“Thank you, Allysa.”

She smiles. “No, thank you. I haven’t been this excited about my life since that Paolo Nutini concert I went to last year.” She waves goodbye and walks toward where Marshall and Ryle are standing.

They begin walking down the street and I watch them in my rearview mirror. As they turn the corner, I see Ryle glance over his shoulder and look back in my direction.

I close my eyes and exhale.

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.