Chapter Eighteen | 1980s Horror Film

♫ 1980s Horror Film II by Wallows

"He still stayed over, but went to bed early. Then when I woke up this morning, he'd already left." Elle's voice cracks over the call. I can hear her move through my phone, the sound of the sink turning on and dishes clinking together.

I momentarily move my phone away from my ear to swipe at the screen. Logan hasn't contacted me since last night.

Elle called me earlier today (Saturday the thirty-first) to break down what happened with Logan the night before. She said she'd imagined it would be like an intervention, except she was alone and she brought up the photos I sent her as they were eating instant noodles and watching a Wes Anderson movie in the living room.

Apparently Logan stared blankly at them—the photos—noodles dangling from his mouth, muttered something about prescribed pharmaceuticals and then went to sleep. He didn't get angry or defensive. But then again, he's not the type.

I've always known Logan to be kind of difficult to decipher. When he talks about his feelings at all, he does so in slivers of information, straight to the point, then brushes it off before anyone else can. I can tell he wants to talk about things, but he seems to hold himself back when I try to dig any further.

The things he's told me about the team have been slivers of information, too, revealed to me over the span of a few weeks. Him feeling inadequate, him feeling pressured, him not connecting with the others. I imagine it like scaling down the side of a building: letting himself slip, then stopping, then slipping a little again, all the while holding onto a tightrope injuring the palms of his hands.

I think that's why the situation scares me so much. Of course, it's surprising. But it's also shocking because I know he wouldn't have told anyone, and though I believe it was never his intention for anyone to find out, maybe the slivers were him hoping we would.

"Have you tried getting a hold of him since?" I ask.

"Of course. He said he got back to his dorm safely, repeated that they were meds and told me not to worry." She pauses. "I won't just leave it, though, especially considering everything you told me. I'm thinking of going to one of his practices and seeing how the team is with him. If that gives me reason for concern, I'll discuss it with his coach and my parents."

"Without telling him?"

She confirms it with a hum, then sighs deeply. "Anyway. Sorry to put a damper on your Halloween."

"Are you kidding? I want to know about these things. You know I care about Logan like family." And I do, truly. So much that part of me has felt guilty all day for going to the unveiling last night knowing Elle was confronting Logan about something so serious.

"I do know that," says Elle. "By the way, do you have plans tonight? If you're alone, you can come over. Flynn's here, too."

"Flynn's always there," I snort, and she laughs. "But I do have plans. I'm watching horror movies from the eighties with a few friends."

Elle doesn't miss a beat. "Including Atlas Wilder?"

I feel the heat rise to my face and glance over my shoulder. I'm standing in the corridor of Atlas' penthouse, back to the wall and face to the elevator. He invited me over late last night and told me 'the group'—which I learned consists of him, the twins, Kaitlyn and Liz—was planning to have a horror movie marathon at his place, a tradition they've apparently been upholding since their sophomore year of high school.

"You hate horror movies," Elle continues, "Remember when we went to see It in theaters with your siblings and Logan? Fifteen minutes in you said you were going to pee and then just never came back."

"Okay, but movie theaters are different. It's just you and this gigantic screen you can't look away from or pause when it gets too much." Besides, it would've been two hours of me sitting there, tensed to the core of my bones with my fingers in my ears, jumping at every shift and cough and hand reaching into popcorn.

I Googled it after (frustratedly typed 'do people with cerebral palsy scare faster' with two tensed fingers) and learnt that cerebral palsy means neurodivergence. Google explained the Moro reflex to me, also known as the startle reflex. It's something all people are born with, but disappears when they grow out of being literal babies.

Of course, cerebral palsy and my neurodivergency meant that the Moro reflex nestled itself into my brain and made me anxious all the time, due to my sensitivity to loud sounds, sudden sounds, sudden movements, sharp noises, and the list goes on endlessly.

My Dad said he noticed this very early on because of a car alarm going off in the neighborhood. Normal people might startle from the first loud noise, then realize it's an alarm, register that in their brains and continue on. But it didn't work that way for me: I kept being startled every time and in turn my entire body would tense like I was made out of metal rods, unmoving and unable to even try.

I don't even know what prompted me to look it up back then. I think I was just eager to have something to point to when it happened again, to be able to say, look, it's not me. I can't help it.

Needless to say, this was something I was especially eager to do because of my lack of social skills and my desire to come across as normal. And if I couldn't (come across as normal), I figured the best thing was for people to feel bad for me. Because if they felt bad for me, it meant that they'd still be nice to me, and the alternative was something I knew all too well and something I knew I'd never want to experience again.

Apart from my shocky movements, then, and apart from my chronic pain and my brain working overtime just for me to be able to take continuous steps, I always feel on edge. It takes one loud sound, one sudden movement, one stranger starting a sentence with what sounds like the beginning of my name, for me to startle once and then have my entire body tighten and work against me for the rest of the day, at the least.

I connected these dots right after my sessions with Claire already ended, so I've never been able to have her confirm or debunk my theory, but I think this is why I'm so anxious all the time. And why I can only feel truly comfortable within my body when I am truly alone.

And that, in turn, is why I feel so conflicted about my current life and the choices that I'm making. I want to be the person I feel I'm becoming, someone who owns what sets her apart, takes control of the narrative and defines it for herself without letting the opinions of others sway her in her security. But at the same time, I wonder if it's worth making myself uncomfortable.

There has to be a limit to how much you can push yourself. When does discomfort, even if it's for the sake of growing, become self-destructive? And how can you tell?

"I should probably get back to the others now," I say into the phone.

"Wait, you're already there? Why didn't you say so? I've been keeping you on for ten minutes!"

"It's okay, I told them I was expecting an important call," I tell her with a laugh.

"Okay, okay. I'm hanging up now. Happy Halloween, Nov!"

"Happy Halloween!"

I take a deep breath before returning to the living room, my phone clenched in my hand. Elle was right to be surprised about my willingness to watch horror movies. Maybe it's better described as me settling, rather than me being willing, because truth to be told, what really convinced me to show up tonight was Atlas.

He kept me late at the venue last night. As Hudson Wilder's son and heir to the business (businesses, plural, probably), it was his responsibility as much as his father's to keep socializing until every guest had left.

I didn't mind, though, as he was clearly intent on making me comfortable. He explained the physics of the project to me, not that it made me any wiser, pointed out important landmarks from behind the window, snuck me into the kitchen after the staff had gone home and drove me back to my dorm with leftover hors d'ouvreurs, which Olivia and I ate in bed.

There's plenty I don't know about him, still, but that's what drew me here tonight.

I spot him in the kitchen when I've arrived back in the living room. Milo's scrolling through Instagram at the dinner table, shoving chips into his mouth handfulls at a time, and Liz and Kaitlyn sit shuffling a deck of cards at the coffee table, their legs curled up underneath them on the carpet. Maxwell should be here any minute, too, but last I heard he was picking up Maia to join us.

I notice the light's been dimmed to a soft, orange-y hue, matching the color of the fire cracking underneath the tv. Atlas has placed fake candles all around, too, that are flickering realistically and casting shadows against the dark grey walls. Some Winona Ryder movie's ready to play, the tv says, but for now there's still music playing, a relaxed and soft jazzy song that matches the ambiance of the penthouse.

I join Atlas in the kitchen and he glances up to see me walk in, smiling at me. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows as he cuts an avocado lengthwise around the seed, his fingers moving easily as he does.

"I'm making some guacamole for the nachos," he says. "Please tell me Milo's not eating the chips already." He sees me grimace and playfully rolls his eyes.

"Can I help you?" I offer, approaching the kitchen island. I run a hand over the black marble countertop, intending for it to look smooth and not as awkward as I feel around him, then sit on a stool.

"Uh," he inhales, quickly scanning the kitchen around him. "Actually, I think this dip's the last of it. Do you want anything to drink? You can just take whatever from the fridge, really. Make yourself at home."

I shake my head at him and mutter a thank you, already imagining the doom scenario: spilling a drink over his countertop, not being able to lift the glass to my mouth, chugging quickly because I can feel my grip tighten so much that I'm scared I'll squeeze the fragile glass to shreds that he'll have to clean up.

My body, as always, is something to keep in check. I find that keeping in check often looks like not doing anything except sit there, and even that's hard. (Have I always been this aware of my shoulder blades? My fingers keep trembling. If I stretch my legs, my calves feel like they're made of jelly from the inside. Why can't I just rest my mouth? Why do I feel like every inch of my skin is its own being, trying to get away from me?)

"So, do you have any Halloween traditions?" Atlas asks, pulling me from my train of thoughts. He peers up at me from underneath his eyebrows, just for a moment, then returns to his dip.

"Not really. We carved pumpkins every year and then went trick-or-treating, and when I got older I really liked going on a haybale ride through the town. But my family was more about Christmas."

"Right. Didn't you live somewhere with only three hundred people? I think that literally qualifies as a village," Atlas grins at me, remembering what I told him the night we met. It flusters me for a second.

"Should I look it up?" I suggest, and he nods. As I lay my phone flat on the table to use it, I mutter, "I can't believe you remember that."

"I remember all of it."

I look up at him.

"Okay." He lays down the avocado and the knife, then puts his hands flat on the counter and tips his chin up. "Your name is Nova Carter. You're eighteen and you've lived the majority of your life in what I'm pretty sure is a village. You listen to all types of music. You like foreign movies and don't drink, because it's illegal and you're a model citizen. You have a dog named after a state, I want to say Texas but I'm not sure, it could also be Tennessee— actually, now that I'm saying it out loud I'm pretty sure it's Texas. You dislike public transport and the texture of sauerkraut makes you uncomfortable." He pushes himself away from the counter and claps his hands once, proud of himself.

"You really did retain that much information about me," I say, after a moment of searching for the words.

He casually shrugs, picking up the avocado again, eyes cast downward. "I was interested in you," he says. "Still am."

I sit there for another moment, then look down at my phone screen. "O-Oh, wow, it really is considered a village."

His laugh is interrupted by the dinging of the elevator. Atlas raises his head, eyes on the living room.

"I think that's Maxwell and Maia," he says, then picks up the bowl of guacamole. I take this as my cue to stand and follow him out, my sweaty palms gripping my phone.

I notice he's on socks, which is an unusual sight. The Atlas I met in the maze is different than the Atlas I know now (not in a bad way, but still noticeably). I've learned that he's a lot more serious and grown-up than I anticipated that night. He's always either in class or at his Dad's office and the way he carries himself goes to show how he's expected to present himself. Last night made me realize how many people of importance know him and, even though they're much older than him, suck up to him because of his last name.

I don't feel as though they're two different people, the two Atlases I know, but I do hope he opens to me again like he did then. I know that he's older than me and further into his college education, that he has much more to think about than classes and socializing, friends and girls, but there's somewhat of a gap between us now, and every time I think I can abridge it, something else interjects, whether it's Milo calling me to open a box, state officials congratulating him at an unveiling, or someone making an entrance when we're having a conversation in which I finally feel comfortable.

I'm not quite sure where to stand as Atlas welcomes Maxwell inside first. Milo's texting someone on his phone and Liz and Kaitlyn are still talking and I never know how to just jump into existing conversations, so I end up hovering at the space between the kitchen and living space, on the elevated platform of the dining table.

"Don't get mad at me," I hear Maxwell say to Atlas, who takes his coat from him.

"What are you talking about?"

That's when Maia makes an entrance, still tall and slender with her brown hair swirled into a perfect Bella-Hadid-bun, except she has another girl on her arm.

If Maia's a model like Atlas told me last night, this girl must be a colleague or something. Her skin is the perfect shade of brown, glowing like she just returned from an island vacation. Her hair hangs down her back in loose curls, not a single hair out of place, and she has arched eyebrows and lashes that are so long that when she studies Atlas with a smirk on her face, they graze the apples of her cheeks.

She loosens herself from Maia's grip and steps forward to meet Atlas. "Missed me, Wilder?"

I look at him. I've never seen him like this, with his eyes wide. He seems flustered, I realize. She's making him nervous.

"What's Ramona doing here?" Milo asks from behind me, but he gets ignored.

Ramona—the name suits her well—throws her arms around Atlas, laughing. "You're still adorable," she says, then pulls back and eyes Milo with a glint in her eye. "And you still easily go unnoticed."

Milo's lip twitches and he narrows his eyes at her. "It's so funny how memories just resurface after seeing someone's face, like I just remembered that every time you open your mouth, I get this overwhelming urge to cover my ears."

But Ramona isn't bothered. Liz and Kaitlyn go to greet her, too, but they don't seem to know her, either. She's nice to them, though, complimenting them on their looks instantly and reaching out to play with the locks of their hair.

I look at Atlas, who's standing off to the side. He can't shift his gaze away from her and I don't know if it's because he's entranced or trying to figure her out. But somehow, just by the way he hovers near her and clenches the hand she touched, I can tell whatever he feels for her is strong.

"Who's this?"

I look away from him to see Ramona studying me. She doesn't hide the way she looks me up and down, the amused glint in her eyes sparkling bright. I find that I'm not sure how to stand or what to do with my hands or face.

Suddenly she approaches. In just a few long, easy strides she stands directly in front of me.

Whether it's her or me that prompted it, Atlas snaps out of whatever trance he was in and joins us, standing at her side as he says, "This is Nova," and smiles at me.

"Oh my God," Ramona gasps, a hand to her mouth as she turns back to address Maia. "Is this her?"

I have no idea what she's talking about. Apparently, Maia has told her about me and she wants me to know it. I can't tell if they've been positive about me or not, but I don't like the way she looks at me.

Maia confirms it with a nod and Ramona turns back to me, laughing into her hand. "Wait, I can't. It's so cute how you guys took her to the unveiling last night, I'm dying." Without warning, she hooks her arm behind mine and drags me to the sofa, where she sits us down. I almost trip on the way there, but she ignores it. "What was your name again? I'm so terrible, Atlas just told me but I literally forgot."

"It's Nova," I say, subtly scooting away from her.

I find that I don't really know how to function when she's looking at me as if I'm a science project. Just by the way she addressed the others about me while looking at me, says enough. I know exactly what kind of person she is— better yet, what kind of person she'll be to me.

"So pretty," Ramona says. "Did you like it yesterday? I wanted to be there, but I was still in Dubai, so I had to turn Atlas down. But when I found out he asked you, I was like, okay, I'm cool with this. Like, part of me thought if I declined his invite he'd take this gorgeous person and I'd just be jealous."

The words hit me like a truck. Everything she says to me has a mean edge to it, even though she says it sweetly. She even slows her words when she talks to me, widening her eyes ever so slightly, as if I won't understand what she's saying if she doesn't. She absolutely thinks that I am stupid, and I am as stupid to get offended by it.

"Nova's a gorgeous person, though. You have every right to be jealous." Milo sits down on the sofa between Ramona and I, exaggerating an exhale when he sits. I wish I could thank him telepathically, but by the look he sends me in a passing second, I think he knows.

"You know what I mean," Ramona says to him, amused.

"No, I don't. Tell me, what do you mean?" Milo shoots back.

Her smile falters but she quickly covers it up, bringing the attention back to me. "You didn't have anything to do tonight?" She asks. "I remember when I was in college, I didn't have any friends, either, and I'd just tag along with random people. Looking back, it's so embarrassing."

"How old are you?" Milo asks. "Aren't you like twenty-four? Don't you still feel awkward hanging out with us, knowing we don't want you here?"

"Milo." Atlas walks into the room, shooting Milo a stern look as he hands Ramona a glass of white wine. She takes it without thinking about how. Or maybe she does think about how, because I can swear her fingers linger on his before she pulls away.

Milo just rolls his eyes.

Atlas looks over at me, then at the empty spot next to me on the sofa, but just as he's about to come sit with me Ramona's manicured fingers wrap around his wrist. She tugs gently, leaning forward and pouting.

"I haven't seen you in forever and you won't even sit with me?" She asks, tugging again.

Atlas looks down at her, his eyes softening. "You have a habit of disappearing, Ramona. People move on in the meantime."

"People, but not you."

Their eyes are locked on each other. Atlas sighs and gives in, sitting next to her, but she holds onto his hand. As she takes a sip of her drink, her eyes shift to me, and she smiles to herself as she looks away.

I don't know if I'm disappointed or offended, insecure or uncertain. It's obvious that there's something between her and Atlas, and it's also obvious she doesn't like me but won't come out and say it. What I am certain about is that I feel uncomfortable as Liz puts on the movie.

My body is rigid and my muscles are tight, and I sit with one hand against my ear as the movie plays, knowing there won't have to be any jumpscares in it for me to startle, anyway, and for my entire night to be ruined.

I want to go home.

Maybe this is the kind of discomfort you grow from, but I think I've done enough growing for a while. Now I just want to be, and nothing else.

I look around the room. I won't miss out on this movie. I've been so focused on not being startled, on the ache brewing within my joints as they froze up, that I can't even recall what the actor's last line was.

Liz and Kaitlyn sit on the carpet, their backs against the sofa. Maxwell and Maia share a loveseat by the window, curled up together. Atlas, Ramona and Milo sit next to me, and I realize the first two aren't holding hands anymore.

I can stand up now, but they'll all look at me. More specifically, at my face and my lips that I can't relax, at my legs and the tremble in my knees, and at the way I'll walk out, my knees bending backwards so much that I can imagine Ramona holding in a laugh, exchanging a glance with Maia as they both think the same things: that's her and how embarrassing.

It's funny. In moments like these I can so easily imagining myself escaping the situation I'm in, but none of the things I conjure up in my mind are solutions. Solutions for the way I sit there frozen but trembling, nervous and unsure, my brain working overtime to both calm me down and keep me in place. I just wish someone else would tell me what to do. I wish someone else would do it for me.

A door slams on the television and I jump, startling so bad that I can feel my heart throb in my throat. Ramona, someone, chokes out a laugh and says, "Did that scare you?" but I ignore the question and take the opportunity to stand, round the sofa and enter the hall.

Elle said I walked out of It fifteen minutes in. This must've barely been ten.

"Nova."

I turn. Atlas approaches me. "Hey, you're leaving?"

"I-" I haven't thought this through. Am I leaving? Am I just making rash decisions? Is it okay to go now, or would I just make it easier on Ramona? "I have to use the bathroom." I blink at him.

"Bathroom's... that way." He points a thumb over his shoulder, confused, because he knows I know that.

I grimace. "Okay. To be honest, I don't like horror movies. I was leaving because I got scared. But I promise, I would've come back and said bye!" This is embarrassing.

A smile breaks out on Atlas' face. He looks down, shuffles his feet and then looks up at me, his smile transitioning into laughter.

"What?" I ask, self-consciously.

"I don't like horror movies, either," he admits in a single breath. "In fact, I think it's safe to say that I genuinely harbor a deep hatred for them."

The confession shocks me. I noticed him during the movie and he looked so relaxed, and since this has been a tradition of his I would've guessed he at least liked doing it.

Atlas continues. "Honestly, when I saw you walk out I took that as an opportunity to escape, myself. And I really do not want to go back in there. So, I have a proposition." He points to a door on our left. "That's my study. I have a drawer full of games in there, board games, card games, all of it. What do you say we hide in there for the rest of the movie?"

Tension never quite leaves me, but in that moment I almost feel like relaxing. Normally this would probably come across as something like him having to amuse poor me because I can't handle a horror movie, but I push those thoughts away this time. I just let myself be relieved.

"No, don't do that."

Ramona appears behind him and joins us in the hall. She ignores me fully and obviously, almost standing against Atlas as she crosses her arms over her chest. "C'mon, Wilder, this is an ancient tradition of ours. If she wants to go, let her. But don't be that guy that lets a girl change everything." She moans her words like a child protesting bedtime, drawing out the last tone of every sentence.

Considering the way he's been looking at her, the way she's been touching him and the way he's been letting her, I'm convinced that Atlas will give in again and wave me off.

But he surprises both Ramona and me by saying, "She's not just a girl. You know her name."

Just like he did for the first time last night, he slips his hand into mine, our shoulders and upper arms brushing. I can't help but look up at him, but he's faced her, a calm, friendly look on his face.

"If you're so adamant about watching a movie on Halloween, you're welcome to continue doing so in the living room with the others. We'll be in the study." He takes a single step, pulling me with him, but then, after a short bit of consideration, turns to Ramona again.

"By the way, about what you said earlier, I invited you to last night's unveiling like I invited Liz and Kaitlyn, but Nova was my date from the start. That wouldn't have changed if you had showed up."

Ramona's still standing in the hall, unmoving, when he shuts the door to the study behind us.

I'm kind of afraid to look at him as we're standing there, hands still holding. But then I do, anyway, waiting until he finally turns, meets my eye and smiles softly. Then his gaze drops to our hands and he lets go, his lips parting. "Oh, sorry," he says.

What do I even say back to that, that isn't absolutely cringe-worthy? It's okay, I didn't mind?

The moment has passed though, when Atlas approaches a big bookshelf and tugs open a drawer at the height of his hips.

I take the opportunity to take a look at his study. A mahogany desk is obviously the centerpiece of the space, placed directly underneath a fluorescent chandelier. Two walls are covered by bookshelves, the third being wide windows that showcase the city and the fog hanging over it lowly tonight. Only skyscrapers stick out from underneath, and I can only tell where Central Park is by the lack of them.

"Is this where you do your coursework?" I ask, running a hand over his desk.

"No, I usually work on the couch with the tv on. It sounds irresponsible, but it works." Atlas straightens up, a few games bundled up in his arms. "I only really spend time here when Rosie's over, because she thinks this carpet is more comfortable than the one I have in the living room."

I sit next to him, scanning the games on the floor quickly. Most of the boxes look fairly outdated, but then there's some of them that are still wrapped into a thin see-through foil, never opened before.

I gasp. "Oh, you have Set!" I exclaim excitedly, reaching for the blue rectangular box. It's one of the outdated ones, so he must've played the game a lot.

"You know Set? It's one of my favorites!" Atlas says. He puts two hands on his knees and then takes the box when I offer it back to him. "Do you wanna play?"

I nod. Maybe it's embarrassing how I'm sitting here right now, giddy over a childhood game, but I think most of all, I'm relieved.

I didn't want to go home just now. I mean, the night had barely even started. I just wanted an out, away from that horror movie and admittedly away from Ramona.

'Going home' is always an option and it's easier, because in my mind, 'going home' means relieving people of me. So far, I imagined it as me leaving and the entire atmosphere changing as I do, as if people have been holding their breaths and their tongues with me in the room. As if the only thing I do, literally, is suck people's souls out of their bodies, force them to conform to someone they don't even want around.

But this is what I wanted, truly. Sit on the floor to play games. Get excited over a deck of cards. And ultimately raise my voice, even if it's ever so slightly, to express myself.

"Just a warning," Atlas says as he shuffles the deck, then starts laying the cards down. "I win this game every ti—"

"Set!" I interject, leaping forward to collect my cards. I show them to Atlas. "See?"

His eyebrows knit together. "Okay," he deadpans. "Damn."

He doesn't brag about how good he is after that. In fact, a thick silence stretches between us as we both lean forward, hovering over the cards. His deck grows quickly, but although I'm not counting, I have a feeling I'm doing better.

Behind me, the door opens. For a split second I think it's going to be Ramona, here to try to drag Atlas back once again and refer to me as 'adorable' or 'that girl', but instead, Liz's voice comes from the doorway.

"Hey, what're you guys doing?"

"We're playing Set," Atlas tells her. "Horror movies freak us out so we escaped and now I'm beating her in card games."

"Set!" I call out again.

"Actually, I take that back. She's beating me in card games."

Liz enters the study while shutting the door behind her again and comes to sit with us on the carpet, instantly deflating. "Thank God. I fucking hate horror movies."

I finally look up from the cards to exchange a glance with Atlas. He raises his eyebrows at her. "Are you serious?" He asks.

Liz just nods. "Let me join the next game, okay? I'm staying in this room indefinitely."

The situation makes me want to laugh, but I keep it in. I really do beat Atlas that round, but Liz wins the next and then we move onto Uno.

Much to our surprise, the door opens again a few minutes later. Milo sticks his head in. "Next time you're escaping the she-devil Ramona Sinclair, don't leave me behind," he complains, and collapses on the carpet next to me, pushing the door shut with his foot.

"Do you hate horror movies, too, Milosh?" Liz asks playfully.

He looks her in the eyes. "Do you know why I've never broken a single bone in my life, Elizabeth? It's because I'm a coward. Of course I hate horror movies!"

The last sentence comes out rushed, so it sounds more like ofcourseIhatehorrormovies. Everyone in the room understands instantly, though. There's screaming and what sounds like a chainsaw coming from the living room and it makes all four of us cringe.

"What if Kaitlyn, Maxwell, Maia and Ramona are all getting brutally murdered right now and we're just sitting here, assuming it's the tv?" Milo says, suddenly.

"Why would you say that?" Atlas asks, not hiding his disgust.

Before Milo can respond to that, Liz rises to her feet. "I'm getting Kait."

"Is she also not a horror fan?" I ask her as she heads for the door.

She grimaces. "Hates 'em."

The five of us end up playing games on the floor of Atlas' study for the next three hours. Somewhere along the way Milo went and got us snacks from the dinner table, including the chips and guacamole Atlas prepared specifically for tonight. Liz even connected her phone to the speakers and is playing one of her Spotify Daily Mixes, which is a lot of Alina Baraz and SZA but ultimately fits the night perfectly.

By the time Maxwell, Maia and Ramona appear in the doorway, we're already getting ready to head out.

"But it's still so early," Ramona pouts. She makes a show of ignoring me and addresses Liz and Kaitlyn only. Both of them are tying their shoelaces on the carpet, while I claimed Atlas' desk seat.

"It's past midnight and I still want to get some work done before my deadline tomorrow," Kaitlyn says.

Liz turns to me. "You had something on Monday, right? A deadline?"

"A presentation," I correct her. "In professor Stew's Writing 101 class."

This prompts a chorus of 'ooh's' from the group. Apparently professor Stew is known all around to be a strict professor and an unpleasant man in general.

"What time is your presentation?" Milo asks, putting on his coat and buttoning it up to his chin.

"Eleven fifteen." I don't ask why he asks.

My parents always used to mark the timestamps of my exams and presentations in their calendars (with a notification and everything) so that they could 'mentally wish me good luck in the moment'. Literally speaking I knew it didn't make any sense, but I still found that it helped. In some odd way. Maybe this is like that.

We move to the door as Maxwell, Maia and Ramona return to the living room. Liz and Kaitlyn decide on the spot to walk me to my building after we've taken the sub, while Milo has to go in the opposite direction. The three of them head for the elevator as I linger by Atlas, wanting to say something but not quite certain what.

"I want a SET rematch," he tells me, before the silence can grow awkward.

I laugh. "I want you to accept your defeat."

"Not gonna happen, Carter." He shakes his head, then gently nudges me. "Go. Catch some Z's, comfortable in your bed."

I nod my head, inhaling and getting ready to take a step. Suddenly feeling ridiculous, but doing it anyway, I look at him and say, "Thank you."

Maybe I'm thanking him for inviting me. Or for sticking up for me with Ramona. Or for escaping the horror movie with me, or for letting me win, if he did.

Whichever one it is, he can figure it out.

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