Page 21 of Where You Belong

He stares past me into the living area. His eyes eat up the old, worn couch my mom passed down to me with the loveseat on the opposite side. The wood floors are scratched and beat up. I’ve told myself that once things settle down and I find time, I’ll polish them, and they’ll look good as new again. The walls remain bare. No pictures or decor, leaving them a stark white against the dark-brown sofa.

It may not look like much to him, but it is ours, and what’s important is we feel safe here. It’s our home, and even if he wants to look down his nose at me, he can’t take it away from us.

“What, you think you can leave, take my son, and move into this hole in the wall? Do you honestly think you’ll be able to keep this up with all the legal fees coming your way?”

A knot in my stomach twists, the taste of bile rising in my throat.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play games with me, Haelynn. C’mon. Do you really think you can run away and I’ll do, what? Nothing? Sit here and watch you play house while you’re secretly trying to convince a judge to give you sole custody?”

“I’m not doing this with you right now. You’re here to take your son for the night.” I look down the hall at Huxton. “He’s ready to go. Go enjoy your time with him.”

I move to walk past him when Atlas reaches out, grabbing my arm to stop me. I grit my teeth, wincing in pain from where he left a bruise the week before. I yank my arm away from him, clutching it to my chest.His eyes widen, darting up to meet mine.

“Shit, Haelynn, I’m sorry.”

The lost look on his face is mixed with sadness and despair. He wants me to forgive him, but I don’t think I can. He’s put me through so much pain and heartache leading up to now that I don’t have anything left to give him.

My fingers hold my arm, massaging it to ease the pain.

“Atlas, I don’t know why you keep saying you’re sorry when I don’t think you truly know what you’re even sorry for.”

I close my eyes, shaking my head, not wanting to even get into this with him again.

I know he loves Huxton, and I believe a part of him loved me, too. While I expected him to grovel when he realized what he lost, I didn’t expect it to last for long.

Atlas isn’t the type of person to put himself into a position to make him look weak. Although I would argue there’s nothing weak about a man who can own up and admit when they’re wrong, he doesn’t see it that way.

He’d hide behind whatever lie he was using this time, convinced he had nothing to be sorry for before he’d ever apologize with genuine emotion behind it.

“The best thing you can do now, for you, for Huxton, and for me, is to focus on being a father. Okay?”

I’m waiting for the moment when he returns to being Jekyll and Hyde, throwing me through a loop on which side he is now. When he looks past me, down the hallway toward Huxton, I’m surprised when it doesn’t come.

“Yeah…” He trails off. His eyes grow distant before he turns back to me. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

I nod, forcing my mouth into a thin line. I drop my arm, not wanting to give Huxton any cause for worry.

Atlas doesn’t say anything more as he watches Huxton grab his backpack, shoving his books in it, before joining Atlas at the door. Huxton turns back to me, lifting his hand in a small wave. Atlas follows suit with a nod, holding the door open as they both duck outside.

It’s not until the door shuts behind him that I’m able to release a heavy sigh, and the tension of facing him again lifts off my chest. In the back of my mind, I know it’s still only a matter of time before things shift again, and Atlas is back to being the man I’ve always known him to be.

Sooner or later, we’ll break free.

Chapter Eight

Corbin

"There he is." Layla sighs, throwing her hands up dramatically when I open the door to Oh My Goodies.

My cousin, Brit, owns the small-town bakery. Between this and the gas station at the end of the road, it's about the only place you could go nearby to get a fresh cup of coffee. I'm certain Layla and I are single-handedly keeping her in business. I rarely miss a day of stopping in before my shift, not to mention I’m addicted to her apple cinnamon muffins.

"You say that like I'm running late. It's not even eight o'clock yet, which is when I told you I'd be here."

Layla can be a bit theatrical and has been since the day she was born. She’s the youngest out of the three of us kids. When they found out I was a boy, my dad made a promise to my mom they’d try again for a girl. Layla was the only one of us who went overdue. She wailed for a solid fifteen minutes until my dad stepped in and held her.

Our dad always joked he was surprised she didn’t grow up to be a singer with the pipes she had on her. I guess he was on the right track. She put her theatrics to good use as the elementary school music teacher.

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