“I remembereverythingI’ve ever said.”
“That’s intense.” I feel the truth of his words rattle through me. I believe him. Every part of me sees the honest, raw existence of this man.
He shrugs. “I do like watching.”
“Yeah?” I tug one glove on, fitting each finger carefully with my eyes never leaving his. “You a voyeur?” I tease, excitement sparking in my belly at the beginnings of playful sexual banter.
He straightens, looping his arm through one side of a down vest. His gaze is intense as he feeds his other arm through. “I am. But you find me a man who doesn’t like watching a beautiful woman come hard.” He turns and walks out the front door, leaving it wide open, just like my mouth.
* * *
I standon the porch like an utter moron with my wooly-socked feet shoved into my unlaced Converse. I’m so not helpful, but every time Atticus grabs a piece of wood or chops one, I shout, “yay!” and he rolls his eyes. But I don’t stop because I’m trying to add some value here, and I think offering to give him a complimentary cock suck for wood chopping would be a bit aggressive. So I yay instead.
After we come inside, I pretend to be texting Beck and Beau while I secretly watch Atticus strip out of his wet vest and snow boots. After laying his things along the bricks to dry, he disappears into our room and returns with another hoodie. Lord help me, the lingerie is out, and it’s only noon.
“They ain’t comin’?” Atticus guesses as he walks past me toward the kitchen. I take a seat at the kitchen table and lay my phone out flat, staring down at the dancing bubbles. “Still waiting for her–nope.” Beck’s message says the road is still closed.
“Road closed?” Atti asks with his head buried in the cooler.
“Yeah.” I start to think. “How do we get outta here if the road is closed?” He reappears with cold cuts and some Rubbermaid containers.
He blinks. “We don’t.”
“Oh my god, what if we run out of food? What if we run out of water?” Immediately I feel all panicked, and yet, I probably should have had these worries a day ago.
“Goldie, relax. If we ran out of anything, I’d hike out and get it. Stores don’t close. Only these small roads. We’re fine. Now sit down and cut the apples.” He reaches into the cooler again and crosses the small room to hand me a bag of apples. There’s already a knife and a cutting sheath on the table.
I sit back down. “Sorry, I think I’m prone to overreacting.”
“You think,” he deadpans, dragging a long, serrated knife through a hoagie roll.
“So tell me, Atticus, did you always want to be a mechanic, or did you settle?” Why does that sound snotty, even to me? My cheeks grow flush, and this time, I am embarrassed. “I didn’t mean–”
“I think you did. But you know what? At least you’d be saying what you mean. I’ll take being real over being phony any day of the week.” He slides the sliced hoagies into the oven, then sets it to broil. With his focus on slicing provolone, I feel so raw, seen, and called out.
I don’t want to argue with him, but I’ve trained myself to deflect and defend. It’s how you survive with a mother like Constance Berry. “Because I care how people perceive me does not make me phony.”
His cutting stops, he places the knife on the counter and turns to face me. “Do you change yourself to change people’s perceptions of you?”
I cluck my tongue. “Everyone does, and they’re lying if they say they haven’t.”
His face falls a little, and it makes my stomach do the same. “I don’t. And you shouldn’t either.”
“Why not?” I start slicing apples and keep my eyes on the knife. “If making a little tweak to myself doesn't hurt, and other people see me better, what’s so bad about wanting to be seen as just a little bit better? How does it hurt anyone?”
“If you aren’t you, who will be?” He turns back to the cheese and resumes cutting.
It’s only cheese, but it feels like my wrists, my throat, and my heart. How does he see me so clearly without even knowing my issues? It’s… so hard but intoxicating, too. Every time I’ve smiled when I wanted to cry, laughed when I wanted to yell, drank when I wanted to eat, agreed with my Mom just to feel seen, pretended when I really wasn’t sure what to do… I felt a piece of my real self slipping away. And now I don’t know for sure if I even know who she is.
“Atticus.” My knife tips on its side and slides off the cutting board onto the table.
He keeps his focus on the slices of provolone. We won’t eat all of it, but he keeps on with his cutting. “Goldie.”
“You can be so cruel sometimes,” I whisper, not meaning to whisper but finding myself close to voiceless. He doesn’t understand me, and he shouldn’t pretend to.
He pauses, looking up at the old tile backsplash. After what feels like too long, he turns to face me. The oven dings, and his attention stays on me for an extra moment. “I’d never be cruel to you.”
I don’t know how but his words knock the air from my chest completely. I reach for the glass of water he’d poured for us when we got in and slam all of it. I’m breathless when my gaze returns to him. “I never would, Goldie. But I ain’t gonna lie to you, either.”