The True Story of Atticus and Hazel Read online

Page 3


  We stood behind a line ten people deep. The noise was deafening, a cacophony of shouts, laughs, and yells.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked, gesturing to the old-school sign that hung above the service counter.

  “A slice,” I answered, afraid to speak, afraid to look at him.

  He laughed. “Yeah, a slice, but what kind?”

  I took a deep breath to clear my head. “Pepperoni, duh. What other kind is there?”

  He nodded. “It was a stupid question, excuse me.” He smiled down at me as I looked up at him.

  “Oh no,” I quieted.

  “Oh no, what?” he volleyed back.

  “It’s happening,” I told him.

  “What is?”

  “I’ve forgotten why I don’t date musicians.”

  His smile fell away. “Good.”

  I shook my head slowly back and forth, mesmerized by him. “No, not good at all.”

  He didn’t reply as we were next in line and they called us forward.

  “What’ll you have?” pizza guy Dave asked.

  Atticus signaled for two slices of pepperoni. “Feel like sharing a Coke?”

  Oh my God. “Sure.” I was barely able to speak.

  “A Coke, please, Dave.”

  “What kind?” he asked.

  Atticus looked at me. I cleared my throat. “Just regular, Dave.”

  “No problem,” he said, sliding two giant pieces of pizza onto paper plates and filling a cup.

  Atticus slipped cash over the counter and Dave made like he’d make change. “No,” Atticus said, “keep it.”

  Dave nodded at us both and we each grabbed a plate. As I said, the place was packed but regulars knew in the back corner of the restaurant was a steep staircase leading to an upper floor that looked down on the first. It was quieter up there, darker, more intimate. Atticus went straight for the stairs.

  Once we’d climbed them to the top, we picked a table near the railing and in the corner. We slid into our seats and laid our plates in front of us. I wasted no time folding my pizza in half and taking a bite. Atticus smiled at me then did the same.

  Without a word, he reached over and yanked two paper towels off a holder at the far end of the table. He handed me one and I took it from him. He wiped his mouth then brought the Coke to his mouth, his lips around the straw, his eyes on mine, and took a sip. When he was done, he offered the cup to me. My hands clenched the edges of the table as I leaned forward, wrapped my lips around the same straw he’d just drunk from and took a sip. After I swallowed, I sat back, my hands still at the table’s edge, and stared at him.

  “Thank you for the pizza,” I breathed.

  He smiled at me and took another bite, wiping his mouth yet again. I followed suit then wiped my own. Slowly, I reached for the cup and brought the straw to my lips before taking a sip. His tongue licked at his bottom lip as I extended my arm and tipped the cup at him. He bent toward the straw and wrapped that incredible mouth over it once more, drinking deep, then sitting back.

  “You trying to kill me?” he finally spoke.

  “Are you?” I asked him.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “More to drink?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  After a few seconds’ pause, we picked up our slices again and took another bite. We stared down at the people below us. A few of them I recognized. I stared at a face I knew.

  “Who is that?” Atticus asked me.

  I looked at him. “Just someone I used to know,” I vaguely explained.

  He shook his head and smiled. “How did you know them?”

  I sighed. “They’re jackasses. My freshman year, that one,” I said, pointing at a jock-looking idiot with a popped collar, named Brett, “paid me to tutor him,” I explained with finger quotes. “Let’s just say it was a subject matter I hadn’t agreed to.”

  “French?” he teased.

  I fought a smile. “Something like that.”

  “Did your grandmother raise you?” he casually asked me.

  This was a forbidden topic. I knew this. Etta knew this. Grandma knew this. But Atticus Kelly didn’t know this.

  “Uh, yes, she raised me.”

  “That’s cool,” he said.

  I nodded, not wanting to talk about it anymore.

  “So nothing personal then,” he stated with a small smile.

  I tried to smile back. “My mom is an addict who had me at sixteen and is God knows where, and I don’t even know who my father is. My grandma is my only parent.”

  “And you love her,” he said.

  “More than anyone in this entire world.”

  He nodded. “My mom and dad had my oldest brother pretty young as well. Right out of high school, actually.”

  “It’s cool they stayed together.”

  Atticus snorted. “I guess.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  We finished our pizza and tossed the plates in recycling then stood next to our table, staring at one another. Atticus made a move for our shared cup and brought it to his lips one last time before doing the same for me. As I drank, he leaned over me, his mouth near my ear. “I should get a refill,” he joshed. I pulled away and swallowed.

  “Should we?” he asked, throwing a head toward the door. I nodded my answer.

  We descended the stairs and made our way toward the exit when Brett recognized me and called out my name. I stopped in my tracks, my shoulders involuntarily hunching up in disgust of the guy.

  “Hazel!” Brett shouted. His buddies started laughing at how uncomfortable he made me. “Come on, Hazel, turn around! You remember me, right?”

  I cringed. Quietly, Atticus faced me, studied me. Our eyes met and I visibly relaxed.

  “Touch me, Atticus,” I begged.

  A look of relief flashed across his face. His long fingers wrapped around the small of my back and he culled me into his tall, muscled body, the metal on his jacket rattling in singing chimes. As he led me toward the door, his arm around my body, his scent against my nose, he turned toward Brett and gave him a look to kill. All the bravado left Brett and his idiot friends. Brett sat in his chair, turning toward his food, not another word spoken.

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  “I can’t accept it, Hazel. If you only knew the thoughts running through my head right now.”

  I smiled at him. “Would it help if I told you they probably matched my own?”

  He looked down at me. “Maybe just a little.”

  He brought his arm out from around me and I wanted to beg him to put it back.

  “Should we walk to your next painting?” he asked me.

  “It’s cool with me,” I told him before looking on him. “Do you want to? If you’re tired we can call it a night or whatever.”

  Atticus stopped, his boots scraped against the bits of gravel on the walk it was so abrupt. “I would stay up for days with you, Hazel. Weeks. Months, if I could. I’d walk the entire city five times over with you if you were willing.”

  “Why?” I asked, curious.

  “I think you’re the most interesting person I have ever met, Hazel, that’s why.”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “I know enough to recognize I want to know more.”

  We continued walking.

  “Do you want to text Etta?” he asked.

  I bit my bottom lip in thought before I answered. “No,” I whispered.

  A look flashed over Atticus’s face, something similar to satisfaction, but I didn’t really know for sure. I studied his body. He looked nervous—kept tucking his hair behind his ears, his shoulders lifted rapidly over and over in quick breaths. We kept glancing at one another.

  Atticus swallowed audibly. “Where is this new painting?”

  “It’s a little ways. A few blocks to Pearl near the cathedral.”

  We walked until we came upon the empty parking lot facing the side of
a parking garage. The painting was my largest to date at the time and had taken me a total of seven weeks. It was a jumbled mass of words using typography. I studied hundreds of different fonts to find the perfect ones to fit within one another like a giant puzzle. I drew it at least a thousand times on paper before I got it exactly as I wanted. It was beyond tedious.

  “What do all these words mean?” Atticus asked.

  “There’s a pattern to them. Once you figure it out, it reads like a letter.”

  “Teach me.”

  I looked at him. “I can’t, Atticus.”

  He nodded. “I can respect that. One day, um, do you think one day you would show me?”

  “You think we’ll have more than this day, Atticus?”

  He got really quiet then sat on the concrete below, extending his legs away from him, and leaning back on the palms of his hands. He tossed his head to the side, signaling he’d like me to join him, so I did.

  “Do you want more than these few hours with me?” he asked.

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “I have two answers for you then.”

  “What are they?”

  “My loud, thumping heart wants to say yes,” I admitted. “My rational, cynical mind says no.”

  He nodded and stared up at my painting. “Your heart is the only honest part of you then.”

  I bit back a laugh. “How do you know?”

  “Because her answer is the only answer you need, Hazel.”

  “How about we play it by ear?”

  Atticus laid flat against the concrete and stared up into the night sky, so I did the same.

  “Fine with me,” he answered. “Hey, Hazel?”

  I turned my head to look at him, our cheeks pressed against the warm lot.

  “Hmm?”

  “I have to admit something to you.”

  “Go on,” I urged.

  “I want to kiss you. So bad,” he divulged. He stared at my lips and swallowed before looking into my eyes once more.

  “Atticus,” I whispered.

  “Yes?” he asked quietly.

  “I want you to kiss me too.”

  He smiled. It grew and fell then grew then fell, like he was fighting words. “I won’t do it, though.”

  This surprised me. “You won’t?”

  He shook his head from side to side. “No.”

  “So what should we do instead?” I asked. “Stay here? Lay on this parking lot?”

  “Yes,” he said, staring back up into the sky.

  We sat quietly, the sounds of a sleeping city all around us save for the occasional siren or car passing by. After five minutes’ time, he looked at me once more and slowly raised his hand, turning his palm toward me. “Take it, Hazel.”

  Hesitantly, I fit my palm inside his and he threaded his fingers with mine. The heat from our skin—the electricity from our attraction—made the simple act an incredible experience. I had never in my life reacted to someone like I did with Atticus. It was like a bass drum thumped through my chest, making my skin vibrate, my fingers and toes tingle.

  “Wow,” I spoke aloud.

  He nodded slowly in agreement. “This,” he barely got out, “is insanity.” He peered at me harder. “Is this real life, Hazel?”

  “I don’t think so, Atticus.”

  “Good.” He looked at me. “Do you feel this?” he asked, squeezing my hand a little.

  “Yes, I feel it.”

  “What is that?” he asked me.

  “It’s attraction, Atticus.”

  “No,” he argued, “this isn’t attraction, Hazel. This is gravitation.”

  I squeezed his hand a little in return just to feel the intensity rise.

  “Are drums the only instrument you play?” I asked him, suddenly obsessed with the idea that I wanted to know everything about him.

  He shook his head. “I play all percussion, piano, guitar, bass guitar, banjo,” he said, trailing off.

  “Oh, is that all?” I teased.

  He smiled at me. “Yeah, just those.”

  “What do you do for cash?” I asked him.

  “I produce albums at The Sink.”

  This surprised me. “That’s kind of cool.”

  “It’s a cool gig, yeah.”

  “Are you any good?” I asked him.

  He squeezed my hand again and my belly floated across the world then back to me. “I’m okay,” he said, though I felt he was probably being modest.

  “Could I hear some of your stuff?” I asked him.

  He licked his bottom lip, and I followed the movement with eager scrutiny. “Of course, Hazel.”

  He let go of my hand then stood up and crouched over my body, offering it one more time to help me stand. He didn’t let go, though, once I was up.

  “Let’s go back to the bar. If you’re cool with it, I can drive us over to The Sink.”

  I felt a bit shocked because it was then I instantly discovered he could have had said anything at all and I would have agreed to it as long as he still held my hand. “Okay,” I agreed.

  The walk to the bar was much shorter than I wanted it to be. The butterflies it gave me increased with every step. He led me to the parking lot behind the bar and pointed at an old black ’64 Impala. It was in rough shape but it was beautiful.

  “Damn, Atticus, this is sweet,” I told him.

  He smiled at me. “I’ve had her for years. Can’t seem to get rid of her. Every time she breaks down I promise myself she’s going to the junk heap, but I always end up finding a way to fix her anyway.”

  He followed me over to the passenger side of his car and opened its door for me. “Thank you,” I told him.

  He closed the door behind me and scaled the front of the car, his keys hanging from one of the belt loops of his pants bounced with every step he made, and I followed them as they swung back and forth. Oh my God, I thought.

  He opened his own door and slid in next to me. When he did this, his cologne wafted over to my side of the car and I had to stop myself from leaning into him. He turned his key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. He went to put the car in gear just as another car peeled into the parking lot at an incredible speed.

  Atticus’s hand shot out and landed across the top of my chest.

  “Fuck, it’s my brothers.” He turned toward me. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll know why in a minute.” The car swung itself in front of Atticus’s Impala and four huge guys, who looked a lot like him, piled out. They were all beautiful, if I was being honest. It was really no wonder they each had little kids running around. “At least Aidan isn’t here,” Atticus admitted.

  He opened his door and stood but left one booted foot resting inside.

  “Well, well, well, look at what we have here. Hello, Atticus,” the driver said, and the other boys laughed.

  “Get the fuck out of my way, Cillian.”

  “Make me,” the boy he called Cillian responded.

  Another boy bent down and eyed me through the windshield. “Oh shit! Atticus has himself a girl in there.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” another boy shouted.

  They all started to box in around us, so I opened my door and stood next to the car.

  “Holy fucking shit. She is hot, Atticus!” one boy yelled.

  “Seriously?” Atticus said, his hand going to his face. “You are embarrassing as fuck, Malachi.”

  All his brothers laughed. “What’s your name?” Malachi asked me.

  “Hazel,” I told them, trying to smile, but it didn’t translate. I was too intimidated, to be honest.

  “What kind of name is Hazel?” Cillian teased.

  “I don’t know,” I shot back. “What kind of name is Cillian?”

  A chorus of oh sang out around me. Atticus laughed loudly and shook his head. “You’re in for it now,” he told me.

  I eyed Cillian up and down. “I
think I’ll be all right,” I answered, which sent them all reeling.

  “You got a problem, little girl?” Cillian asked.

  “You’re the only one who seems to have a problem, dude.”

  Cillian paused for a moment and looked me over. “I like her,” he finally said, and I rolled my eyes.

  “What are you guys even doing here?” Atticus asked them.

  “We’re looking for you,” one of the boys, not Cillian or Malachi, answered. “Mom told us to come get you.”

  They were all quiet as they stared me over. Atticus snapped his fingers to get their attention. “Feel like telling me what she wants, Liam?”

  “Yeah, she’s pissed as shit at you.”

  Atticus sighed, exasperated. “What now?”

  “She’s mad you didn’t show up to dinner tonight.”

  Atticus looked over at me, stared at me. “I had something come up,” he explained.

  “I can see that.” Liam laughed. “But you better get your ass home and at least apologize to her.”

  “I can’t,” Atticus said.

  Malachi and Liam got visibly upset. “You can’t do Mom like that, asshole,” Malachi threw out.

  Mama’s boys, apparently.

  “I’m sorry, Hazel, it looks like I’ll have to show you the studio some other time.”

  “That’s fine,” I lied.

  “Unless you want to come over,” Cillian offered.

  “Cillian,” Atticus scolded, “she doesn’t want to meet Mom and Dad right now, dude.”

  “Hold up, fool, why don’t you ask her?”

  Atticus turned to me. “Uh, I’m sorry. He’s an asshole.”

  I laughed. “It’s okay.”

  “You should just come over,” Malachi urged.

  “Yeah, Mom won’t care,” Liam offered.

  “I mean, you could come over, if you want. I mean, if you’re cool with that or whatever,” Atticus said.

  The idea of meeting his mom and dad at one in the morning felt odd, but I didn’t want to stop hanging out with Atticus. All five boys stared at me with pleading eyes. It would have been hilarious if they hadn’t all looked so dangerous.