The True Story of Atticus and Hazel Page 13

  “Atticus, I have to talk to you,” I said as we meandered the dark streets back to my studio.

  “What, babe?” he asked.

  His face, lit by the light of his dash, looked tired and I knew it was the wrong moment to bring anything up.

  “Never mind,” I said, “let’s just get home and get some rest. I have to work tomorrow.”

  Atticus’s hand went to his forehead. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you have to work tomorrow. I’m so sorry we were out so late.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him.

  “No, it’s not. Tomorrow is going to suck for you.” He looked at me. “Is there no way you could call in?” he asked for the millionth time since we found out I was pregnant.

  I shook my head. “I really can’t. We’re behind on orders as it is with Christmas coming up.”

  He nodded. “Okay, then let’s just get you home. I’ll crash with you so we can wake up at the last possible minute.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  When we got back to my house, we toppled into bed, still dressed. We fell asleep quickly, my back at his chest. He pulled me close and kissed the back of my neck. I tried to calm my heart, but it wouldn’t settle, too busy worrying over the things Delilah threatened. I was definitely going to have to talk to Atticus.

  The Friday after Thanksgiving, I woke early, still unable to sleep, and showered, getting ready for my day. When I came out of the bathroom, Atticus was sprawled over my small full mattress, his long legs hanging off the edge, his beautiful hands clutched at the sheets. I leaned over him and kissed his cheek with every intention of getting to work on my own but when I lifted off the bed, his hand caught my arm and he pulled me into him.

  “Let me take you,” his deep morning voice requested.

  He stood up and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. I grabbed a protein bar and an apple from the kitchen and ate them fast.

  “Let’s go, sweet pea,” he said.

  We locked the door and as we went to his car, he held my hand. I brought our joined fingers up and studied them. My own were starting to swell.

  “Atticus,” I said nervously.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to tell you something and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, when you left the room last night, Delilah and I had a chat.”

  He kept walking. “I figured as much. Something felt weird.”

  “Yeah, well, she essentially admitted to being into you.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you sure it’s not just—?” he began before thinking twice and holding his tongue.

  “What?” I asked. “Just say it.”

  “Well, hormones or whatever. Are you sure it’s not just an insecurity or something?” he stupidly asked.

  I shook my head, desperate to keep my cool so it didn’t fuel his accusation, although I was seething inside. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” I threatened. “I assure you, Atticus Kelly, that it is not hormones, as you say.”

  We reached the car and he opened my door for me so I climbed in.

  “What did she say exactly?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

  “You know what?” I said, pissed. “Never mind.”

  “Hazel,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  I laughed at the window. “Peachy.”

  “Hazel,” he said, as we pulled up to my work.

  I jumped out before he had a chance to open it for me and walked briskly toward the courtyard.

  “Hazel!” he said, racing to catch up. “Hazel,” he said again, reaching me and grabbing my arm.

  I pulled it away. “Listen, I’m just going to say this once and it’s not hormones or insecurities or whatever you’re looking for it to be. She told me she was going to try and get you. I’m just relaying the message.”

  He shook his head. “This blows my mind because last night she told me you guys just talked about your paintings or whatever.”

  I looked at him, annoyed. “She’s lying.”

  “You didn’t talk about your work at all?” he asked.

  “My answer isn’t going to change, Atticus!” I shouted.

  “I’m just trying to piece it all together,” he defended.

  “What’s to piece together? I’m telling you exactly what happened. You left the room, she pounced, asking all these questions about us, how long we’ve been together, and I told her I wasn’t stupid, that I knew what she was doing!”

  “Wait, she asked how long we’ve been together and you just blurt out accusations?”

  I was seething at this point. “If you had been there, you would have seen what I saw!”

  The workroom door opened and Tim peeked out his stupid head. “Hazel, is this guy bothering you?”

  I watched Atticus. His hands formed fists when he saw Tim, his jaw gritted.

  “No, Tim, go back inside. I’ll be in in a second,” I told him.

  “Come inside, Hazel. I’ll take care of him,” Tim said, overstepping yet again.

  “Go back inside!” Atticus shouted at him.

  Tim came through the door all the way into the courtyard. “Watch the way you talk to me!” he yelled.

  “Oh my God, Tim! Please! I’ll be there in a second!” I pleaded.

  Atticus advanced on Tim. “Yeah, Tim, go back inside.”

  Tim squared off against Atticus, which looked ridiculous since Atticus had at least a foot and probably twenty-five pounds on him.

  “Get the fuck off this property,” Tim demanded.

  “Make me, old man,” Atticus spit out.

  I started to get worried and pulled at Atticus’s arm. “Atticus, just go. I’ll call you later.”

  He stared at me, a hurt look on his face. “You want me gone? Fine.”

  He started to walk away but Tim, being the asshole he was, had to get the last word. “And don’t cross property lines again or I’ll be forced to call security.”

  Without missing a beat, Atticus whipped back around and reeled back, socking Tim in the face. Tim fell back and landed on his back, his hand going to his eye.

  “Oh my God!” I shouted. “Atticus!”

  Atticus leaned over him. “That’s for making Hazel’s life miserable, you prick. She’s mine, asshole. Go near her, look at her, make her uncomfortable, say anything other than shop talk to her, and I’ll hunt you down.”

  My hands went to my mouth when Tim stood and looked at me. “You’re fired. Get the hell out of here or I’ll press charges.”

  Atticus stood tall but looked as shocked as I felt, whether it was at himself for blowing his top or at what Tim said, I didn’t know.

  “Tim, I—” I began.

  “No, get out of here. I’m done with this bullshit. Take your slut ass out of here.”

  I saw it. Saw the moment Tim called me a slut and Atticus lost it but could do nothing about it. Atticus advanced again with yet another uppercut and I screamed. This time when Tim went down, he stayed down, groaning.

  “Oh my God,” I said, my hands going to my forehead. “What is happening?”

  “Come on,” Atticus quieted, reaching for me.

  I refused his hand and started to walk toward his car.

  “Don’t come back, skank!” Tim yelled after me.

  Atticus turned back but I grasped at him, held him back, desperate to get out of there. “Atticus, ignore him! Come on!”

  Atticus shook his head, his eyes filled with anger, but he obeyed me. When we got into his car, he peeled out. We rode in absolute silence all the way back to my apartment.

  Once inside, though, I unleashed.

  “I can’t believe what just happened!” I shouted at him.

  “Whatever, that guy deserved it.”

  He fell on my couch, nursing a bruised and bleeding hand. I grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and went to the freezer for ice, wetting the cloth in the kitchen sink. I sat n
ext to him and placed the washcloth full of ice on his hand. He sucked in a breath.

  “I needed that job, Atticus. Now I’m going to have to pay Cobra coverage.”

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “When you’re fired from a job, you lose your insurance rate. If you want to continue with coverage, you have to pay the rate the insurance company requires. I can’t afford to lose my insurance for obvious reasons. Now I’ll be forced to pay more. How am I going to pay for that, huh? I have no savings. I have nothing.”

  Atticus gulped. “I can just add you to mine then,” he said.

  “How? You can’t just add people to your plan, Atticus. I can’t believe this,” I said, examining his hand. “What if Tim presses charges?”

  “He won’t,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because then he’d have to answer to all the sexual harassment shit he pulled on you and he knows he’d lose because Madison saw it all with her own eyes. He knows she’d testify on your behalf.”

  I shook my head. “I loved the work, Atticus.”

  “For that, I’m really sorry, Hazel.”

  My eyes burned. “I feel so lost now. That job was a bit of stability for me.”

  “Hey,” he said, sitting up and resting his good hand on my neck. “You can rely on me, Hazel.”

  I shook my head. “What are you talking about? What happened back there?”

  “I told you, he deserved it. He’s a sexist perv and he took advantage of the fact that you needed the job. He knew what he was doing. He’s a bastard.”

  “I need cash,” I told him. “I live paycheck to paycheck, and I’m only one away from being kicked out of this place.”

  “I told you I’ve got you.”

  “I’m not going to rely on you like that, Atticus. I need to stand on my own two feet.”

  “Let me just do my thing, Hazel.”

  “Well, what do you have in mind?”

  “I bet Aidan could use you at Normandy’s.”

  “Oh jeez, like what?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said.

  “Just let me do this. At least let it tide you over? I feel like shit for getting you fired.”

  “You should,” I needled.

  Atticus looked wounded. “I really am sorry,” he said.

  I sighed. “I know, Atticus. Let’s just put this fire out and see where it takes us.”

  He nodded.

  The following Friday I started at Normandy’s. I bar-backed and it was a baptism by fire, let me tell you. Hundreds of people crowded around and my only job was to pop bottles and hand them over, making sure to add it to people’s tabs or run cards or give change. Because of this, I had to try and keep track of people’s faces and their names. It was work I wasn’t used to and I screwed up a few receipts. Aidan was cool about it, but I could tell he was a little annoyed.

  I already missed my watercolors. I found myself daydreaming about my stupid cels. It was assembly-line work, I know, but it was still painting. I found my eyes growing teary and had to check myself several times. To top it off, Atticus was at The Sink with Delilah and imagining them working together made me emotionally drained.

  “Yo!” a yuppy punk yelled, snapping his fingers in my face. “I asked for a beer. Are you deaf?”

  “Sorry,” I apologized, trying to remember what he had been drinking all night.

  The jerk looked over my shoulder at Cillian and shouted, “You need a new beer girl, Cillian! She’s worthless.” He started laughing, but Cillian wasn’t giving him the reaction he wanted and his smile fell.

  Cillian marched up behind me, the palm of his hand landing on the bar top beside me, his chest against my back protectively. “This is Hazel. She’s family and you will treat her as much. Apologize.”

  The popped-collar douche raised his hands as if surrendering. “Hey, man, sorry.”

  “Not to me, dillweed. To her.”

  He looked at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Now,” Cillian said, “you’re gonna walk out of here, catch a cab, go home, and when you get there, you’re going to think about what it’s like to be a woman working in a bar with drunk idiots surrounding her.”

  “You’re banning me?” the guy asked.

  “I didn’t say I was banning you. I said you’re gone for the night. Now go.”

  The guy walked out. Cillian turned to me and winked. He held his fist out for me and I bumped my own with his. We went back to work and I felt better knowing Cillian was right there to back me up. The rest of the shift went pretty smoothly. I didn’t know if it was because I had more confidence or if it was because I figured out a routine, but I didn’t screw up any more tabs and we closed the bar out successfully, not a penny out of place.

  Aidan eyed me. “It was sort of hairy in the beginning there but you held your own, which is pretty hard to do your first shift. You did well, Hazel.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And thanks for the job.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, reaching over and grabbing my tip bucket. “Count it.”

  I pulled the cash out, matched the bills, and added them all up. “Two hundred thirty,” I told him.

  “Good,” he said, laying another fifty on the stack. “If you ever make under two fifty on the weekends, tell me,” he said, stalking off before I had the chance to thank him. I think he planned it that way. Aidan didn’t strike me as the kind who liked that kind of attention.

  The Saturday after, I made more than three hundred, which was nice considering my rent was due soon. I felt more secure and decided to drive over to The Sink to see Atticus after my shift. I texted him but instead of texting back, he sent a video.

  Weird, I thought. When I pulled up to a stoplight, I pressed play. Loud, booming music rang through and the room was dark. There were a ton of people but only two stuck out to me. Delilah. And Atticus. It was hard to see his face but it was definitely his jacket, and I could see the tattoos on his hands. She sat on his lap, his hands on her thighs as she sang along with her own track.

  I laughed something dry, something caustic, and looked out onto the empty street before me.

  “This is why I don’t date musicians,” I said out loud.

  The next morning Etta came over when I called her crying unintelligibly.

  “I’ll be right there!” she said, hanging up.

  Trying to see through the unceasing tears, I texted Aidan and apologized that I wouldn’t be working there anymore and if he needed further explanation, to ask Atticus.

  Within fifteen minutes, my phone blew up with calls from not only Atticus, but Aidan, Cillian, Liam, Malachi, and Brendan. Atticus texted me over and over, but I didn’t bother to look at them, erasing each one as they came in.

  When Etta walked in I basically tackled her in a hug.

  “Oh my God, babe, what is going on?” she asked.

  She walked me over to my couch and we sat down. I laid my head on her lap, and she covered me with the knitted throw I kept nearby.

  “I wish I’d never met him,” I spoke.

  “Oh, come on, Hazel. It couldn’t have been that bad,” she said, smoothing back my hair.

  I took out my phone, opened it, and handed it to her. She pressed play on the video; the tears renewed as I listened. “Son of a gun,” she whispered, making my heart ache. “I just can’t believe this.”

  “Well, it’s all right there.”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean, it’s all a little convenient, don’t you think?”

  “I know this was one of her ploys,” I agreed. “I figured that all out pretty quickly but what I want to know is, ploy or not, how did she land on his lap and why are his hands on her legs?”

  “Who took the video?” she asked. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head.

  “Probably her assistant.”

  “She has an assistant?” she asked.

  “Yes,
Etta, she’s the type of person who needs an assistant. She’s got a record deal. She’s important. She’s beautiful,” I lamented.

  “She is scandalous,” Etta added.

  “You think?”

  Etta replayed the video, wounding me without knowing it, and looked closely as it played.

  “This just doesn’t add up,” she said.

  “Etta! That’s his jacket. Those are his tattoos.”

  “Well, you can’t really see his tattoos all that well.”

  “Etta, for Chrissakes!”

  She sighed. “I’m just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt is all.”

  “The evidence is all right there.”

  “It’s not like him to do that,” Etta said.

  “I thought that too, but that’s what happens when you’ve only known someone for fifteen weeks.”

  “Fifteen weeks can be long enough to know someone if that someone is as open as Atticus.”

  I sat up and swiped the palms of my hands under my eyes. “Why are you defending him? Did you not see the video?”

  She grabbed my hand. “I saw a video of a boy who looked similar to Atticus, wearing his jacket, and had tattoos. I don’t know if it was him for sure, though. You yourself told me she said she was going to do what she could to get him. For that reason alone, I think we should talk to him.”

  I scoffed. “Oh my God, Etta! I’m not going to talk to him. It is what it is! You can’t argue with video!”

  “Blurry video!”

  I shook my head at her and walked to my dresser, taking out a pair of shorts and a tank top. I undressed and tossed all my stuff on the floor. I stood in front of my mirror, my hand going to my stomach. Etta looked at me through the reflection of the mirror.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I know what this is.”

  “What?” I asked, yanking my hand off my stomach and throwing on my shorts and tank.

  “This is about the baby.”

  “Of course this is about the baby!”

  “No,” she argued, “this is your fear coming through. You see an opportunity to bail and you’re bailing. You don’t really care if that was him or not. You’re going to convince yourself it was and you aren’t going to entertain any other idea.”