Cameron
THE SILENCE OF THE kitchen is suffocating. Between my own anger and Atticus’s expression of indifference, my mind is reeling for something to say, for me to move.
But to where? To him? Back upstairs with my friends?
And what the fuck did I just walk in on? Cassie with her hands where they shouldn’t be, and Atticus calling out to her so gently.
What, he can forgive Cassie but he can’t forgive me?
How is he able to move on so quickly? Whether it be with someone else—namely, Cassie—or just past the point of hurting. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to breathe around the memory of his touch, the way he spoke to me.
How cruel is it to give me such a life and show me how beautiful it can be even with all the pain, only to rip away the one person who makes it bearable? Who made it beautiful?
Atticus doesn’t move, only watching me with steady, assessing eyes. As if I mean nothing; as if I am but the dirt crusting the bottom of his expensive leather loafers.
I rub at the back of my neck, attempting to gather my courage. If there is one thing I know, it’s that I don’t want to return to my friends. Not until we clear things up.
“What were you guys doing?” I ask, my voice small.
“I’m pretty sure that what I do stopped being your business a long time ago.”
I flinch at his words, unable to hold in the reaction. Something hot and unforgiving pulses deep inside of me, winding around my heart and squeezing.
He’s right. I don’t deserve answers, but someday, I hope to earn his forgiveness.
“Atticus,” I call out, suddenly desperate for it. “Please. Tell me what I have to say, what I need to do for you to forgive me.”
He looks away, his sad hazel eyes studying the far cabinets without a lick of interest. He just… doesn’t want to see me.
“I can’t. I won’t. You… you took the worst parts of me and wielded them like you were born to hurt me; to turn them into knives and stick me with them.”
“No,” I whisper, too scared to move, to approach, in case he stops talking. Stops letting me in. “I never wanted that. I only meant to keep you. To—”
“Keep me?” he repeats. “That was how you intended to keep me? By taking the softest parts of me and exposing them? The parts that I only showed you so that you’d know… you’d know…”
Atticus sounds utterly destroyed. As if he’s balancing on the ledge of something horrific, and behind him is the memory of that night, coaxing him off the edge.
“I’d know what?” I press, pleading and terrified. “I’d know what, Atticus? Please, I—”
Once more, I’m cut off. Atticus is in front of me, chest to chest, in seconds. He’s panting, each exhale feeding me his misery, the betrayal, the pain.
“No. You don’t get to demand anything from me. You don’t get to beg. I trusted you, Cameron. I was willing to give you all of me, to guide you and protect you. But that was before. Before I knew who you truly are.”
“And who am I truly?” I choke out, my eyes filling hot and fast. “Who do you see me as now that you hate me?”
Something in my words startles him, and Atticus tilts his head, studying me as he stares down into my eyes.
“Hate you?” he quotes. “I don’t… I don’t hate you.”
“Then please,” I plead, “tell me what to say, what to do. I never meant to hurt you. I care about you, Atticus.”
I was given an inch and took a mile. His momentary lapse in anger spurred me on, and now I’ve pushed too far.
“Enough sweet talk,” he hisses. “I’m done with this. Were the years of silence not a good enough indication? Was blocking your number, your pathetic attempts at an apology, not clear enough?”
Hot tears bleed down my cheeks, making me feel more worthless by the second. Atticus is staring at me as if I mean nothing, like he does hate me.
After a few long seconds of silence, because he apparently does want an answer, I mutter, “I miss you.”
And Atticus snaps. He completely and totally snaps.
Warm lips press against mine in a painful kiss, teeth biting and hands gripping my sides in a bruising hold. I melt immediately, my lips parting with a desperate moan that Atticus gobbles up like a starving man.
My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer in my desperate attempt to hold onto him. To soak in what I’m given.
If Cassie were still here, if I hadn’t interrupted, would she be in my place in this moment? The thought makes me frantic, angry, and needy.
I rub myself against him like a whore, my body trembling as he dominates the kiss and controls my lips as easily as he’s always controlled every other inch of me.
“So fucking sweet,” Atticus grits out as if the admission hurts him.
But I don’t respond. In fear that he’ll hear my voice and come to his senses, I say nothing at all.
That doesn’t stop his mouth, though.
“I loathe that I dream of this,” he tells me. “I despise that I want you just as desperately as I did before, even as you’ve hurt me.”
I want to apologize. I want to get on my knees and make it up to him. Instead, I suck his tongue into my mouth and massage it with mine, tasting him as thoroughly as I can.
Hints of mint, cinnamon, and something completely Atticus overtakes me. It makes my blood sing and my heart seize.
“Have you been faring just fine without me?” he mumbles against my lips. “Who’s been making your decisions for you? Who’s been touching you until you come, Cameron?”
But he doesn’t give me time to speak; Atticus doesn’t truly want the answer. His lips attack mine once more, his hands raising to fist my hair and maneuver my body against his.
This kiss—it feels borderline violent, as if he wishes to hurt me just as badly as I’ve hurt him, but with physical touch alone.
I groan softly into his mouth, addicted to the way he manhandles me, demands the right to call the shots, and makes my body shiver with pleasure.
My mind quiets; all of the previous stress of life and the anxiety I have come to face whilst being separated from him fade away.
I never want to leave this moment; I want to drown in Atticus forever. But that’s wishful thinking, and as we hear the sound of two voices drawing near, Atticus pulls away from me.
He’s glaring, but the sheen of heat in his eyes as he takes in my face tells me he’s missed this connection as much as I have. The only difference is that, between the two of us, I’m the only one willing to do anything to get it back.
I’m the only one who thinks we’re worth it.
“I’m not so repulsive now, am I?” Atticus spits out, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand as if he’s trying to erase my taste. And as I don’t respond, too hung up on the fact that this is the last time I’ll ever touch him, he mutters, “Pathetic.”
And then he brushes past me and leaves the kitchen, out of reach.
Just in time for two other men to walk in, their eyes wide as they spot me. I have no clue who the taller of the two is, but I recognize Landon, Julian’s friend.
How embarrassing.
I cough awkwardly, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Sorry. I’ll just go.”
Landon, with his bright green eyes and short brown hair, narrows his gaze. “You alright, man?”
“Yeah,” I insist, forcing a smile. “Peachy. Excuse me.”
I push past them, the way Atticus did to me moments ago, and spot the back door, immediately going through it.
Needing a moment alone, I approach the cliffside and watch the waves crash. Even out here, I can’t seem to escape the overwhelming presence of Atticus. He’s everywhere: under my skin and in the air that surrounds me.
If tonight has taught me one thing, it’s that I need to lose hope. It doesn’t matter what he does for my psyche; Atticus is done with me. He thinks I’m pathetic.
He still believes we were a waste of time, and even if he didn’t, I would never be able to fit in here—with all the polished doorknobs and shiny shoes.
I’m not worth enough.
As these thoughts tear through me, the way the waves below assault the jagged rocks, I can feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
Slowly, I turn, and in the window of a room on the second story, I see it.
The shadow of a man, watching me, assessing me. I can’t make out any features of the man, but it scares me all the same. Scares and intrigues.
And then the shadow retreats, and I head back inside, back to playing pretend and forcing a smile.
I’m thankful Hailey was our designated driver because I may have drunk a bit too much trying to play the part of the unbothered, happy-go-lucky friend.
She drops me off a little after midnight, and thankfully, Mom’s already asleep. I shower and head to bed, ready to put this entire day behind me.
Or, more specifically, the feeling of Atticus’s hands on me and his tongue massaging the inside of my mouth. Fuck, I’m horny.
As I lie in bed, the sheets scratch against my calves. They’re the Walmart brand, so I shouldn’t be shocked, but the heat must be making it worse.
I shift uncomfortably, sighing in annoyance. It shouldn’t be this hot, considering it’s just barely springtime in Port Orford, but the air in my bedroom feels stifling. As if I took all the humidity of summer by the port and shoved it into this small, confined space.
Ridiculous. I literally cannot catch a single break.
The sound of Mom’s loud snoring mixes with the sound of the crashing waves outside, and I try to use it to lull myself to sleep, but I just can’t seem to find a good rhythm.
It’s just too damn hot.
My heart is racing in my chest, pounding against my sternum as I lie on my stomach. I’m used to having unexplainable anxiety; with a mother like mine, being anxious is a birthright. But tonight it’s worse.
In fact, everything is somehow worse tonight. The creaking of the floorboards, the shadows that fall across my bedroom—all of it feels different. Feels… wrong.
And combined with the refresher I got covering physical contact with one certain man, I think I’m going crazy.
Maybe I’m being sensitive. Maybe my desire to finally escape Port Orford, to get the nerve to weasel my way from under Mom’s thumb and do better than this shit little house and this shit little town is making me antsy and over-aware of everything around me.