Page 62 of Atticus
“You didn’t,” Atticus soothes.
The secret’s out. Or at least, it seems like it is. I’ve been putting off talking about it ever since he first asked me, and it doesn’t seem fair to keep quiet, so I steel myself and finally admit it.
“That was my ex and my ex-best friend.” My lip quivers. “She was going to be the maid of honor at our wedding. We’ve known each other since we were six years old.”
Atticus remains quiet, his arms loosely around my waist as he gazes at me. I barrel on. I’ve made a fool of myself already. Might as well keep going.
“That’s why I’m not on social media anymore. I was posting, cataloging, tracking everything, sharing my wedding planning with everyone I knew. I was so happy. But it was a lie the entire time. They were hooking up behind my back, and meanwhile, I was putting all these deposits down, and he was just letting me waste all of this money when he didn’t even love me anymore. Took me finding them in bed together for him to come clean.”
Atticus gently rubs my back as I continue, forcing myself to calm, willing the tears to dry as best I can. I’ve spilled enough tears over Jason. No more.
I let anger drive my words. “When it came out that we broke up and Amber found out why, she dragged him in an exposé. It was this huge scandal, like this freight train accident nobody could look away from. I was a spectacle. I couldn’t leave my house without reporters swarming me. Some even showed up on my parents’ doorstep. And when it became clear he was going to lose some serious votes, he countered it with this tell-all interview that painted me as this gold-digger, like the only reason we were together was so that I could be famous. He even shared personal text messages of our arguments that were taken out of context to make me look insane.”
My mascara is a mess. For fuck’s sake. What is even the point of mascara? I hate crying. I’m never like those girls in the movies, elegant and beautiful. When I cry, I ugly cry, and it’s gross.
“Of course, after that, I started getting harassed and mass reported by his supporters, leaving comments, telling me to just end it all, saying I deserve to be cheated on because of how crazy I supposedly am. I lost sponsorships. So, I deactivated all of my accounts and swore I’d never do anything like that again. And it pisses me off that they’re married, and happy, andpregnant.She got everything I wanted and left me withnothing.And that shouldn’t make me angry. If anything, I should feel sorry for her, because when he eventually steps out again, he won’t just be hurting her, he’ll be destroying his family.”
I pull tissues out of my purse, which Atticus intercepts. He removes my glasses, tucks them into his shirt pocket, and cups my face. He gently brushes my tears away with his thumbs as I tilt my head up to gaze into his soft white eyes.
“You know that wasn’t your fault.” He traces his hand from my cheek to my jaw and neck. “It was their deception, not yours.”
“I know.” I lean into his touch again. “I know you’re right, and I’m over it, I am. They just caught me off guard.”
“Is that why you left New Carnegie?”
“Partially,” I assent. “Not the only reason. There were economic ones too, but it certainly made the decision easier.” Just to have it all out in one go was painful, but it is out now. And I don’t have to dread speaking of it again. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“Why are you apologizing to me?” Atticus asks.
“Because I got all blubbery, I guess.”
“Tears are a form of release. They’re nothing to apologize for,” Atticus replies. “I know now. That is all I wanted. To understand. To learn. I want toknowyou, Lucy, and I’m grateful you told me. I’m only sorry it wasn’t on your own terms.”
The rain clouds lift from over my head as the last of my tears dry. I take out tissues and clean up my face as best I can without a mirror, lighter on my feet somehow. “Yeah. Now you know. It hurts, but I dodged a bullet. And my life is better for it. I met you, and everything’s going to be okay.” Then I correct myself. “Everythingisokay.”
“It is. And for meeting you, I ought to thank him for being a fool.” He takes my hand. “Come on. This won’t ruin our day.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, letting him guide me along.
“You’ll see.”
* * *
There’s one view in New Carnegie that its towering skyscrapers and brilliant lights cannot compete with, and that is sunset on the Vanderbilt River. I’ve mentioned it before to Atticus when he was first growing accustomed to living with me, learning that I was born and raised here. It’s one of the things I miss most about the city.
And unlike any man I’ve ever dated, Atticus doesn’t seem capable of forgetting the little things. He brings me to the Vanderbilt Ferry, something that’s been running since the city first sprouted up back in the early 1800s. It’s a free service and one that runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so we don’t have to worry about getting stranded anywhere.
Leaning against the railing, I gaze out at the river and admire the display of crimson, orange, and pink in the sky as the sun paints its last masterpiece of the day before slipping away to greet the other side of the world.
Atticus comes behind me, much like he did at the library, resting his hands on either side of the rails. I marvel at him and his intelligence. He isn’t just book smart, the walking dictionary anyone would expect an android to be. His emotional intelligence is something else. Unmatched. All the pain that gripped me in the library has faded, and it’s because of him. He didn’t let me linger or wallow like I might’ve done if I’d been alone. Instead, he brought me out of that wounded stupor and back into the present.
I lean back against him again, and he takes it as an invitation, his arms encircling me. I tilt my head to gaze up at him.
“I have a confession to make,” he says quietly, gently rocking me back and forth.
I don’t know how he knows how to do this, if he’s just doing it because it’s him, or because he saw it in a movie somewhere. But it really doesn’t matter, does it? Whether he learned it somewhere or thought of it himself. Organic men learn these things in similar ways. I’ve let go of all of the doubts I’ve been holding on to. Either Atticus is a person, or he isn’t, and I can’t bring myself to even consider the former. It’s simply not possible for him to be anyone other than who he is.
Atticus.
