You know when you make a mistake, but in the moment, you don't realize it's a mistake. You exist in a state of ignorant bliss, and it's not until it rears its ugly head, like the devil demanding payment after you've unknowingly sold your first born child, that you realize you've fucked up.

For example, in the moment, giving Atlas my phone number when he asked seemed harmless. A joke. An informal formality. Like when you tell someone you haven't seen in a while that you two should "catch up," but neither of you have any intention of doing so. Just like I didn't think Atlas had any intention of actually messaging me. We'd exchanged the "hey this is my number" on WhatsApp and that was the end of it.

It wasn't until a week afterwards when I realized it was, in fact, a horrible mistake. The high pitched trill of the FaceTime ringtone filled my kitchen as I darted back and forth from my refrigerator to my counter, hands covered in a sticky mess of flour and dough. I was in the midst of a quiche versus frittata experiment with my dad, and needless to say my quiche was the kind of experiment I'd probably get an F on in science class. I was always more right-brained anyway.

Not thinking twice, I swiped the call open with my knuckle, assuming it was Gemma. I left my phone face up on the counter, specks of flour dusting the screen, and called over to it.

"This better be important, because I'm elbow deep in quiche filling."

"Um...that sounds quite uncomfortable," came a thick, British-accented voice that was definitely not Gemma from the other side of the phone.

I froze, and I was sure if I opened my mouth, my heart would come spilling out of it. Phone still face up on the countertop, I subtly peeked over at it. Sure enough, there was Atlas on my phone screen, the silhouette of his perfectly chiseled face barely visible in the dim light of wherever he was. A sudden banging sound came from the other end of the phone, and everything went dark, followed by the most eloquent uttering of the word motherfucker I'd ever heard in my life.

"Sh...shit..." Atlas grumbled. "Hold on, I dropped my phone." Followed by a sigh. "Phantom...Phantom move. Use the other pillow, why do you need mine?"

I couldn't help but crack a small grin, but I took his fumbling around as an opportunity to dash across the kitchen and clean myself up, dough and flour and all.

"Savannah..." my name dripped off his lips like honey, and it made my nerves short-circuit. "I did call Savannah, right? What...why am I looking at your ceiling?"

I glanced at the clock on my microwave. 5:28 PM, which meant it was damn near 2:30 in the morning in Monaco. The devil had come to collect...and he was drunk.

"Sorry," I called back to my phone. "I uh...I was cooking."

After smoothing my mess of hair down with damp hands and brushing the flour off my oversized Grateful Dead tie-dye t-shirt, I took one last deep breath and propped my phone up against the vase on my kitchen counter.

Even in the dimness of what I remembered all too well as his bedroom, I could make out the pink in his cheeks and the freckles that dotted his bare shoulders and chest. He leaned back against the headboard of his bed and smiled at me, white teeth and all.

"Hey..." he slurred out. "I was starting to think you ditched me for a quiche."

My heart thumped against my chest, and I hoped he was too inebriated to notice the splotchy redness spreading across my cheeks. I scoffed. "Hey, give quiche a chance."

"How long you been waitin' to use that one?" he grinned.

"Longer than I care to admit," I replied with a flick of my wrist. "Anyway, aren't you tired? Getting some sleep seems more important than the intricacies of my quiche."

Another 10 point deflection trick. I could win a world championship on deflection alone by now.

"I just got back. An hour ago. I think." He paused and squeaked out a hiccup. "Honestly...do not remember how I got from the plane back to my place."

I grazed my teeth over my bottom lip, watching him squirm around in bed, probably trying to stop the room from spinning. Glimpses of hands and elbows and his messy head of hair. Something that might have been a blanket. The sound of Phantom's collar jingling. More mumbling in that god damn Welsh accent. My knees were slowly turning gelatinous.

"You okay?" I asked with a chuckle.

"Fucking lovely," he replied triumphantly, and as soon as that bit of glinting silver hardware came into view, I understood why. He held the phone back to put the trophy in full display, propped up against the headboard with his arm slung around it like it was another person. I had tried to be so far removed from Atlas and all his high octane glory, I ignored the fact that today had been a race day. I had been underwater for most of it.

"And that's your Hungarian Grand Prix winner," he grinned. "I had a fucking scare in the first few laps, my engine got really hot and I fell back like...three places at one point, but then there was some kind of drama behind me, pretty sure it was Callahan Francis Jane's fault..."

I snickered into my palm, knowing I may have just obtained a tidbit of info on Red Polo Shirt Guy that Gemma didn't have. Callahan Francis.

Atlas could have been speaking another language, but I just let him go on about what happened on this turn and that turn, and something about his tyres. Even visibly plastered, he beamed when he got really into it, and it made me smile like a smitten little school girl. I only hoped I looked like that when I talked about surfing. At one point I was starting to get the hang of some of the terminology, and it just sucked me in like a black hole, deeper and deeper into his universe.

"Well, congratulations." I grinned at him, and as I watched him struggle to keep the trophy upright on the bed next to him, I realized I'd take this over any god damn trophy waving, champagne spraying, national anthem playing bullshit ceremony any day. He let out a tired laugh, and that moment, all warm and giddy and drunk, was where I'd rather be.

"Although..." his eyes fluttered shut and he let out a sigh. After a few seconds I started to wonder if he'd actually just fallen asleep, until he opened his eyes again and gave me a soft little smile. "I mean, the trophy is great, but I wouldn't mind if this was you either."

He had me. Even wasted and thousands of miles away, he had me.

"You're drunk, Atlas," I chuckled and shook my head.

"So what?" he slurred out.

"So..." I leaned back against the counter and sighed. "So why don't you tell me all this when you're sober."

He gave me that soft, wistful smile again, and it seemed like all that cold, larger than life persona had fallen away. He pushed a lock of white hair back off his forehead. "Okay. I will."

I shook my head at him. "You should really get to sleep, though."

"Oh no wait." He fumbled with the phone again. "I uh...I just wanted to tell you...I listened to the music you sent me. And I think you should make me another one."

"Another playlist?" I arched an eyebrow.

He nodded. "But like...your music. I like your music."

This time, there was no stopping my heart from exploding. All I could do was minimize the blast radius.

"I'll make you another one if you go to sleep. Deal?" It was my turn to give him a soft, musing little smile.

"Okay...but something good, yeah? Don't let me down Savannah," he sighed. "I'm going to go vomit first, I think...but then I'm going to sleep."

I let out a dry laugh. "You do that. Goodnight, Atlas."

He hung up, and I stared back at my reflection in the dark screen for a moment. Something about him lingered, the way scent or touch would, but it wasn't anything tangible. It was more like the one line in a song you sort of knew but didn't know the rest, so that one line replays over and over again in your head.

Something good. Something good. Something good.

something good
for AV, pt ii
by sav allen on spotify • 12 songs, 43 min 33 sec

i am flawed,
but i am cleaning up so well
i am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself

vindicated / dashboard confessional

icymi - realizing how long overdrive is going to be (!!!) i contemplated actually splitting it up into two books, but instead i think the best course of action is that overdrive will now be split up into two definitive parts, sort of like seasons in a netflix show. i anticipate part 1 should be about 30 chapters or so, and ideally i do take a bit of a hiatus after part 1.

thanks for the love and support as always and i hope y'all enjoy the playlists too! yes, they're real and they're on my spotify