Page 21 of Atticus
“The burgers,” Atticus says. “You said they smell delicious. They’re terrible. You were disgusted before.”
“That’s what’s called a white lie, Atticus,” I reply as we get out of the car. I quickly discard the plate of food in the communal trash can outside the door. “He was harassing you, and I wanted to distract him. It worked.”
“Yes, but...” Atticus wrinkles his nose. He’s gotten pretty good with using non-verbal communication himself. “Now he thinks you like his cooking.”
I snort. “A small price to pay. I much prefer yours, and he’ll never step foot into my home, let alone go anywhere near my kitchen, I promise you.”
His pupils shutter as he scans me. “You aren’t lying.”
“I’m definitely not,” I agree. “You can tell somehow? Vital signs?”
Atticus nods. “Yours spiked when Sullivan came to speak with us. A stress response.”
“I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him. Not after that whole brick-through-the-window thing.”
“You think he was responsible?”
“Maybe. I can’t be sure. I don’t have any evidence to prove it, I just know that he’d love to see you hurt. Be careful around him. Okay? Promise me.”
Atticus’s white irises shine as we head through the shadowy hallway. “I promise.”
After I enter the key code, he swings the door open for me while I carry my remaining two dishes of banana pudding inside, happy to have rescued them from certain waste.
“I’ve been researching stress relief.”
“Have you?” I ask.
“In preparation for assisting Mr. Bryant with his biology class. One of the modules in his coursework covers mental health and the importance of self care. I’ve discovered what appears to be an excellent form of stress relief.” Atticus asks as I place the pudding into the fridge. “I wondered if you might allow me to play with your hair.”
“What?” I surge up too fast and hit my head on the freezer handle above me and wince. “Ow.”
He comes to my side swiftly, checking my head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I reassure him, my cheeks too hot. “Just clumsy. Get back to the part where you want to play with my hair.”
“The scalp is a very sensitive region,” Atticus replies. “I have reason to believe I can lower your stress by almost seventy-five percent in as little as fifteen minutes by touching your braids and your head.”
“Oh, I don’t need scientific studies to tell you how true that is.” I remove my jacket, and he takes it from me. “All right. Let’s turn on the TV and do some stress-relieving stuff. I am totally down.”
Atticus beams, happy with my agreement as he hangs up my jacket for me in the entryway closet. I let my bun down, my braids falling over my shoulders, and sit cross-legged in front of the couch. The last person to touch my hair was my mother, and before that? Sleepovers when I was a teenager.
“How did you know I like my hair played with?” I call as he joins me, sitting carefully on the couch, knees on either side of me. He can’t plop carelessly down like most people would, not with a steel mainframe like his.
“I didn’t,” he replies. “I read an article where a poll surveyed adult women, and a large majority of them liked physical touch of this kind as a form of lowering stress-producing chemicals in their brains.”
“That’s a lot of words to say it’s better than sex,” I murmur as Atticus’s strong, broad hands gently run through my braids, sending delightful tingles from my head and neck down my back.
Atticus peers down at me. “Is it better than sex?”
“It’s just another expression.” That’s what I say, anyway, even while my brain practically shouts at me with a less-than-innocent retort of,I don’t know, let’s say we find out together?
It doesn’t matter how hot Atticus is. He’s my teaching assistant. I can’t be thinking about him that way. It’s not fair; it’s not professional. But Iama professional. I remind myself of that multiple times until it’s recited through my brain like a mantra. I change the subject quickly, for my sake more than his.
“I’ve got some news, I’m going to be taking over the school’s social media accounts.”
“Really?” Atticus continues his gentle stroking of my hair. How can someone so strong be so tender at the same time?
I shut my eyes and try to stay focused. Easier said than done. “Yeah, I’m thinking I’ll log into them on my personal phone, and then I’ll sync you to them and together, we can liven up the media feeds,” I say. “If that’s okay with you.”
