by E. S. Maria
“Hannah, I—”
“It’s okay,” I chuckle softly. “We kind of kissed and made up, right?”
I wanted to be funny, and try to laugh that off as a joke, but he’s not laughing with me. Instead, he regards me so intently that my laughter simmers down. Then he raises his hand and grazes my cheek with his fingertips.
Man, why does my body react to him like this?
My breathing turns shallow, and I can’t take my eyes away from his. I see the inner torment in them, like he’s trying to figure out what is the right thing to do next.
But I heard him loud and clear at the beach.
He wanted me, but he coudn’t have me.
His music is his priority.
“Our breakfast is getting cold,” I turn away from him, removing myself from his touch.
He just stands next to me, and it takes him a moment before he walks to the other side of the table so he can focus on his breakfast.
As we’re eating, I try not to notice how he looks up from his plate to watch me. When I try to catch him, he goes back to eating like nothing happens. It’s weird how my body responds to him: my hands don’t feel steady, and my fork keeps dropping because of it, my skin feels hot and cold at the same time. I feel almost feverish, but instead of feeling sick, I actually feel invigorated.
What is he doing to me?
Is he feeling this way too?
Is it natural for me to feel like wanting to touch him no matter how I know that it can turn out to be my undoing?
He’s confusing me.
I’m confusing myself.
I get up and turn away from him, needing a break from all the weird thoughts his presence is doing to me. I grab a large bottle of OJ from the fridge, pouring myself a glass. When I place the glass on the table, I realise that I haven’t offered him one.
“Oh, sorry. Would you like some water or juice? I can get you your own …”
Then he surprises me when he reaches for my glass and drinks from it, shrugging, “It’s cool. We can share.” He offers me a crooked smile, and I look at him and at the glass he drank from, suddenly feeling thirsty.
So I sit back down, and I take the glass and drink, knowing that my lips are on the exact place his lips were just on.
What’s gotten into me?
Will I do whatever it takes to feel his lips on me again that I’ll succumb to this?
But when I look up, Atticus is staring at me, his eyes watching me again, and he’s not even trying to hide it this time.
“What is it?” I ask in a shaky breath.
He doesn’t answer me straight away, but his gaze is steady.
“I was just thinking,” he finally answers.
“About?”
He bites on his lower lip, brows creasing as he regards me thoughtfully, eyes fleeting from my eyes to my lips, “I’m just thinking about how much I want to be that glass of OJ right now.”
My breath hitches. “Don’t say things like that,” I answer back.
He shakes his head, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not that. It’s just … just don’t say things like that if you can’t back it up.”
“You know I can’t, Hannah,” Atticus exclaims, and I can’t help but notice the pained expression on his face. He pushes his chair back and stands up, opening the back door leading out to the garden.
I push my own chair back and follow him out. He’s seated on the top step of our deck, eyes looking straight at the shed on the other end of our garden.
I don’t know why, but I step back inside the kitchen, reaching for the row of hooks next to the door. I grab the keys to the shed, and I walk back out, and take the handful of steps down. I stop as soon as my feet are on the grass, turning to Atticus and offering him my hand. His gaze moves from my outstretched arm to my face, and he’s probably unsure of what’s going on.
“Come on,” I tell him encouragingly, taking the initiative and grabbing his hand instead. He stands up, and he lets me lead him towards the converted studio. I unlock the door, and he waits for me to step inside before him.
“Why did you take me here? We’re not practising today,” Atticus points out, his hands to his sides, looking a little vulnerable and all kinds of cute at the same time.
“I don’t know,” I answer, “but you just looked like you needed some distraction.”
“But I didn’t bring my guitar.”
I chew on my lip as I look around the room, where Brodie’s and the rest of the band’s instruments are resting idly on their stands. The boys just leave their instruments in here, but Atticus would often bring his guitar home.
“You have a lot of instruments to choose from in here.”
His eyes light up, and he walks over to one of the spare acoustic guitars and lifts it off its stand. He places the strap over his head, cradling the guitar across his chest, knowing fingers wrapping around the fret, while the other set is poised over the strings.
I never thought I’d be jealous of an inanimate object. But I’m feeling exactly that as I watch Atticus sit on one of the high stools, tuning the guitar with his eyes closed. I’m sitting on the couch, legs crossed, hugging a pillow while I watch him.
“Do you have any requests?” he asks, face lit up with his dimple showing.
“Oh, are you singing for me? Well, I don’t know. You decide,” I answer, smiling back, hoping I’m not ogling too much like those groupies he hangs out with.
He looks away, thinking, then he gets up from his high stool and decides to sit mere inches away from me on the couch. He’s too close, and if I was self-conscious before, I’m more so now … and he’s the one holding the guitar and about to sing me a song.
Or so I thought.
“How do you feel about singing with me?”
“Huh?” I push myself further away from him, my back against the armrest of the couch.
“Last night, I know you thought that I was making fun of you when I heard you singing at the party,” Atticus rakes his moussed-up hair back. “I wasn’t, Hannah. I was being honest with you. But you did surprise me because you never sang with us when we practise.”
I shrug shyly, “I’m not confident like you guys. And do you think I’ll sing in front of you? What did you say before? Oh yeah, we’re not friends.”
He looks down at the guitar, but I still notice him wincing.
“So … just to be clear, are we really friends now?” I ask, tilting my head to gauge his reaction.
A glimpse of his dimple making an appearance tells me he’s smiling. Finally, he raises his head and nods once, “I’d be honoured to be your friend, Hannah Mackenzie.”
“Great,” I beam, “so can I call you Tic like Brodie and the other boys do?”
“Sure. But I’m partial to you calling me Atticus.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds nice when you say it.”
There goes my skin tingling again.
Stop it, skin.
I try to make it look like what he said isn’t affecting me. “Right, so friends talk about a lot of things and are honest with each other. Will you try to be honest with me at all times?”
“It depends. We’re friends but we’re not close friends yet,” he teases.
“Dick!” I laugh as I fling the pillow at him, and it hits him right on the face, wiping the smug smile off him. I’m laughing aloud now, tilting my head back with abandon.
Me: One, Atticus: Zilch … Nada … Zer-
Bam! The same pillow hits me on the face as well.
“Ow!” I yell out, covering my nose with my hand for protection.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry!” Atticus gently removes my hand and checks me for any injuries.
Luckily there’s none. I can’t say the same about my pride though.
“See? I just don’t fucking know how to be around you.” He’s cupping my chin, rubbing my cheek with his thumb, his eyes intense, frustrated and even guilty.
My heart clen
ches for him, so I reach up for his wrist, holding onto it, and I answer softly, “Yeah, I think I agree. But you can just be yourself … you know, the nice, less asshole one, and we’ll be fine.”
That damn dimple is back as he cracks a smile at me.
I wish he would stop smiling at me like this. It makes me want to be selfish of that smile, overprotective even.
His smile makes me want to have it all to myself so no other girls can catch even a glimpse of it.
But he’s made it clear that he and his heart-stopping smile will be out of my life as soon as he can figure out how to leave this town for good.
Maybe I should say something to wipe that smile off his face so I don’t have to see it.
“I’m okay, you can sit down now. I, um, actually wanted to ask you something about last night.”
“Yeah? Okay, what is it?” he asks, eyes meeting mine once again as he sits back down.
Good … there’s distance between us again.
“Why were you outside the bathroom listening to me last night?”
Yup, that did it. Smile’s gone.
“I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. I didn’t intend to stay when I saw you go inside the bathroom, but I don’t know, for some reason I did. Then I heard your voice singing on the other side, and, well ... shit, Hannah. Your voice is incredible.”
“What? No, it isn’t.” Blood seems to rush up to my cheeks, and I’m sure it’s glowing bright red.
He regards me thoughtfully, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he seems to play with the strings of the guitar, then, he goes into a tune that sounds familiar.
Then he sings the first line … about how he doesn’t know me, but he wants me. He nods to me encouragingly, inviting me to join him with a smile that shows off that dimple. That was it for me, and without thinking, I open my mouth and start singing.
I start singing the familiar words with him, my heart beating fast and loud, that I’m sure he can hear every single thud.
We sound awkward at first, until we start singing in sync, and by the time we’re singing the chorus, it’s like we’ve been singing together for years.
“Falling Slowly”
God, I think I’m falling faster than that.
By the time he strums the last notes, our eyes are glued to each other. He places the guitar down on the floor, but he doesn’t break contact. He moves closer, inch by inch, and I refuse to move, my whole body cemented on my side of the couch.
When I feel his warm hand on my glowing cheek, his face coming closer as he dips his head down towards me, I know that I need to just feel him, just as I need him to feel me.
So with one last shaky exhale, I close my eyes, and I feel.
The way he touches me … warm … gentle … comforting.
The way he whispers my name … soft … low … endearing.
And finally, the way his lips feel on mine … sweet … tender … amazing.
So. Amazing.
A whimper escapes me as I succumb to him. When his tongue pushes past my lips, he moans as it meets my own. His other hand moves to my back, spanning his fingers across it as he urges me to come closer. My arms circle around his shoulders, and I pull him closer as well, until our chests are pressed together, and our legs tangled.
Are all kisses like this? Do they always feel this good? Am I supposed to feel this rush every single time a guy kisses me?
Or is it because I’m kissing Atticus?
“Atticus?” I whisper against his lips, “what are we doing here?”
He pauses, pulling away slightly, intense green eyes looking straight at me, “I don’t know. But all I know is that I don’t want to be your friend at all.”
Oh … wow.
That hurts … so much.
“Okay,” I answer back, blinking back my tears, “and I don’t want to be your friend at all either.”
“Good, because what I’m feeling for you right now goes beyond friendship, and it’s fucking scaring the shit out of me.”
Just when I thought he blows me off, he says something like that and blows me away instead.
“I’m―I’m scared about this too, Atticus. I know you’re going to leave town, and I don’t want to be the one to get in your way.”
Atticus reaches for my hand, holding it upright with his fingertips pressing against my fingertips. Then he laces our fingers together, bending closer to kiss each bone on my knuckle, melting my resolve even more with every kiss.
“This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t kissed you last night. Hannah, I can’t promise you forever with me. All I can offer you is right now, and I’m not sure if that’s enough.”
I try to swallow the pain from Atticus laying his cards all out on the table. He told me what he’s capable of giving me. The question is if I’m willing to accept it.
“I’m fifteen years old, Atticus. I’m not expecting forever. Yes, maybe you shouldn’t have kissed me, but you did, and it changed everything.” I touch his cheek, my thumb brushing the groove where his dimple would appear. “So I accept the right now that you’re offering me, and I accept it willingly. In fact, I want us to take things slow. Maybe this whole thing is moving too fast, and we need a little time to just get to know each other first.”
“Are you sure about this? The last thing I want to do is to hurt you,” Atticus says softly.
“You won’t hurt me, Atticus because I won’t let it happen. I know what I want and that is you.”
“I need you to be sure about this, Hannah because once we—”
I fist his shirt so I can pull him closer, “Shhh! No more talking, Atticus. Just shut your mouth and kiss me already.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Present Day
It’s been a week since that day Atticus ambushed me from that group session.
A week since he literally carried me for refusing to go with him.
A week since he drove me home in his dream car.
A week since he drove me mad with anger.
A week since he kissed me.
A whole damn week since Atticus brought to life something I thought had died since the accident.
Myself.
And since that week, Atticus has been completely under the radar. Brodie told me that he has locked himself in the house he’s staying in, busily writing songs or whatever and didn’t want to be disturbed.
Not that it matters. Maybe it’s better that he hasn’t shown up at all, because whatever spark Atticus ignited inside of me, has now become overshadowed by one thing: guilt.
Guilt has been my constant companion since the accident. Followed closely by remorse. Both of them have been my two closest friends … or enemies. I don’t even know anymore.
Pretty much after Atticus kissed me, thoughts of Paul, the love he had for me, and the pain I caused him in the end have begun to torment me once again. It’s like my subconscious is punishing me for allowing Atticus to affect me the way he used to.
Playing the guitar is helping me regain some form of internal peace. But I can only play so much before Paul is back in my thoughts. It always starts with our happier days, but then it morphs into the way I broke his heart, which tragically ends into the accident that cost him his life.
Right now has been particularly awful, like out-of-control-crying-practically-the-whole-day, awful.
And checking the date on my phone made everything clearer.
Paul and I would’ve celebrated our third year anniversary today.
Is this Paul’s way of sending me a message?
I have to visit him. I need to at least try and talk to him, and get things off my chest. It used to be so easy talking to Paul. He never mocked me, or made fun of what I had to say. We also nurtured each other’s dreams and have been each other’s rock.
I have never stopped loving Paul, and what disturbs me the most is the realisation that in his final breaths, he thought that I never loved him at all … that I lied to him that whole time.
But
I didn’t lie. My love for him was real, genuine. I may not have been capable of giving him my whole heart, but I was foolish enough to think that I’d heal completely in due course, so I gave him all the love I could muster.
If only I could literally turn back the clock, then I can reassure him that he was loved, and will always be loved by me.
Maybe it’s not too late for me to tell him. Maybe he’s still willing to listen. I just have to try.
I can’t punish myself like this for the rest of my life.
“Brodie?” I yell out as I leave my bedroom, walking stick in hand, having dressed up in whatever I can grab, unsure and uncaring if I looked like shit. At least it would match my mood.
“Brodie!” I yell out again.
“Hannah? Brodie stepped out about an hour ago,” Mum tells me as I near the kitchen.
“Oh,” I answer back, unable to hide my disappointment. “Do you know how long he’ll be out?”
“He told me he’s catching up with that friend of his who now owns Peak. You know, that nice, little bar just at the Esplanade? I think he’s helping out with open mic night gig?”
“Sounds cool,” I reply distractedly.
“Maybe I can be of assistance to you?” Mum asks expectantly.
I consider it for a few moments. If I ask Mum, I’ll also run the risk of getting bombarded with questions. But what I need to do now, cannot wait.
“Um, actually, yes. I was gonna ask Brodie if he can drive me to the cemetery so I can visit Paul …” I explain, feeling a little awkward and shifting from one foot to another.
“Oh … of course I can drive you. Wait here while I clean up and change my clothes.” I hear the tap open, so I decide to wait for her in the living room since it is closest to the front door.
Not long after, Mum announces, “Okay mija, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
The ride to the cemetery consists of Mum trying to sing along with whatever’s playing on the radio, which when sung with her accent never fails to make me smile. Her accent is not as pronounced as Abuelo’s and Abuela’s, but they usually become more obvious when she’s singing, or upset and telling us off.
Mum’s family migrated from Mexico when she was twelve years old because her parents decided that they wanted a better life for her and her two sisters. They were Sydney based, until she met my father while studying an education degree. Dad was studying law then and was in the library to do some research when he saw Mum studying with her friends as well. My dad was not a hard core romantic, but he knew right there and then that she was it for him. So he walked up to her, not giving a damn about the possibility that he might make a fool of himself. He tapped Mum on her shoulder and introduced himself as her future husband. My mum laughed him off at first, but saw something in him that piqued her interest.
