks.
“I thought you already looked back there while I was getting dressed.” He says in a questioning tone.
I look at Janie, giving her the “help me” look thateverywoman can pick up on. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for her skeptical look to melt away. She stares at me for a long second and I see the realization hit her. Yep, that’s right, the dress sizes don’t go high enough. I’m too big for the chapel’s dresses, but didn’t want to make it a big deal, so much for that.
She rolls her lips inward as she realizes that now the guys are looking at us expectantly. Sighing, I roll my shoulders back and stare directly at Atlas. “Well, you wanted to marry me, so I guess we aren’t hiding things. The dresses in the back only go to a size fourteen. I’m too big for them, sorry. If I had known–”
“Excuse me, Ma’am?” Atlas turns his attention away from me and to the clerk. What the fuck? It was taking a lot for me to vocalize this to him and he just… dismisses me? I am about to yell at him for interrupting when he gives the woman a smile and starts to speak again. “Do we have time to run down the street to go dress shopping? I would like my wife to have the dress she wants.”
