It Ends With Us(17)

The two times I’ve spent with Ryle were on days I’d probably rather forget. My father’s funeral and spraining my ankle. But somehow, him being present made them feel like less of the disasters they were.

I hate that he’s Allysa’s brother. I have a feeling this isn’t the last time I’ll be seeing him.





Chapter Four


It takes me half an hour to make it from my car to my apartment. I called Lucy twice to see if she could help me, but she didn’t answer her phone. When I make it inside my apartment, I’m a little irritated to see her lying on the couch with the phone to her ear.

I slam our front door behind me and she glances up. “What happened to you?” she asks.

I use the wall for support as I hop toward the hallway. “Sprained my ankle.”

When I make it to my bedroom door, she yells, “Sorry I didn’t answer the phone! I’m talking to Alex! I was gonna call you back!”

“It’s fine!” I holler back at her, and then slam my bedroom door shut. I go to the bathroom and find some old pain pills I had stuffed into a cabinet. I swallow two of them and then fall onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling.

I can’t believe I’ll be stuck in this apartment for an entire week. I grab my phone and text my mother.

Sprained my ankle. I’m fine, but can I send you a list of things to grab for me at the store?





I drop my phone onto my bed, and for the first time since she moved here, I’m thankful my mother lives fairly close to me. It actually hasn’t been that bad. I think I like her more now that my father has passed away. I know it’s because I held a lot of resentment toward her for never leaving him. Even though a lot of that resentment has faded when it comes to my mother, I still have the same feelings when I think of my father.

It can’t be good, still holding on to so much bitterness toward my father. But dammit, he was awful. To my mother, to me, to Atlas.

Atlas.

I’ve been so busy with my mother’s move and secretly searching for a new building between work hours, I haven’t had time to finish reading the journals I started reading all those months ago.

I hop pathetically to my closet, only tripping once. Luckily, I catch myself on my dresser. Once I have the journal in hand, I hop back to the bed and get comfortable.

I have nothing better to do for the next week now that I can’t work. I might as well commiserate over my past while I’m forced to commiserate in the present.

Dear Ellen,

You hosting the Oscars was the greatest thing to happen to TV last year. I don’t think I ever told you that. The vacuuming skit made me piss my pants.

Oh, and I recruited a new Ellen follower today in Atlas. Before you start judging me for allowing him inside my house again, let me explain how that came about.

After I let him take a shower here yesterday, I didn’t see him again last night. But this morning, he sat by me on the bus again. He seemed a little happier than the day before, because he slid into the seat and actually smiled at me.

I’m not gonna lie, it was a little weird seeing him in my dad’s clothes. But the pants fit him a lot better than I thought they were going to.

“Guess what?” he said. He leaned forward and unzipped his backpack.

“What?”

He pulled out a bag and handed it to me. “I found these in the garage. I tried to clean them up for you because they were covered in old dirt, but I can’t do much without water.”

I held the bag and stared at him suspiciously. It’s the most I’d ever heard him say at once. I finally looked down at the bag and opened it. It looked like a bunch of old gardening tools.

“I saw you digging with that shovel the other day. I wasn’t sure if you had any actual gardening tools, and no one was using these, so . . .”

“Thank you,” I said. I was kind of in shock. I used to have a trowel, but the plastic broke off the handle and it started giving me blisters. I asked my mother for gardening tools for my birthday last year and when she bought me a full-sized shovel and a hoe, I didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I needed.

Atlas cleared his throat and then, in a much quieter voice, he said, “I know it’s not like a real gift. I didn’t buy it or anything. But . . . I wanted to give you something. You know . . . for . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence, so I nodded and tied the bag back up. “Do you think you can hold them for me until after school? I don’t have any room in my backpack.”

He grabbed the bag from me and then brought his backpack up to his lap and put the bag inside of it. He wrapped his arms around his backpack. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Fifteen.”

The look in his eyes made him seem a little bit sad about my age, but I don’t know why.

“You’re in tenth grade?”

I nodded, but honestly couldn’t think of anything to say to him. I haven’t really had much interaction with a lot of guys. Especially seniors. When I’m nervous, I kind of just clam up.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying at that place,” he said, bringing his voice down again. “But if you ever need help with gardening or anything after school, it’s not like I have much going on there. Being as though I have no electricity.”