Page 25 of Dash to Me
I suppress a laugh. Being unprepared isn’t in my vocabulary. Atlas teases me about my color-coded packing system, but I know he secretly loves it.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Atlas: On my way. They show up on time?
I type back quickly.
Me: Just arrived. Coffee’s ready too.
Three dots appear.
Atlas: A woman who knows me. Be there in 10.
I tuck the phone away, feeling that familiar flutter in my chest.
The movers start carrying boxes to their truck, and I stand in my childhood home. It’s crazy to think of all the memories we share here. But by this afternoon, we’ll be living together. I hear his car pull up outside, and I clutch his coffee mug a little tighter. Today’s the day everything changes, and yet the most important thing—us—remains exactly the same. I take a step toward the door, ready to welcome Atlas with his perfectly prepared coffee—two sugars, splash of cream—when I hear a crash from the back bedroom.
“Sorry!” one of the movers calls out. “Just bumped the nightstand.”
My heart rate spikes. That nightstand holds more than just our bedside essentials. It’s where I’ve been keeping Atlas’s surprise.
“Everything okay?” I call back, torn between checking the damage and greeting Atlas.
“All good, ma’am. Nothing broken.”
Relief washes over me just as Atlas appears in the doorway, his smile brighter than the morning sun. His hair is still damp from his post-fishing shower, and he’s wearing the blue button-down I love.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. He smells like cedar. “How’s the packing queen doing today?”
I hand him his coffee. “Very funny. Everything’s ready to go. Your fishing trip was successful?”
“Ryan caught more, but mine were bigger.” He takes a sip and makes that satisfied humming sound that always makes me smile. “Perfect, as always.”
The movers continue their work around us, a flurry of activity as they load my life into their truck. Atlas wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close as we watch them.
“Second thoughts?”
I look up at him, surprised. “About moving in together? Not a single one.” It’s these little things—the way he remembers details, makes space for me in his life—that make me certain about us.
The lead mover approaches with his clipboard. “We’ve got most of the boxes loaded. Want to do a final walkthrough before we finish up?”
Atlas nods. “Lead the way.”
We follow him through the house and I can’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia.
“You okay?” Atlas squeezes my hand.
“Just remembering,” I say. “But I’m ready for new memories.”
“Speaking of memories,” he says, “my mom texted. She’s making her famous lasagna tonight.”
I suppress the urge to clap my hands in delight. His mother’s lasagna is legendary, layers of pasta, cheese, and sauce that somehow taste like home even though I didn’t grow up eating it.
“Did you tell her I’m bringing the chocolate cake?” I ask, mentally checking that box on my list.
“Yep. Dad’s already talking about how he’s going to need to loosen his belt.” Atlas chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “Mom’s also invited my sister and her new boyfriend. Should be interesting if they show up.”
The movers finish loading the last of my furniture—the antique reading chair my grandmother left me—and I sign the paperwork. As they drive away, Atlas and I stand in the living room.
