Page 184 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“I know.” He nods. “Um, should we get going?”
Still skeptical, I allow him to help me into the passenger side of his truck, and when he shuts the door, I set my drink down to buckle up. When he joins me, I look him in the eyes.
“You know, something was a little off in the coffee shop,” I say, wanting to be fully transparent.
“What was it?” he asks while blowing on his hot chocolate before he takes a sip.
“Um, well, I met Martha and Mae, and they said something about looking through archives?—”
Atlas sputters out his hot chocolate, the liquid dripping down his face.
“Oh God,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“Napkin, I need a napkin.”
I pop open his glove compartment only for a paper to roll out onto the floor. A stack of napkins sits in the glove compartment, so I grab a few and hand them to Atlas before picking up the paper that rolled out.
Cute crayon drawings are scrolled across the paper, so while he cleans up, I unroll the paper as I say, “Aw, did Florence draw this—” My words are cut short as I take in the stick figures, the precisely drawn stick figures that look a lot like me and a lot like Atlas—not to mention my name is next to the first drawing at the top.
The figures are holding hands, there are hearts in the girl’s eyes, and at the very bottom, she’s crying with a broken heart next to her. At the top it readsBattle Plan.
“Atlas, what is this?” I turn it toward him as he finishes wiping his face. When his eyes read over the paper, they go wide, and I can see panic strike his features.
“Where . . .? How . . . did you find that?”
“It was in your glove box just now. What is this?”
“Fuck,” he says as he turns toward me. “Okay... fuck, don’t get mad.”
“Don’t get mad? That’s not a way to start an explanation.”
“I know, but what I’m about to say is going to sound really fucking bad, okay, but I don’t want you?—”
“Is this about me?” I look down at the paper again, trying to decipher it.
“Yes,” he answers honestly. “It’s about you.”
“Why does it saybattle planat the top?”
He blows out a heavy breath and looks me in the eyes. “Because it’s what I put together when, uh... when you first started sniffing around the farm, before you knew me.”
“I don’t understand.” I look down at it again. “The pictures almost make it seem like you were trying to get me to fall for you.” And then it clicks.
Hits me all at once.
My head snaps up to his, and I feel myself slowly start to inch away. “Oh my God, was this a plan to get me to fall for you?”
He winces, but to his credit, he answers, “Yes.”
“Wh-why? And why am I crying at the bottom?”
“Fuck.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “Listen, Betty. Fuck, how do I explain this. I?—”
Knock, knock.
Startled, I look out my window. Uncle Dwight is standing on the other side, not looking happy at all.
Oh shit.
