Page 30 of Dash to Me
Atlas groans beside me. “I didn’t even give it to you. I chickened out and told my mom I lost it.”
“He came home with it still in his backpack,” Mrs. Lockwood calls from the kitchen. “Refused to talk about it for days.”
I turn to Atlas, whose cheeks are flushed pink. “Why didn’t you ever tell me how you felt? All those years...”
He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine. “Timing never felt right. You were Ryan’s little sister. Then you dated that jerk in high school?—”
“We don’t mention Trevor in this house,” Mr. Lockwood interjects, flipping to another page. “Atlas nearly got suspended for threatening him after he made you cry at prom.”
“Dad!” Atlas exclaims. “Can we please stop revealing every single embarrassing thing I’ve ever done?”
I squeeze his hand. “You threatened Trevor? I never knew that.”
“He didn’t deserve you,” Atlas mumbles. “None of them did.”
“I can’t believe I never noticed.”
“That was the point,” Atlas replies. “I was terrified of ruining our friendship. Your brother would have killed me.”
Mrs. Lockwood appears with a bottle of wine. “Speaking of Ryan, how did he take the news when you two finally got together?”
“He wasn’t surprised.”
“Smart boy,” Mr. Lockwood nods. “Now, let me show you the time Atlas tried to learn guitar just because Eva mentioned she liked musicians.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Lockwood announces, saving her son from further embarrassment.
Atlas practically leaps to his feet, pulling me along toward the dining room. “Thank god,” he mutters under his breath. “Another minute and they’d be showing you my diary entries.”
“You kept a diary?”
“Don’t push it,” he warns, but there’s a smile playing at his lips.
The dining table is beautifully set with the good china—the kind Mrs. Lockwood only uses for special occasions. It’s not lost on me that they’ve made an effort tonight, treating this dinner as something significant. Something worth celebrating.
“This looks amazing,” I say as Atlas pulls out my chair. Such a gentleman, even when mortified.
“Nothing but the best for the girl who finally made an honest man out of our son,” Mr. Lockwood says, taking his seat at the head of the table.
Mrs. Lockwood brings over a steaming lasagna that makes my mouth water. “I made your favorite, Eva. Atlas mentioned you’ve been craving Italian lately.”
My heart swells at the thoughtfulness. Not just from Mrs. Lockwood, but from Atlas—the fact that he notices these little things, remembers them, shares them with his family.
“That’s so thoughtful.”
“So,” Mrs. Lockwood begins as she serves the food, “Atlas tells us you got that promotion at work? Head of graphic design now?”
“Yes, just last month,” I reply, surprised Atlas shared that detail. “It’s been overwhelming, but in the best way.”
“She’s being modest,” Atlas jumps in, pride evident in his voice. “Her first campaign increased their client engagement by forty percent. The CEO personally called to congratulate her.”
“Atlas,” I protest weakly, not used to being the center of attention.
“What? I’m proud of you.” He looks at me with such genuine admiration that I momentarily forget his parents are watching us.
Mr. Lockwood clears his throat. “You two remind me of Sarah and me when we first got together. Couldn’t keep our eyes off each other.”
“Still can’t,” Mrs. Lockwood adds with a playful wink at her husband.
