It Starts with Us by Colleen Hoover

Atlas is so angry, but this is an anger I’m not afraid of.
I realize the significance of this moment. I’m alone with an angry man in
my apartment, but I’m not in fear for my life, because he isn’t angry at me.
He’s angry at the person who hurt me. It’s a protective anger, and there’s a
world of difference between my reactions to Ryle’s anger versus my reaction
to Atlas’s anger.
When Atlas turns to me again, I can see the hard set of his jaw and the
veins in his neck when he says, “How am I supposed to be civil around him,
Lily?” There’s guilt in his voice when he whispers, “I should have been there
for you. I should have done more.”
I can understand the anger, but Atlas has absolutely nothing to feel guilty
for. I wasn’t at a point in my life where Atlas could have said or done
anything to change my views of Ryle. I had to get to that point on my own.
I walk closer to Atlas and press my back into the wall across from him. He
does the same on the opposite wall until we’re facing each other. He’s
working through a lot of emotions right now, and I want to give him the
space to do that. But I also have a lot to say about the guilt Atlas is holding
on to.
“The first time Ryle hit me, it was because I laughed at him. I was tipsy,
and I thought something was funny that wasn’t funny, and he backhanded
me.”
Atlas has to break eye contact after hearing me say that. I don’t know if he
wants these details, but I’ve been wanting to say all this to him for a long
time. He remains still against the wall, but it looks like it’s taking everything
in him not to run straight to wherever Ryle is right now. His eyes are sharp
when he looks back at me, waiting for me to finish.
“The second time, he pushed me down the stairs. That argument started
because he found your number hidden in my phone case. And when he bit me
on my shoulder… You’re right. It was because he read the journals and found
out my tattoo was because of you, and that the magnet I kept on my
refrigerator was from you.” I look down briefly because it’s hard seeing how
much this is affecting him. “I used to think the things I did somehow
warranted his reactions. Like maybe if I wouldn’t have laughed, he wouldn’t
have hit me. Maybe if I didn’t have your number in my phone, he wouldn’t
have gotten angry enough to push me down a flight of stairs.”
Atlas isn’t even looking at me anymore. His head is leaned back against
the wall, and he’s staring at the ceiling, taking everything in, frozen in his