During the meal, Ledger still looked at Atlas like he’s the outsider. Like nothing Atlas has done, nothing he’s built has been enough to belong to them. Anything he does will never be enough to carve a space into the family.

I don’t know if either one will be able to erase the exchange they had during dinner. I have the feeling the hate they have for their father is what blinds their common sense. They’re similar in a way they probably haven’t noticed. Neither one of them wants to be their father and both of them see their father in each other. Isn’t that ironic?

They’re probably still afraid. Not that someone is going to come and beat them up the way their father did, but that they’ll grow up to be him. I know Atlas has spent his whole life fighting not to be like his father. Every decision he makes, every time he steps back instead of lashing out, every single moment of restraint is proof of that.

I should tell him.

I should tell him that men like Winston—like my father—don’t sit in silence after a night like this, gripping the wheel like they’re holding themselves together. Men like that don’t worry about becoming monsters. They simply are and revel in it. They don’t care what they might become. They don’t think about it at all. They take. They destroy. And they sleep just fine.

Atlas is nothing like them.

I should tell him that. I should say something. Anything.

But the words stay locked in my throat.

Instead, I watch the way his fingers flex on the wheel, the way his shoulders stay rigid. I should be thinking about myself, about my own safety, about how to keep my distance because this—this thing between us—whatever it is, it’s getting dangerous.

Not because he’s a threat.

Because he isn’t.

I’m becoming too dependent on him. Not in a physical way, but emotionally. I take a breath, shifting slightly in my seat. He notices.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough.

I nod before I even know if I mean it. “Yeah. Just tired.”

The whole truth is that I’m exhausted, but not from the night—from everything. This dinner made me realize a lot of things and I don’t know what I can do to help myself. It’s like I have one too many problems and not way to fix any because I’m too busy running away.

“Do you regret going?”

I glance at him, startled by the question. “Do you?” I ask instead of responding.

“No,” he answers, and it sounds like a very honest no. “I think it was necessary.”

“Necessary?” I don’t see how. “Did you get physical with your brother when you were in the office?”