So instead of returning to my own home, I took the cab back to Atlas’s house. It feels like my only safe zone right now. I don’t have to confront things when I’m hiding out here.

Atlas has already texted me twice today checking on me, so when I get a text a few minutes before seven o’clock in the evening, I assume it’s from him. It’s not; it’s from Allysa.

Allysa: You home from work yet? Come up and visit us, I’m already bored.

My heart sinks when I read her text. She has no idea what happened between me and Ryle. I wonder if Ryle even told her he left for England today. My thumb types and erases and types some more as I try to come up with a good excuse as to why I’m not there.

Me: I can’t. I’m in the emergency room. Hit my head on that shelf in the storage room at work. Getting stitches.

I hate that I lied to her, but it’ll save me from having to explain the cut and also why I’m not home right now.

Allysa: Oh no! Are you alone? Marshall can come sit with you since Ryle is gone.

Okay, so she knows Ryle left for England. That’s good. And she thinks we’re fine. This is good. That means I have at least three months before I have to tell her the truth.

Look at me, sweeping shit under the rug just like my mother.

Me: No, I’m fine. I’ll be finished up by the time Marshall could even get here. I’ll come by tomorrow after work. Give Rylee a kiss for me.

I lock the screen on my phone and set it on my bed. It’s dark outside now, so I immediately see the scroll of the headlights as someone pulls into the driveway. I instantly know that it isn’t Atlas, because he uses the driveway to the side of the house and parks in the garage. My heart begins to race as fear rushes through me. Is it Ryle? Did he find out where Atlas lives?

Moments later, there’s a loud knock at the front door. More like pounding. The doorbell also rings.

I tiptoe to the window and barely move the curtains over far enough to take a look outside. I can’t see who’s at the door, but there’s a truck in the driveway. It doesn’t belong to Ryle.

Could it be Atlas’s girlfriend? Cassie?

I grab my phone and make my way down the hallway, toward the living room. The pounding on the door and the chime of the doorbell are still going off simultaneously. Whoever is at the door is being ridiculously impatient. If it is Cassie, I already find her extremely annoying.

“Atlas!” a guy yells. “Open the damn door!”

Another voice—also male—yells, “My balls are freezing up! They’re raisins, man, open the door!”

Before I open the door and let them know Atlas isn’t home, I text him, hoping he’s about to pull in the driveway and deal with this himself.