(Formerly known as "When Our Paths Crossed")
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A tale of two lost souls brought together by pain, grief and trauma.
Atlas tries to find a place in a world he's worked so hard to escape. Elijah struggles to balance the life he's building and the...
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"ATLAS, COME ON, get your ass out of bed."
With an irritable groan, I roll over, bringing the pillow over my head. Like hell, I'm going to get up. It's way too early. In my opinion, only psychopaths and sociopaths get up before ten o'clock in the morning. My phone reads eight-thirty. Apparently, I've chosen to live with one of those. Maybe both. Who knows.
I'm just falling back to sleep when my bedroom door swings open with such a force it's a wonder it didn't break off the wall. With another groan, I squish the pillow over my face more, pretending not to notice the blatant disregard for personal space.
I hear an audibly, dramatic sigh and the shuffle of feet as my roommate—and annoying older sister—approaches my bed.
"A, you have to get up."
"Go away, June."
"You can't be lying in bed all day."
I hear a huff and imagine June planting her fists on her hips the way mom used to. Back when she was clean and a decent-ish mom... I tuck that thought away before I tumble down the rabbit hole of misery. She's dead, and she still manages to torment me.
My bed groans and dips a bit as June sits on the edge and, knowing I'm not going to get rid of her any time soon, I yank the pillow off my head and roll over to face her.
People always say we look almost identical, except I'm a twig, and she's a tree. And I mean that in the most respectful way possible. She is solid. She stands just a foot under me, and, thanks to her military training, she is someone you definitely don't want to mess with. Her eyes are honey-coloured (like mine), and freckles dot her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose (again, like mine). Her hair is the slightest shade lighter than mine, and even though it's just as coarse and thick, she knows how to control it. She doesn't have to fuss with it when getting out of the shower or when the humidity fluctuates, with not even a hint of frizziness.
Mine, on the other hand, has a mind of its own. In the morning, it's a tangled mess, and by the time it dries, it's a frizzy, tangled mess. I know I'm a little too focused on the hair, but I am quite proud of my curly locks, except when I'm standing next to my sister, that is.
"You have to get up," she says firmly, her lips set in that determined line I know I have when I'm stubborn. "Job hunting waits for no one."
"That is so not true," I mumble with an eye roll. "Job hunting doesn't start until someone goes hunting."
June has been trying, unsuccessfully, to get me on the straight and narrow ever since I was voluntold to move in with her. I didn't have the heart to tell her, "no thanks, I don't want a normal, mundane life," so I go along with whatever she wants. It makes sneaking out that much harder, but I manage. It helps that she's preoccupied with the little rascal who I can now hear stomping around downstairs.
