Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
ATLAS
“ Y ou leave any coffee for me?” I ask Ellis the following morning as I drag my tired ass into the kitchen.
“I can make more,” he says, far too chipper for the early hour; the sun’s not even out but he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Meanwhile, it’s my damn off day, and I’m still up with the birds.
I let his happy-go-lucky-morning-person shit slide since he’s already dumping the grounds into the trash and starting a fresh pot.
“You go somewhere else after you left last night?” he asks, smirking, “You look like shit.”
A sound—something between a low laugh and a growl—slips out of me before I can stop it.
I fucking wish I could blame my haggard appearance on a hangover.
“Stayed up for a while reading, but my dreams were crazy and I kept waking up.”
His lips quirk up into a wry grin.
“Let me guess, the diary?” He presses the button on the coffee maker, and it gurgles to life.
I slump down onto a barstool and rest my head against the cool granite of the island.
“Yeah, man. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop reading it.”
“Huh.” He grabs a mug and pours it full, knowing I like it black.
“Find anything useful?”
“No,” I mumble, tracking his movements as he slides the mug my way.
“Not really.”
“Then why keep reading?” He rounds the island and sits down on the stool next to me.
“I—don’t even know how to explain it. I just have to know, you know? Like I’m compelled to finish it.”
“Is it even remotely interesting?” He scratches his chin thoughtfully.
“I can’t imagine reading the innermost thoughts of a teenage girl would be, but?—”
“Liar.” I cut him off, and we both start to grin.
We’re two sides of the same coin, and he already knows exactly what I’m going to say.
“Your ass loves all of those bullshit high-drama teen shows. What did you just finish rewatching… Gossip Girl ?”
“Listen, asshole,” he starts, his lips quivering as he tries not to laugh.
“There’s just something about the Upper East Side that does it for me.”
“More like the brunette chick does it for you.”
“Blair?” he groans.
“Fuck yeah, she does. There’s just something about that bitchy attitude of hers… mmm. ”
The fact that said attitude is reminiscent of Scarlet doesn’t escape my notice, but I don’t comment on it.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”
His lips thin as he pins me with a serious look.
“I’m guessing you still haven’t heard from your dad?”
“Not a word.” I get wanting to be left alone; hell, other than Ellis—and occasionally Scarlet—I could probably go days without talking to another human being.
There’s a reason I work as a park ranger, after all.
However, if someone needed to talk to me, they could damn sure get a hold of me.
In this day and age, it’s not like you need a carrier pigeon.
A text message would suffice.
“Try calling him.”
I slide off my stool and pad back into my room to grab my phone.
Once I rejoin Ellis in the kitchen, I swipe my thumb across the screen to send the call.
“Put it on speaker.”
Nodding, I tap the button and place my phone down on the island.
As expected, it rings a few times before going to voicemail.
“Try again.” The worry reflected at me in his eyes mirrors my own.
Something sure as shit isn’t right, and I can’t seem to stop my brain from zeroing in on one hypothetical disaster after another.
Even though I know he won’t pick up, I send the call again, my heart lodged in my throat as I wait for it to connect.
This is insane—I don’t even get along with my old man all that well.
I just know in my gut that something’s wrong, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake the feeling.
This time, the voicemail picks up after only two rings.
“He declined your call,” Ellis muses, a troubled look clouding his features as he drums his fingers on the countertop.
“So, he has his phone on him.”
“I don’t know, man.” I scrub my hands over my face.
“Something’s going on. I just don’t know what.”
His eyes light.
“Have you tried calling Nora?”
It’s not a bad idea, except…
“I don’t have her number.” I slump back.
“Shit.” He begins pacing back and forth in front of the sink.
“Your dad’s always been… out there …but he’s never gone fully off the grid before, right?”
“Nah. Things were dicey for a while after Mom died, what with his drinking. But once your old man got him into AA, he was okay-ish.”
“Maybe he’s taking Grace’s death hard?”
“Could be,” I agree, even though I actually don’t.
Call it a gut feeling or instinct, I don’t know, but something tells me it’s more than him mourning the loss of his second wife.
Maybe it’s my imagination running wild, but I have a bad feeling about all of this, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake it.
Ellis turns and stalks into what should be our dining room but is mostly a store-all space, heading for his safe in the corner.
He punches in the code, swings open the heavy door, and grabs his duty belt, securing it around his waist.
“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll stop by and check on him once I sign on.”
“Appreciate it, man,” I tell him, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
We’ve been friends since we were in diapers, waded through thick and thin together, and I’d easily give my left nut to help him if he was ever in a pinch—the fact that I know he’d do the same is just icing on the cake.
He claps my back as he passes me on his way to the door.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
I tip my chin in acknowledgment, already worrying over what he may or may not find.
Every part of me wants to continue scouring Nora’s diary for some sort of clue.
It feels like everything—my mom’s death, Grace’s death, Dad’s radio silence, Nora’s diary—is stacking up like a precariously balanced house of cards.
All it would take is one strong blow to send it all crashing down.
I just hope I’m able to pick up all of the pieces once they scatter.
Resigned, I force myself up off my stool for another cup of coffee, hoping maybe some more caffeine will kick my brain online.
DIARY ENTRY, AGE 14
Dear Diary,
Mom’s seeing someone.
She thinks she’s sneaky and that I’m clueless, but it’s like Dad used to say, I wasn’t born yesterday.
She’s been happy and smiling and most telling of all—busy.
She went from only going to work and the grocery store to having plans.
Friday night drinks, Saturday lunches, and Sunday brunches.
We used to spend our weekends together, as a family, and now I spend them alone.
Which is fine, I guess.
It’s not like I’m great company.
Maybe Mom doesn’t like sad girls, either.
As much as I want to be mad at her, I’m not.
It’s nice to see her smile again.
I just wish she’d be honest with me.
I’m not a little kid, but she and Ms. Maggie think I’m “emotionally fragile,” which is the freaking dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
Am I supposed to be all happy and laughy and smiley less than a year after my dad died?
It’s funny how it went from “grief isn’t logical” to me being “emotionally fragile.”
But whatever.
I guess she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
Irritated, Nora
Dear Diary,
Mama’s gone again.
For the weekend this time.
She asked if I could stay with a friend so she could go for a girls’ weekend.
I told her yes even though we both know I don’t have any friends.
I guess she doesn’t remember…
or is choosing not to.
Luckily, I have a key to the house and the fridge is stocked, so I guess I have the place to myself all weekend.
If my life was a movie or a TV show, I’d throw a big party and everyone would come.
It would be some big turning point, and I’d either end up in the cool crowd or a whole heap of trouble.
But it’s not, so I don’t.
Plus, I don’t even have social media to invite anyone anyway.
Looks like I’ll spend the next two days reading the books I picked up after school when I was supposed to be heading to my imaginary sleepover.
It’s getting harder not to be angry, though.
How is it everyone’s moving on but me?
Why am I the only one still sad?
Is this how I’ll be forever?
Angry and sad, with eyes that stay red from crying?
I want more for myself.
I want friends and to be happy and to have a life of my own one day.
But I just… I don’t know how to get there.
I don’t know how to move on, and Ms. Maggie doesn’t seem to know how to help me either.
Maybe I’m just broken.
Maybe the part of me that knows how to smile died and was buried right alongside my dad.
I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
Lost, Nora
Dear Diary,
It only took two months, but Mom finally came clean and admitted she’s been seeing someone.
She also told me he’s invited us over for dinner tonight.
Way to give a girl some warning.
I guess she thought the element of surprise was the way to go.
It’s like she doesn’t know me at all anymore.
I’m like Dad—a planner.
Always have been. And Mama knows this.
She used to joke around and say our need to know and prepare kept her grounded, that without us she’d just float away.
I’ve gotta think a whole lot before I’m ready to do, and her springing this on me with less than an hour before show time is the worst thing she could’ve done.
Well, that’s a lie. The worst would be her bringing him here with no warning.
But this is a close second, and it makes me feel like she doesn’t even care.
If Ms. Maggie were here, she’d tell me to make the best of it.
Good thing she’s not because I’d tell Ms. Maggie to shove it.
I guess I’ll be back later with all of the gory details.
Wish me luck.
Well, diary, I was right.
Tonight was a total disaster.
Well, not all of it.
But most of it. Mostly because of me.
Mom and I argued the whole way there, which made me cry, because we haven’t really fought about anything since before Dad died.
Mainly because I’ve gotten so good at biting my tongue.
But tonight, when she asked me if I was excited to meet Rand and his son, I just couldn’t.
I totally snapped and told her I wasn’t excited and that she should be ashamed of herself for sneaking around the way she did.
I told her it was obvious she didn’t care how I felt about it all one way or the other, otherwise she wouldn’t have hidden it from me.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she had to grip the steering wheel really hard to keep us from sliding all over the wet road.
She said I wasn’t being fair.
I told her she wasn’t either.
I feel bad for making her cry, but come on!
Who does that to their kid?
Whatever. I wish I could say that was the worst part, but sadly, it wasn’t.
We bickered all the way up until we got to his house—although it’s more of a cabin, really.
And way out in the woods.
Like so far away that no one would hear you scream.
Rand, as Mama calls him, was waiting outside for us.
I thought he looked mad, but when he came and opened Mama’s door, he was all lovey-dovey and sweet.
To her. He completely ignored me.
Not that Mama noticed.
She was too busy soaking up his affection to even think about me.
Rand’s a big guy. Tall, with dark features and a little gray in his hair.
His face looks mean anytime he’s not looking at Mama.
Whenever he focuses on her, his hard eyes go all soft and gooey.
I guess as long as he’s nice to her, it doesn’t much matter what he thinks of me.
He doesn’t have to like me, because I don’t see myself ever liking him either.
The biggest surprise of the night was that Rand has a son.
He’s grown, though, and kind of looks like a superhero.
He was nice enough, even if he did call me a pipsqueak.
I wasn’t very nice to him, though, and now I feel awful.
He made an effort to talk to me, and I ignored him.
I was acting like a total snot.
He even caught me when the weather scared me and I tripped.
I didn’t even say thanks.
I just ran inside and did my best to ignore everyone for the rest of the night.
Atlas—that’s his name, by the way—tried to include me in the dinner conversation, but I didn’t want to talk.
Even worse, I cried over dessert.
Rand served banana pudding, which was Dad’s favorite.
We used to make it together at least once a month.
We tested hundreds of recipes before we found the perfect one.
It felt wrong to eat it at Rand’s table.
Mom sent me to the bathroom to “dry it up” and called me a brat on the way home, which really hurt.
But I guess I deserved it.
If Dad would have been there, he would have said he taught me better than to be so rude.
Guess I’m just a disappointment all around.
Any dreams of having a cool, older friend are out the window, too.
I’m sure Atlas thinks I’m a little crybaby.
I definitely came off like one.
I guess the real question is which is worse—being a crybaby or being sad and socially inept? Humiliated, Nora