He’s right. I may not open up to many people, but Atticus has always been my closest friend, and we’ve always confided in one another. Since Black Diamond and Rowan, I’ve shut down, because the shit I was feeling there wasn’t like me. It confused me, and I didn’t know how to handle it. So, instead of dealing with those feelings, I buried my head in the sand.
“Who is he?” Atticus asks, softer this time. “And why is he such a big secret?”
My eyes find his—big, bright blue, and questioning—and my throat tightens like an invisible hand is squeezing, cutting off my oxygen. Pressure builds behind my eyes, palms coated in sweat. Why the fuck is this so hard?
Blowing out a shaky breath, I take a seat on the chair behind me, gesturing for Atticus to do the same. “You got anymore weed?” I ask with a dry chuckle. “Because if we’re getting into this now, I need a little relaxant.”
He nods, reaching into his pocket, and pulls out the tiny Altoids tin that he keeps his bud in. Making quick of work of rolling a joint, he lights up, right as I finish my cigarette, and we pass it back and forth while I tell him all there is to know about Rowan and what happened during my time at Black Diamond, ending with the journal I found and why I got kicked out.
By the time I finish, I feel cut open, like my chest has a huge gash, everything inside on display. It’s vulnerable. I hate it.
Atticus doesn’t say anything for a moment. He lights a cigarette, taking a drag, and simmering with everything I just told him. His thumb flicks the metal ring through his bottom lip absentmindedly. Something he does when he’s deep in thought.
Finally, his gaze shifts, connecting with mine. “You had a journal too, yes?”
I nod.
“Did you show the therapist what was written inside of your journal?”
“Fuck no,” I mutter. “That shit’s personal.”
“Okay, so is it possible that maybe Rowan didn’t show her either?”
He says this like I haven’t already considered this a hundred times over.
“But she had written out prompts for him—in her handwriting—and he had detailed accounts of us hanging out, Atticus. There’s no way he didn’t show her, man.”
Thinking for a moment, he says, “Even if he did share it with her—which I don’t think he did—who’s to say he did it maliciously? I know that you aren’t a talk-about-your-feelings type of guy, but what if he is? What if talking through his experiences and his emotions helps him understand them and understand himself?”
I fucking hate how much sense Atticus is making. Rowanisa talker. It’s the one thing that annoyed me the most about him at first, and one of the things I’ve found myself missing since leaving the island. It’s a confusing as fuck juxtaposition.
Atti seems to know I won’t respond to that. He nods silently, reaching over to squeeze my knee before he stands, stretching his arms over his head. “Think about it, man. For what it’s worth, he really seemed pressed to find you last night. Desperate,” he adds. “It may be worth it to, at the very least, hear him out.”
When he leaves, the silence weighs down on me. My phone sits in my pocket like a brick, heavy and obvious. It’s like the phone number I didn’t save is calling to me, begging me to use it.
My mind, without permission, takes me back to Black Diamond before I left. How torn up Rowan looked, the way he begged and pleaded with me to just listen to him. Maybe Atticus is right, and I was wrong. In the same breath, I also remember that fight with Sebastian when I got back. The confusion on his face when I brought up Rowan, and his quick dismissal that he had anything to do with it. At the time, I was so angry, I assumed he was lying. But what if he wasn’t?
I scrub a hand down my face before raking my fingers through my greasy hair, heaving a sigh as I grab the damn thing out of my pocket. It unlocks, Atticus’s message already pulled up, the number sitting there, taunting me. With a quick copy and paste, I start a new message, staring at the blank space for a while.
Typing out a few different variations of a text message, I end up deleting them all. Either sounding stupid, too much, or not enough, my frustration grows, boiling over. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard.
Me: Atticus gave me this and told me you wanted to talk.
I read and re-read the message a dozen times, my finger hovering over the send button. My mind at war with itself… to send or not to send?
Since fucking when did I become Shakespeare?
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Rowan
This time difference is fucking me up.
After coming home from the bar in my failed attempt at finding Caspian, I was up most of the night, only to finally fall asleep around sunrise. The bed in this hotel is one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever slept in. I’m lying under the fluffy down comforter, surrounded by pillows, and I can tell the sun’s about to set based on the way it looks outside the window I left open last night.
Wicked Hearts play the same stadium tonight before they leave for their next stop on the tour—Japan, I think. I have tickets to this show too. And the next. I should probably drag my ass out of bed, get some food in me, take a hot shower, and get ready at some point soon. Groaning and turning to rub my face into the pillow, I reach over, grabbing my phone from where it’s charging on the nightstand.
It lights up, notifications piled up, waiting for me. One in particular catches my eye and makes my throat plummet to my gut.
