by E. S. Maria
“I know, and no amount of apologies will be enough. But Hannah,” he says as I feel his hand close over mine again, and this time I’m powerless to resist, “I just want you to know that leaving you was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. But I had to do it.”
Of course, he warned me. I was the stupid one.
I finally find the will to pull my hand away. “And I just want you to know that I don’t believe a single word you just said. Oh, poor Atticus. All the fame, fortune, and women, obviously must’ve messed you up real good, haven’t they? Please. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it … to be rich and famous? That was obviously more important to you than what we had. And all the while back then, I actually thought you’d wait for me like how we talked about. Instead you got impatient and greedy. That makes you a gigantic asshole in my book.”
He sounds like he’s about to say something, but immediately stops himself. Instead, he breathes out a curse and slams his hand on the wheel. I knew then that I must have gone too far. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t see his reaction. As much as I want to make him feel the same hurt he gave me, I know that seeing his reaction to my cutting words will most likely break my heart too.
We spend the rest of the drive home in awkward silence. Atticus doesn’t switch on the radio, which makes it all the more awkward between us. Sometimes I feel my skin tingling, and my heartbeat starts accelerating. I only really get this feeling whenever Atticus looks at me.
I always know that he has his eyes on me by the way my body reacts. I don’t even need to see him to confirm it.
Even in those times when I wasn’t sure about how Atticus felt about me, there was always that constant force between us—that strong sense of awareness of each other. We didn’t need to see each other to be aware that we were in the same room. It was like our attraction for each other became our sixth sense.
I never thought it was something that I missed until now, when it dawns on me that I never had this kind of unexplainable magnetism with Paul.
I just wish I didn’t feel this pull with Atticus right now because it’s confusing and scaring the hell out of me.
As soon as I feel the car drive up at an angle, I breathe out a sigh of relief, knowing I’m finally home, and Atticus and I can go our separate ways.
“I’m home now, aren’t I?” I ask, as I unbuckle my seat belt.
“Yes,” he answers.
“Okay … bye.”
With shaky fingers, I open the car door, and step out carefully, ignoring Atticus when he tells me to wait.
Pfft. As if.
After closing the car door, I carefully navigate my way around the car. I’m a little nervous, and my arms are stretched out in front of me, as I curse at myself for not bringing my walking stick. I’ve never really walked outside of the house on my own, and even though my parents replaced the steps leading to my house into a ramp, I still need to make my own way there.
I am in the middle of saying a silent prayer that I don’t stumble and make a fool of myself in front of Atticus, when all of a sudden, I feel myself being lifted off my feet again. I shriek out as Atticus starts walking steadily, his arms holding me securely underneath my legs and against his chest.
“Let me down, Atticus,” I cry out, but for some reason, my protest sounds feeble, and my heart is racing way too fast.
“I said let me—”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? I don’t need your damn help!”
“I’m not doing this for you, Hannah. I’m doing this for me.”
“What? You’re making no sense.” I make an attempt at punching his chest, but his chest feels harder than before, and even back then he was ripped!
And how did my arm end up around his shoulders?
I let go of him and cross both of my arms across my chest.
“I want to help you, Hannah, but you pretend like you don’t need it. And I’ve dreamt of holding you since the last time we ...”
“Shut up and let me go!” I scream out with gritted teeth.
“Well, fuck it. I’m carrying you whether you like it or not.”
“This is kidnapping!”
“I’m carrying you to your own house.”
“You’re carrying me against my will!”
I suck in some air as soon as I feel his warm breath against my neck, his lips so close to my ear that he’s practically kissing it. “Against your will? I can read how your body reacts when I’m around, Hannah. It’s something you know we’re both good at.”
He halts his steps, and even with the background noise, I can still hear his heart beating strongly, fiercely even.
It matches how fast my own heart is beating right now.
But I’m angry. That’s all there is to it.
And then he tilts me in an angle so my feet can touch the ground.
Oh. This is what I wanted, then why do I suddenly feel disappointed?
“Where are your house keys? I can open the door for you.”
House keys? Oh, shit! No one’s home!
“I don’t have a set. Why would I have my own set of keys? Do I look like someone who needs it?” I grab my phone from my purse, stating my brother’s name clearly so I can make the call.
“Hannah? Did Atticus pick you up? Where are you?” Brodie asks as soon as he answers the phone.
“How’s Mum?”
“She’s fine, but her ego’s a little bruised. She ran down the stairs, tripped, then fell. We’ll be home in an hour or so. She wants to go to the shops first for some groceries, then we’ll be home.”
I can feel Atticus standing close. The energy between us is making my skin feel prickly. So I turn away from him, and I cup the phone, whispering, “You and I are going to talk later. You’re an asswipe, you know that, right? Ask Mum where the spare keys are.”
“Oh, shit, I didn’t think that far ahead. Hold on …”
In the background, I hear Brodie ask Mum about the keys. Before long, he’s back on the phone, “Remember those two large pots with the little plants on top of them? If you’re facing the front door, go to the left one, lift the small pot. The spare key’s at the bottom of the pot. You still remember the alarm code, right?”
I close my eyes in frustration, “Yes,” I answer, “but FYI big brother, my eyes don’t work? How am I supposed to do all of that?”
Without asking, Atticus deftly grabs the phone from my hand. “Hey bro, I’m here. I’ll help Hannah. What do we need to do?” He’s too close again, and his scent, the same one that makes my insides clench, is becoming extremely harder to ignore.
“Okay,” he speaks again, “got it. Don’t worry, I got her.”
I. Got. Her.
Stop it, heart.
Stop getting all giggly.
Remember what he did to you.
My reprimanding is interrupted by Atticus taking my hand to return my phone.
“Stay here,” he says firmly, before squeezing my shoulder gently. I hear some rustling, then the sound of ceramic making contact with hardened clay. After a few more seconds, I hear the door opening and finally, the tiny beeps from the alarm code being entered on the keypad.
Then his hand takes mine once again.
And my amnesiac heart gets all giggly again.
Stupid heart.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” he says, as he leads me inside my own house. As soon as we are, I pull my hand away and start making my well-treaded path towards the kitchen.
“I can’t believe my brother trusted you with our alarm code when you’re the last person I’d trust. I’m going to make sure that it gets changed as soon as possible,” I scoff, “Oh, and you can leave now. You don’t need to stay,” I make my voice louder as I walk away from him. I don’t need him here. I know my way around the house.
But when I hear the door slam, my whole body jumps in surprise, then slumps back down in defeat.
I never thought he’d actually go and leave me here on my own … with
out even saying goodbye.
Again.
Wow.
Why do I keep allowing myself to feel anything for Atticus when he goes and leaves me as soon as he gets the chance?
I’m such a loser.
Literally.
I close my eyes and let out a deep exhale.
“Fuck him,” I mutter under my breath.
No. Say it out loud, Hannah, no one’s here.
Oh, yeah. That’s right. No one else is here.
So I take a deep breath, and I let it rip.
“Fuck you! Fuck you, Atticus! Fuck you, and your stupid guitar, your stupid fame, your stupid money, your whorish groupies, your lame-ass green eyes and how you look at me with them … but must of all, fuck you and the way you keep leaving me! You’re an asshole, Tic! You’re a gigantic love-sucking asshole, and I hope you get a million kinds of STDs from all the stupid sluts you’ve ever slept with, and it gets so bad that your dick falls off!”
Yes! Mother. Fucking. Yes.
But, oh my goodness!
I never shouted so many swear words in my whole entire life. Ever.
But it surprises me how liberating that feels. And what surprises me even more, as I sniffle and wipe my tears away, is how overtaken I am with all kinds of emotions.
I’m crying a little, laughing a lot, guilty crying and angry laughing at the same time.
I’ve gone mad.
It’s been a roller coaster of a day: from finally visiting Paul and having the guts to apologise to him, being brave enough to share my story with the support group, and letting the whole universe know how Atticus has truly hurt me, is completely and utterly liberating.
I can even feel my whole body tingle because of it.
But now my throat hurts and my head is throbbing.
I overexerted myself and now I might be developing another migraine.
I turn around and reach for the fridge handle, then using my other hand, I carefully feel each bottle cap sitting on the bottom right shelf so I can read each label in Braille until I find the one with the OJ. I carefully pick up the plastic bottle and place it on top of the benchtop right next to the sink before closing the fridge. Then I reach for the cupboard handle behind me and grab one of those unbreakable cups.
Most of our plates and glasses have been changed to unbreakable plastic crockery. I suppose after being responsible for a large number of glass and porcelain breakages, my parents decided to switch to these unbreakable, not to mention the el-cheapo, plastic plates and drinking cups for everyday use.
It makes me feel like I’m a preschooler again.
Awesome, right?
I place a drinking cup on the drying section of the sink, then, after twisting the cap off the OJ bottle, I tilt it down while wedging the lip of the cup just underneath the opening of the bottle.
“Need help with that?”
I scream in shock, and my hold on the juice bottle is gone, and it falls in the sink with a thud.
“Oh, shit,” he says a little too close. His arm brushes against my belly as he retrieves the bottle from inside the sink, and it makes me jump back from the shock of contact.
Hold on.
Oh no.
Oh. No.
My hands cover my instantly reddened cheeks, and I start backing away, slowly, then, quickly. I have to get out of here, back to my room where I can close him off and the humiliation I’m feeling right now.
He heard my rant.
All this time, Atticus was right there, and he would’ve heard quite clearly, my expletive-ridden rant about him.
I start to turn away, feeling sick all of a sudden from the knots forming in my stomach. But Atticus grabs my hand, and I feel the surge of embarrassment all over again.
“Let go of me,” I choke out, my hand inside his, balling into a fist.
“I won’t,” Atticus stretches out my curled-up fingers, then places the same cup in my hand. “Here. You wanted a drink, right?”
“I-I …” I shake my head, unable to form words like I ran out of the ability to do so.
“Go on,” he whispers back, and I feel him step closer, “drink up.”
My throat and my lips suddenly feel dry. So with slightly shaky hands, I take the cup and sip its contents very slowly.
After I’m done, he takes the cup from me while I stand on the same spot, rigid, and in shock.
“You … you were here all along?” I ask him, my voice rough from my now raw feeling throat. “So you heard everything?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt. You were kind of on a roll there.”
“Oh my God!” I cry out, cupping my mouth with both hands and knowing my face is now as red as an overripe tomato.
“I thought you left. I heard the door slam shut,” I reason out painfully.
“Of course, I shut the door … from the inside. I don’t feel comfortable leaving front doors open. That’s just inviting trouble.”
“But I didn’t hear you!”
“It must’ve been the shoes I’m wearing, I’m not sure. Plus you already concluded I left, so …”
“Oh my God!” I cry out once again covering my face in shame. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you saying sorry for what you screamed out? Or sorry I didn’t leave?” his voice is surprisingly calm, with no trace of anger in it whatsoever.
I gulp down. “No … I don’t know,” I answer, my voice still muffled.
“Then don’t apologise for it.” Atticus is still standing so close that my skin is becoming hyperaware of his closeness.
“I deserved every single word. Though I really, really hope my dick doesn’t fall off. I kind of love that part of my body.”
“Oh my God!” My skin feels as hot as coals, and my reaction seems to be on auto play.
I don’t know what else to say!
Why is Atticus making me feel like this?
Then his hands are touching mine, urging my hands to uncover my face.
And for some reason, I’m letting him do it.
“I fucked it up tremendously between us, didn’t I?” Atticus asks softly, his hands still holding mine, his fingers now tangled with mine.
“Yes, you did,” I answer shakily, my head bowed.
“I want another chance with you, Hannah,” he tells me in a voice full of yearning that it tugs at my heart, unwilling to let go.
But I shake my head, “How many chances do you need? How many times will I let you hurt me?”
I feel the hair on his face brush my temple.
He’s so close, his lips touching my cheek.
“I still love you, my little Songbird. I never stopped. ”
His breath is warm against my cheek, and I hate that it’s getting me distracted from the resentment I’m supposed to feel for him.
I need to remind him how I feel.
“You can’t say those things to me anymore. Paul showed me what real love is. You, on the other hand, you broke my heart, stomped on it, then rubbed my face in it … twice.”
I take my hands back and with all my might, I push him away from me.
“Go home, Atticus. For real this time, please just go.”
“No. I’m staying,” he sounds determined, and the image of him, with his eyes growing dark with intensity fills my head.
When he wants something, he never stops until he gets it.
And back then, all he wanted was me.
That was, until he decided he wanted fame and fortune more.
Does he expect me to say ‘Thank you’ now that he’s back to wanting me?
“Fine! Stay here, then!” I turn away from him, so I can hide out in my bedroom. I’ve had enough of him, and the way he continues to affect me.
“Where are you going?” Atticus asks right behind me.
“Fuck you,” I cry back.
“Alright, that is it!”
Before I can even have time to respond, he places his hand on my shoulder and spins me around, cupping my face with his hands.
&nb
sp; “Atticus, what are you—”
His mouth.
It’s on my lips.
Atticus is kissing me.
I try to protest, but the pressure of his lips against mine, muffles my voice.
And I’m just standing here, not pushing him away.
Because at this very moment, every single cell of my body is at a standstill from the shock.
He pauses ever so slightly, like he’s waiting for my reprisal.
But then his kiss changes, from hard to gentle, furious to hesitant, as he continues to gauge my reaction.
And yet, I am still stoic.
It’s a complete contradiction to what’s happening inside of my body. My brain is screaming for me to stop him, but my body is refusing to listen, as is my heart, which is now racing so fast that I can hear the blood rush through my ears.
I feel like a bomb just waiting to detonate.
Then my face does something incomprehensible.
My eyes drop shut, while my lips are starting to open for him.
My body is reacting to Atticus in the way it always has … instinctively.
I hear Atticus whisper my name, and I feel his breath tickling my lips, sending tiny shivers all over my body. I respond by tilting my head up, inviting him closer.
He takes my gesture as an invitation, and he moves one hand from my jaw and takes my hair tie off, letting my dark hair loose. He tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling my head closer. Then I feel the tip of his tongue skim beyond my lips, making me hum as it finds my own.
“God, Hannah,” Atticus whispers, “I missed this so damned much.”
I’m aware at how my brain is waging a war against my body, telling me how wrong this is on so many levels. But as I feel a thrill running through my entire body, just from hearing those words, I know that my common sense is getting shot down in flames.
I almost forgot how Atticus is a lot taller than I am, so I fist his shirt, pulling him even closer.
It’s either this, or I climb him like a tree.
And I’m so close to climbing him right now.
He wraps his arms around me, palms flat against my back, curving my body upwards, our bodies pressed so tightly that I’m sure he can feel my heart beating just as strongly as his own.