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But at the time, I told myself the name was a good reminder to stay strong—all while trying to punish him in my own fucked up way—because I knew he would never think to look for me under that new alias.
I knew all of this...and yet it still shocks me how much moments like these continue to pummel me the way they do.
I fall to the ground in a fit of sobs, no longer trying to keep them at bay because I can't.
Because it's these moments that hurt the most.
The moments that bring back the memories, the heartache, and the pain.
The moments that I can still taste him on my lips, smell his scent on my skin—and feel him coursing through me.
The moments that I realize I'm still a broken puzzle—and he's the only piece that can put me back together again—all while tearing me apart.
I walk out of the bathroom and straight into a hard chest.
When I glance up, I notice it's the same guy from the table.
The one who wasn't an asshole.
“Hey,” he says, and I notice his southern accent isn't as thick as the others.
“Hi,” I respond, trying my best to side-step him. “And bye.”
He moves to the side and I take the opportunity to start walking away.
“Look, I'm real sorry if I said something that offended you.”
I pause and let out a long sigh. There's really no reason for me to give him an attitude when it was his friend who was the rude one.
“You didn't,” I tell him.
“I meant what I said back there,” he says, walking beside me now. “I like your name. I think it suits you.”
“You don't even know me.”
“But I'd like to.”
I stop mid-stride and glare at him. “I don't date customers.”
He thinks about this for a moment and his face breaks out into a slow grin. “Well alright then.”
With that he dips his head and walks back over to his friends.
Another 3 hours later, I'm walking out to my car when I hear footsteps following behind me.
I immediately reach for the gun in my purse and spin around and the same guy from before eyes open wide.
“Yeah, your name definitely suits you,” he says, giving me that same grin from earlier, seemingly oblivious to the gun I have pointed at him.
“Why are you following me? I already told you—I don't date customers.”
I lower the gun and he takes a step forward and pulls out a napkin. “I'm not a customer,” he declares while handing it to me.
I can't help but laugh as I read what it says.
Atticus Lynch is hereby permanently ba
—Management
“You got yourself ba
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug as his grin grows wider.
I can't help but laugh again as my next thought hits me. “No wonder you stuck up for me about my name earlier. I mean, Atticus Lynch. Really?”
He puts his hand over his heart, feigning offense. “It's not my fault that my Momma's favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird.”
I shake my head as he takes a step closer to me. “Don't get me wrong, it's a fine piece of literature. A classic.”
“I take it you're a big reader?”
He takes my hand and maneuvers it so that it's palm side up. Before I can stop him, he pulls out a sharpie and begins writing what I can only assume must be his number. “I'm a very big reader.”
For a moment, I stop breathing entirely as an image of Ricardo flashes through my head.
“In fact, I'd like to tell you all about my favorite hobbies over di
“I can't—” I start to say before he cuts me off.
“Just think about it, please.”
I'm about to protest again but then he says, “An hour, that's all I'm asking for. Think about it for a full hour before you make your final decision.”
I want to tell him that 60 minutes won't make a world of difference, but he taps my palm with the sharpie. “If an hour goes by and you still decide that you don't want to go on a date with me, then wash your hands.”
It isn't until he's halfway across the parking lot that I realize it's not a number written on my hand after all...but a bird.
I can feel myself start to smile, but then memories of DeLuca slice through my head and I start to tremble instead.
Atticus only drew the bird on my hand because of his name, I remind myself as I start the car and drive off.
I reach in the glove box and pull out the burner phone Ricardo gave me.
I turned it off months ago, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it entirely.
He said I could call him if I was ever in trouble, and although I'm not—being asked out on a date by a guy who almost made me smile has me yearning to hear his voice.
I close my eyes and wait for the urge to pass, but it doesn't.
It never does.
I throw the phone back into the glove box and slam it shut before walking inside the house and into my bedroom.
I shut the door behind me and tears clog my eyes for the second time that night.
I just want to be over him.
The plush bu
I just want to be over them.
Why won't this pain go away? I killed him. I got my revenge, shouldn't that make me feel better instead of worse?
Loud sobs rip from my throat and before my brain catches up to what I'm doing, I find myself lying in the bathtub.
I draw my knees up to my chest and force myself to breathe, but it's no use.
I thought killing DeLuca would make all the pain go away and stop the constant hollow ache in my heart.
I thought killing him would wash away all the dirty and make me clean again.
I thought killing him would somehow fix everything.
But I was wrong. So fucking wrong.
Killing DeLuca didn't make me stronger, it only made me weaker.
And although I'm no longer a bird locked in DeLuca's cage of misery anymore, it doesn't mean I'm free.
Because there's only one place I've ever felt truly free.
The organ in my chest squeezes so hard I wince and I can't help but scream through my sobs.
God, I miss him so much. So much it physically hurts more than any wound ever could.
The bathroom door opens and a pair of arms wrap around me, trying to console me.
I don't tell her to get out or attempt to push her away. Momma's witnessed these meltdowns too many times for me to be embarrassed about it anymore.
And thankfully, she's never once asked me why I always have these meltdowns in a bathtub while I'm fully clothed.
She's also past the point of suggesting I call Ricardo because she knows that I'll not only decline, but I'll pack up and leave faster than she can blink.
Instead, she smooths my hair and wipes my eyes with a tissue as I ride out the first round.
Because she doesn't know about the second round.
No one does.
During the day, I work toward the life I want...but at night, I cry for the life I lost.
Both of them.
After she leaves, I crawl into bed and close my eyes.
Images of what my life should have been like flash before my eyes, and that's when the second round hits.
Grief barrels into me like a freight train and I stuff my hand in my mouth so I don't scream again.