Page 12 of Atlas & Miles
“That sounds simple enough. I can do that.” I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding as he took one, staring off into space as if he was still processing before turning to catch my gaze. “So should I just ask you for your pronouns when I see you?”
I nodded, smiling sweetly at him. This man. “That’s absolutely fine. Sometimes I’ll wear a pronoun pin or introduce myself with my pronouns, if the space feels safe enough for that. Other times, people assume he/him, so I just roll with that. I don’t mind it, actually, but my gender is so much more than that.”
He nodded, and I could almost see the wheels in his head still turning. “And . . . um, is it rude to ask more questions?”
I chuckled, settling back into the davenport and running a finger along the rim of my cup. “Please, ask away. It’s sweet.”
His blush was adorable. “How should I refer to you with others when I don’t know what your pronouns are and I haven’t had a chance to ask yet?”
I blinked at him and took a swig of my drink to reorient myself. I hadn’t expected that question at all. “He/him is fine. Like I said, people usually assume that, and it fits me about sixty to seventy-five percent of the time, so I’m cool with it.”
His gaze got serious as he held mine, and my breath caught. “As long as that’s what you’d prefer.”
I sighed, butterflies fluttering in my stomach at his sincerity. “Truthfully, I’d prefer a world where no one assumed pronouns and always asked, but since that’s not the world we live in, he/him is fine, I promise. I find allowing people to use the pronouns they assume a little easier since it’s more often than not accurate, anyway. I just don’t have the fucks to be correcting everyone constantly.”
He chuckled good-naturedly. “We all do have limited fucks to give at any given moment.”
I gasped. “See? You get it! It’s like spoons.”
“Spoons?” He took a sip of his drink while waiting for me to answer.
“It’s a term used by people to indicate their energy levels and ability to expend that energy, kinda like fucks.” I wiggled my eyebrows, relishing in the inordinate joy of saying the word“fuck” around this man. I would certainly like to take action on that word at some point. “The theory is that everyone starts their day with a certain number of spoons, but those with chronic illness, for example—which is where the term originated—who may be dealing with extra energy drains like pain or discomfort, physical or otherwise, may start their day with less spoons and therefore have less tolerance for things they would be able to tolerate otherwise. Simply put, it’s a way to put energy and fork tolerance in perspective.”
He swallowed his gulp of water, his eyes widening just a little. “Wait—now we’re talking about another utensil?”
I laughed, letting it ring out in my small living room. “So forks can be used to describe life’s little irritations, which again are unique to each person. To someone with OCD, for example, not having their clothes facing the same way in the closet could be a fork for them, but someone else wouldn’t care.”
He cocked his head to one side. “So forks can take away spoons?”
“Exactly!” I waved a hand in the air in celebration. “At the core of both is the understanding that everyone’s experience is not the same, so we should hold space for everyone, no matter how many spoons they have or forks that are stealing them. Basically the quote about being kind because you never know what someone else is going through. I absolutely slaughtered that, but you know what I mean.”
He smiled, leaning back against the seat cushion while gazing at me with unexpected adoration. I knew I was adorable and cute and sexy and fabulous, but to see that look directed at me from someone who, again, I’d only really known for a few hours had me awestruck.
I finished my water as he spoke. “I like the way you look at the world, Atlas.”
My cheeks heated just a little before I sat up straighter, setting my now-empty cup on a coaster on the coffee table and clearing my throat. “So before we went down this road, you were saying something about how beautiful and gorgeous I am?”
Miles chuckled, leaning forward to place his cup on a coaster, too. When he turned back to me, he twisted in his seat, knee brushing mine. And before I could process the sparks I felt where we connected, his hand landed on my leg, increasing the electricity tenfold. “You are definitely beautiful and gorgeous and more. You make it hard to breathe.” Funny, because he’d been doing that to me all morning. “But to be honest, I . . .”
Oh, shit, here it comes. I’m too much for him, aren’t I?
“I’m not out.”
I blinked again, his words a whisper but still easy to hear in my otherwise silent house. “What?” I choked out.
His cheeks flushed a deeper red than I’d seen all day, which was saying something, and he stared at where his hand still rested on my knee. “My sister is the only one who knows I’m gay.”
Again, his quiet words carried in the air, hanging between us. I wasn’t sure why this was such a shock to my brain, but my mind was swirling, and I scrambled to make sense of his words. I thought back to high school, wondered if he’d dated at all. I didn’t remember him being with anyone, but then again, I hadn’t been paying attention.
Dammit. I should’ve been paying attention.
When I felt his eyes on my face, I blinked my way back to reality and cleared my throat, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. “Can I ask how long you’ve known?”
His derisive chuckle was accompanied by a hand swiping down his face. “Basically my whole life.”
My jaw dropped. Literally. “Wait . . . so you’ve been gay your whole life, but no one knows? You live in a tiny little town—how is that even possible?”
Miles sighed, his face apologetic, though I couldn’t figure out why. “I use an app for hookups and meet them out of town or during the occasional weekend in Atlanta. Discreetly, of course.”
