Page 99 of Atlas
“No one comes up here,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you might like the quiet. And the coffee machine was a bust, so I made a fresh one the old-fashioned way. The books . . . I, uh, asked the lady at the second-hand shop for help. Told her you like the kind of stuff with messy emotions and complicated girls who think too much.” He gives an unsure laugh.
My throat tightens. I don’t know what I expected from him. But it wasn’tthis.
“I like it,” I say, so quietly I’m not sure he hears me.
He nods once, like that’s enough, and starts to turn back towards the stairs.
But something in me panics at the idea of him leaving. This man, with too many sins and not enough softness, has just given me a place to breathe.
And I don’t want to breathe alone.
“You can stay,” I blurt, heat rushing to my cheeks. “If you like. I mean, you don’t have to. I just—”
He stops and looks at me. And for once, he doesn’t smirk, doesn’t joke. “I’d like that,” he says.
He comes back and sits on the other beanbag without a word. Close, but not too close.
I drag the books onto my lap. “How did you know how much I love old books?”
“I paid attention,” he says simply, and my heart swells a little more.
“One day, I’ll have a room full of books,” I say dreamily. “It’ll smell of paper and dust. And it’ll be quiet, just like up here.”
We fall silent again, and then he says, “I need to tell you I’m sorry.”
I look over, startled. He’s not looking at me. He’s watching the skyline, his arms resting on his knees, fingers knotted like he’s holding himself together. “I shouldn’t have started anything with you while things were still messy with Anita. I tried to pretend it was over, but the truth is, I was still figuring it out. And that’s not fair to you. You deserve more than someone who’s ‘figuring it out’.”
My chest tightens. He shifts slightly, finally looking at me. “I’m sorry I kissed her . . . twice. And that I almost slept with her. It was wrong on both of you. I regret it so deeply, I can’t even begin to explain. I have no excuses or reasons, but please know I’m sorry and if I could take it all back, I would.”
“Why?” I whisper and he frowns. “Why would you take it back?”
He thinks over my words. “Because hurting you is one of the worst things I’ve ever done, and trust me, I’ve done some terrible shit. But seeing the way you look at me now, the hurt and mistrust,” he sighs, shaking his head, “it brings me to my knees, Rue. It keeps me up at night. And the worst thing is, I can’t change it. I can’t fucking take any of it back because the damage is done.”
I sit very still. I can hear the wind tugging at the lights above us, the creak of the roof beneath our weight. My fingers tighten around the spine of the top book. “I ruined what we had for old habits and bad choices. It was a mistake, a huge one. Hurting you will be the one thing I’ll never get over.”
Something in his voice makes my throat ache. Because he sounds . . . broken. I don’t feel like he’s angling for forgiveness, there’s just a raw emotion surrounding him right now, and it feels genuine.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says after a moment. “But I needed you to know. You didn’t imagine any of it, Rue. What was between us, it was real. And I’m sorry I wrecked it before it had a chance.”
I swallow, the burn behind my eyes building. And then he stands up and brushes his hands on his jeans. “I’ll leave you to your books.”
He turns towards the door, and something snaps inside me.
“Wait,” I say, the word out before I can stop it. “You’re just gonna dump all that on me and run?”
He freezes then turns halfway. His brow lifts a fraction, caught off guard.
“Don’t I get a chance to speak too?”
He exhales, like he’d been holding his breath. “Of course,” he says quietly, and takes a slow step back. “I just didn’t want to pressure you. Or make things worse.”
I shift the books off my lap and stand up, crossing my arms over my chest, not to be defensive, but to hold in the storm twisting inside me.
“You’re right, you have hurt me,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “You broke something I didn’t even realise I’d handed you. And I hated you for it. Not because you kissed someone else, but because I let myself believe you were different.”
He nods, eyes on me. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to interrupt. He just listens.
“But then you did all this.” I gesture to the rooftop, the books, the lights, the effort. “And I’m not saying it fixes things. It doesn’t. But it makes me hate you a little less.”
