Page 24 of Atlas
The bathroom door opens behind me, steam rolling out, and Anita steps into the hall, towel wrapped tight, her hair damp and curling at the edges.
She freezes when she sees my face.
“What?”
“Your little boyfriend just came by. Brought you flowers.”
Her eyes widen, panic flickering. “What?”
“Roses. Expensive ones. Pale pink. He buzzed the door like he’s done it a hundred times.”
“Oh my god.” She scrambles to the intercom. “What did you say?”
“I told him the truth.”
She turns slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. “You didn’t.”
“I said you were busy. And then I might’ve added that you were under me about five minutes ago.”
“Atlas,” she snaps, flustered now, pacing towards the window like she can still catch a glimpse of him, but he’s long gone. “Why would youdothat?”
“Because he doesn’t belong in your fucking doorway, Nita. You had my cum dripping down your legs, and he shows up playing Romeo?”
“That’snotthe point,” she hisses. “This is messy enough already!” She storms to her bedroom, and I follow, leaning in the doorway to watch her as she rushes to dress.
“Tell me who he is,” I say. “Tell me why you won’t just be with me.”
“It’s complicated,” she cries.
“Tell me and I’ll uncomplicate it for you.”
She stops, her eyes full of pain. “If it was that simple, don’t you think I’d have told you everything by now?”
She shoves her feet into her trainers. “Where are you going?” I follow her to the door.
“To sort out the mess you just made.”
I glare. “You’re going after him?” She doesn’t answer, just looks down at the floor with one hand on the door. “If you walk out of here, we’re done,” I say, my heart slamming against my chest. “I mean it.”
She waits a beat, then pulls the door open and rushes out, letting it slam closed behind her. I stare at it, willing it to open, willing her to come back and tell me she picks me. But when she doesn’t, I take a breath, shake out my shoulders and release it slowly. “It’s done now,” I mutter to myself. “Let her go.”
Anita
I hate this part of London. I mean, it’s beautiful to look at and growing up here I was the envy of my friends, but there’s something about the white buildings with their posh gold door knockers and black gated fencing that makes me feel uncomfortable. Like I’m no longer good enough to be here.
Anthony never gave me his address, so I don’t know how he’ll react to me just showing up, but I did my research and realised he lived just two streets away from my childhood Kensington home.
I raise my hand and grip the lion shaped knocker, gently tapping it a few times before crossing my arms and looking around the area, praying Atlas hasn’t followed me. The door opens and Anthony takes a surprised step back. “Anita,” he murmurs, clearly confused by my dripping wet hair.
I’m suddenly self-conscious, running my hand over the tangled locks. “I’m so sorry. I came to explain,” I rush to say.
He glances around the street, probably hoping the neighbours haven’t spotted me, before taking my arm and guiding me inside. He turns on the lamp by the door and takes a second to scan me with curious eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I’m not sure.”
His frown deepens. “Take your shoes off and come through,” he mutters.
I kick off my trainers and follow him through the large hall to a kitchen that mirrors the one I grew up in. “You have a beautiful home,” I compliment. “Have you lived here long?” I spot the discarded bunch of roses on the side, and he follows my eyeline.
