The True Story of Atticus and Hazel

  “That’s yours,” he stated, his eyes pinned to a small realism piece I’d just finished.

  “It’s mine,” I confirmed, though it didn’t seem as if he needed the proof.

  His hands found the glass and pressed, his fingers curling like he could scrape himself through. He glanced at me. It was something hard, confusing. He looked hurt.

  “You torture me,” he whispered.

  I closed my eyes, afraid to look at him. “I know the feeling,” I told him.

  “Why of us? Why us?” he asked me.

  “’Cause you’re all I think about. I paint what I know. I paint what makes me bleed, Atticus.”

  “I-I’m all you think about it?” he asked quietly.

  “The three of us. We’re all I think about anymore.”

  He stepped back and pointed at the piece hanging solidly, heavily before us. His eyes found the sidewalk below us. “I can’t look at it anymore.”

  He started walking down the sidewalk again but I didn’t follow him, didn’t know if he wanted me to, until he stopped and looked over his shoulder, holding out his hand for mine. I walked forward and slid my palm in his. It felt good there, safe, secure. We journeyed the seven blocks to the Farmers Market, not saying a word to one another. I wondered what he thought but didn’t have the guts to ask him. He looked raw enough that a single word from me would disassemble him, so I kept my words to myself.

  When we landed at the Market, I knew exactly where he was going. It was one of my favorite places in Dallas. Palmieri Cafe. Ran by an ex-investment banker turned shop owner named Corrado Palmieri. Corrado grew up in southern Italy with a southern Italian grandmother who taught him his way around an Italian kitchen. Everything about the place was authentic, from his espresso machine down to the cups he served it in. It is the best pastry you will ever put in your mouth, savory or sweet, and I couldn’t believe Atticus remembered how much I loved the place.

  We sat with our drinks at a table after ordering.

  “I love this place,” I told him.

  “I know,” he stated.

  “I can’t believe you remembered.”

  He took a sip from his coffee. “I remember everything about you, Hazel.”

  I swallowed. “Do you?”

  He nodded once. Palmieri himself brought our food over and set it down with a sweet smile.

  “Thank you,” we both said.

  Neither of us reached toward our plate.

  “You want to say something,” I commented.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Something sits on the tip of that tongue, I can tell.”

  He leaned forward. “I have to go to a party tonight.” I felt a little shocked and it must have showed. “Come with me.”

  I studied Palmieri’s shop tile. “I don’t know, Atticus.”

  “I don’t want to stop being around you.”

  “What kind of party?” I asked, avoiding his vulnerable words.

  “It’s for my label. I’m sort of DJ’ing,” his words hung.

  I nodded. “I don’t think so, Atticus.”

  “Hazel,” he whispered. “Come with me. Spend time with me.”

  “I’ll probably just sit around while you did your thing. It’d be pointless.”

  “I’d like you to come, but I won’t make you. Know I’d keep you at my side always, though.”

  I sipped my coffee. He reached for his pastry and took a bite, chewed, and swallowed before wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Ten.”

  “I could leave whenever I wanted?”

  “Only if you let me make sure you got home all right.” I paused. “Any more excuses?” he asked. I shook my head. “Good.”

  When Atticus dropped me off after dinner that night, I opened my door to find Etta asleep on my sofa. She had clinical rotation hours at strange hours and slept when she could. Opening the door woke her up.

  She sat up. “What’s up, buttercup?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

  I dropped my stuff on my counter and slunk against the sofa near her reclined feet.

  “Atticus was at the showing.”

  “I know, babe, I was there.” I nodded. “Where did y’all go?” she asked.

  “He took me back to his new place.”

  Etta sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Whoa, that’s heavy.” I started to cry and buried my face in my hands. “Oh, oh! Hazel,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around me. “Don’t cry, Hazel.”

  I took a deep breath. “We talked about Juniper.”

  Hazel sat still for a moment. “It was time,” she said.

  I nodded. “I know b-but I’m not ready.”

  She gently pulled my head up to see my face. “Yes, Hazel, you are.”

  “I’m in love with him,” I confessed.

  Her face softened. “I know, Hazel.”

  “But he equates pain for me.”

  “I know, Hazel.”

  “What am I going to do, Etta?”

  “You’re going to start living again, Hazel, and I want you let him help you do it.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  “Everyone needs help sometimes, Hazel. You’re strong, yes, but sometimes you need support. Everyone needs support, and I think he’s the only person who can do it for you.”

  At nine p.m. a knock on my door sounded, causing my heart to leap into my throat. I ran to the door and swung it open. Atticus stood on the other side, looking like every dream I’ve ever had. I glanced down at the floor, experiencing guilt for feeling attracted to him. I didn’t think I deserved to know that feeling again.

  “Hey,” I said, leaving the door open. “Come in,” I said as I turned to grab my clutch, but he caught my hand and pulled me his direction, forcing me to look into his eyes.

  “You look incredible, Hazel,” he told me.

  “Etta dressed me,” I admitted.

  He looked me up and down, his face turning a soft red, making me blush. “She did good,” he replied.

  I cleared my throat and grabbed my bag. He offered his arm to me, so I threaded my hand through, then rested my palm on the inside of his forearm. He led me outside, stopping so I could lock my door, and took me to his car. He opened the car door for me and I got in, careful I didn’t flash him in my skirt. He rounded the front of his car and I found myself following his profile, his neck, jaw, face, and over his head, back down to study the line of his shoulders. I took a deep, shaky breath when he got in.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Normandy’s,” he explained.

  I nodded, surprised I hadn’t already assumed as much. It made sense. Normandy’s had grown even more in popularity since Atticus had struck it big. He was the city’s golden boy, and lines wrapped around the block to get in to his brother’s bar on weekend nights.

  When we turned at the end of the street, it looked like Aidan had hired a valet for the night. Atticus swung in beside the valet and a man opened my door for me. I stepped out and stood to my full height just as Atticus did the same. Loud screams erupted from the sidewalk. Girls left their places in line and began running toward his car. I started to panic before a few bouncers came bounding up, holding the girls back. Atticus threw his keys at the valet and rounded the car, grabbing my hand, and culling me close to him as we crossed through the doorway, held open by another bouncer.

  I looked up at him and he smiled, rolling his eyes a little.

  “Does that happen often?” I asked him over the music. He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate he didn’t hear me then brought his ear to my lips. “Does that happen often?” I asked again.

  He shook his head then brought his own lips to my ear. “It’s only here. They know I come here.”

  “I see,” I said. I tried to ignore the seething resentment toward perfect strangers pooling in my belly but my face betrayed me.

  Atticus smiled at me, looking a little dazed. “Hazel,
are you jealous?”

  I bit my lip, tried to fight a smile. “Maybe,” I barely said, but he heard me. I know he heard me because immediately he backed me into a dark corner, both his hands on the bits of wall on either side of my face.

  “You still like me?” he demanded. I avoided his eyes and stared at his forearm instead. “Hazel, look at me.” I obeyed him. “Hazel, do you still like me?”

  “Don’t make me say it,” I begged.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I need to hear you say it,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I can’t, though, don’t you see?” I asked, my view clouded by burning eyes.

  I blinked and two tears streamed down.

  “Yes, you can,” he urged kindly.

  I met his stare and sucked in a breath. “Yes, okay? Very much so, actually.”

  He dropped his arms; they hung heavy by his sides, and he leaned over me. I had to crane my neck to look into his eyes. “Is that right?” he asked, but I could tell he didn’t expect me to answer him. His hands found my face and slid down the sides of my neck, resting there. He searched my face, my eyes. “But you feel guilty for that.” I nodded slowly. “We’ll have to fix that then,” he told me

  All the air left the room, it seemed. Suddenly I was very warm all over, which I didn’t like. No, actually, I loved it, and I hated that I loved it. The tips of the fingers on his right hand found my hairline and dragged over my temple. He tapped once with his forefinger. “There’s a war brewing inside here.” His fingers pressed softly. “Stop, Hazel. Slow down, babe. Just slow down in there.”

  “I can’t,” I told him.

  He brought his mouth to the skin there. “Yes, you can. Let go of it and let me carry it for you.”

  I shook my head, fighting tears. “It’s mine to carry.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s too heavy. You’re not meant to shoulder that alone. It’s also my job. She was mine as well,” he said, breaking the dam. “And so are you. Pile it on me, Haze.” My hands found his shirt and squeezed as the tears streamed. I felt myself slipping. I couldn’t even hold myself upright the burden was so heavy on my back. He brought me closer to him, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and held me tightly against him. “Give in to it. Let it spill all over me and I’ll weather it for you.”

  I cried into his neck for God knows how long, but he let me do it. To the untrained eye, it probably looked like we were kissing. Eventually I felt myself relax, and the music and the atmosphere all around us became clear, like a fog had lifted. I raised my head and he looked down at me. Slowly, his arms unwrapped from around me. His thumbs found the skin under my eyes and wiped my dried mascara that had stained there. He kissed beneath each eye and my cheeks, all over the skin of my face.

  “I want to take care of you, Haze.”

  I nodded at him, still a little afraid to talk.

  “Atticus!” I heard someone yell out behind us.

  He glanced over his shoulder and raised his head in greeting to whoever it was then turned back to me. “It’s George, from the label. Do you want to meet him?”

  I shook my head. “Let me go to the bathroom first, fix my eyes.”

  “Go to Aidan’s office. Use his private bathroom.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He kissed my neck briefly before turning around. I skirted around him and made a beeline for Aidan’s office. When I reached the hall, there were girls lined up near the bar and the overflow spilled near Aidan’s office door.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I reached for the handle, pushed it open, then closed it behind me.

  I made my way around his desk, staring at his chairs. I turned around and took in the door. It was the room I’d told Atticus about Juniper. My stomach plummeted to my feet. I went to the corner and opened the door to the little bathroom he had attached to his office. I bent down and grabbed a few squares of toilet paper. I wiped beneath my eyes but they hadn’t run as badly as I thought they would. I stood and looked into the mirror, the reflection of the room behind me, and stared at it with new eyes. I remembered how scared I’d been, how I’d wished I’d not been pregnant. That thought sent a spear of guilt through me.

  “Juniper,” I whispered to my reflection.

  Knock, knock, knock. I jumped.

  “Hazel?” Atticus’s voice rang through the door.

  “Coming!” I said, swiping beneath my eyes once more.

  I opened the door. “I’m about to go on. You want to sit in the booth with me?”

  His eyes looked hopeful. “Sure,” I answered.

  He took my hand and started to lead me back to the main part of the bar. I quickly glanced back at Aidan’s office one last time. The noise of the bar was what got my attention first, then the number of screaming people. I couldn’t believe how many people were packed in. What got me, though, was the fact that most were women and they were all chanting Atticus’s name. My skin grew warm with anxiety.

  “Miguel!” Atticus shouted toward a bouncer. “Protect her first!”

  Miguel nodded and stood solemnly behind me. Two more bouncers flanked us as we pushed through the crowd near the wall, attempting to get to the staged booth.

  Girls were screaming, pulling at his clothing. He glanced at me and rolled his eyes. My mouth gaped open in disbelief as I shook my head. The crowd around us surged, pushing us toward the wall, making me feel claustrophobic. Miguel the bouncer shoved a few kids back to give us more room. Finally, we reached the setup and Atticus bounded up, turned around, and lifted me next to him. Someone lowered the lights; the neon that lit up the booth became the only light I could see. The music lowered and faded out.

  Atticus checked his deck, something I’d seen him do a thousand times, but never for an actual performance. He looked so casual, so comfortable, and I realized he was in his element. He was doing what he was meant to do.

  He leaned over the microphone near his lit-up laptop. “Hey, guys, thanks for coming out tonight,” he said before pausing for a few seconds then dropping an insane beat, filling the room and shaking the walls. Everyone screamed in excitement and began to bounce in unison while he messed with his decks. I sat on a stool in the corner behind him.

  Atticus played song after song, the crowd didn’t bother to take a break, it seemed, too engrossed in the music. Atticus turned around and smiled at me. It gave me insane butterflies. He turned back around, spotted Miguel, and made some sort of signal. Miguel worked his way through the crowd then returned to the booth. He smiled at me and handed me a bottle of water. I smiled as I mouthed my thank you and cracked the lid open, taking a swig. Atticus turned back around and winked. I held my water out for him and he took it, placing his lips where I’d just had mine and drinking deep. He handed me the bottle and I rested it on my knee.

  The room had grown hot and his T-shirt stuck to his back. His hair laid against his neck, and he kept throwing it out of his face as he worked. One song faded to another, static filled the room, followed by a repetitive digital harp riff, then heavy bass. It was beautiful but made you want to dance at the same time. He had a talent for that.

  I nodded my head along with the beat. He looked at me, then bit his lip before holding out his hand for mine. I took it and stood beside him. He bent his mouth to my ear.

  “Hold on,” he said, before playing with something on his laptop.

  He then took my hand, held it out for a second, brought both our hands to the small of my back, and pressed his body against mine. He smiled down at me and I smiled back as we began to sway side to side, the tips of my hair brushing back and forth over the skin of our folded arms.

  “This song,” I told him.

  “You like it?” he asked me, releasing my hand. I brought it up to his shoulder.

  “I love it. I think it’s one of the best things you’ve ever written; one of the best I’ve ever heard.”

  “I’m testing it out here. I’ve got an artist ready to sin
g over the track, but I wanted to see how it did tonight.”

  “Well, it’s going to obliterate the charts, Atticus. Seriously.” He smiled but there was something in it, something secret. “What?” I urged.

  “It’s called ‘Hazel.’”

  My breaths came quickly. “Oh my God, really?”

  “Really.” He bent closer to my ear. “Took me six hours to write it. When I get the lyrics recorded, I’ll play it for you.”

  I swallowed. “I look forward to it.” He looked at me. I started to open my mouth but closed it. “I’m speechless.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, turning and hitting a button on one of his decks. I grabbed his chin and turned his face toward mine. “It’s an incredible gift, Atticus. I can’t believe you wrote this for me. I’m in awe.”

  His face bloomed a little and it made my heart skip a beat. “It was the easiest song I’ve ever written.”

  We didn’t say anything else. Instead, he kept his forefinger slightly bent in the waistband of my skirt near my hipbone to keep me near him as he readied the next song. This simple, innocuous gesture did something to my insides and the palm of my left hand went to my head. The war inside was raging in a vicious battle between touch him and run from him. I want him. You don’t deserve him. I want him. You don’t deserve him. I want him. You don’t deserve him.

  “What are you doing, baby girl?” he asked me, stirring me from the conflict within.

  I looked at him. Him with his clean, straight white teeth, defined features, and brilliant eyes. He’d tucked his hair behind his ears, and I found him incredibly irresistible. I didn’t want to want him but I did, so bad.

  “Hazel,” he urged.

  “You’re my friend?” I asked him.

  His smirk fell and he nodded. “Yes, Hazel.”

  I nodded my relief at this. “I’m ready to shed the guilt, Atticus,” I pleaded, the bass around us pulsing, reverberating against our skin. “Help me remember her without the pain.”