Page 2 of Atlas & Miles
I stuttered as I fought like hell to avert my eyes, fixing my gaze on the racks of clothing so I wouldn’t stare at him. “M-Ms. Michaels said Ch-Charlie m-might need my help.”
Atlas’s eyes landed on me briefly before he turned to the wide mirror in front of him. I ogled him as his hands ran through the mess of light-purple hair on the top of his head. I suspected the drama teacher would insist he dye it a more natural color for the play. I liked it no matter what color he had—and he’d probably had them all at some point. “Charlie went to go find some needle and thread. Just a minor hole, nothing to worry about.” He smiled at me in the mirror, and my entire being melted. “Thanks for checking on us.”
Irritated at myself for losing my coolness factor around him, I straightened, pulling from years of experience in shoving down my emotions. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Of course.”
With a nod, I stepped outside of the “room” and headed back to the set to fix my painting. On the way, I quietly relayed the status of Charlie’s debacle to Ms. Michaels as she led the actors through a rehearsal of a scene in Act Two. She gave me a polite nod—with reluctant thanks tinged with surprise, I suspected—and I went back to my plywood backdrop.
I painted and built props for the next few hours, but Atlas was never far from my mind. We’d barely said two words to each other over the years despite practically growing up together, soI was sure tonight’s encounter would play over and over in my head for weeks.
My crush on him had only gotten stronger over the years, but it was never going to go anywhere. I was in the closet and would likely remain there until I was old and gray, and maybe even then. His gorgeous face and perfect smile would live forever in my head, my heart, my dreams. We would never be together like that.
With that thought, I shoved down my infatuation with him and put a permanent frown on my face. Whether it was him or someone else, I’d never want to come out as gay, show the world I liked guys, so it was easier to push everyone away.
And that’s what I did for the next twenty years.
Chapter one
Atlas
January, Present Day
“Dammit!” I shouted as my finger slipped on my moving box, giving me the world’s worst cardboard cut.
Fuck.
I didn’t plan to move back to Gomillion after twenty years on my own—in fact, I had no intention of ever setting foot in this town again aside from short visits to my mother who lived just outside the city limits—but life was shit sometimes. I didn’t know how else to put it.
Straightening to standing, I took a breath, forced a smile, and waved my hands in an exhale. I could do this.
“What the hell happened, boo?”
The disembodied voice belonging to the friend I’d known for two decades but left behind in Seattle—Anson—echoed in my mostly empty living room. The furniture sat in its most logical places, but I hadn’t unpacked any rugs, blankets, pillows, orcurtains, so the hardwood and empty bookshelves made the tiny room feel like a cave.
“Cardboard cut. Or cardboard paper cut? Either way, the fucker hurts!”
“A cardboard cut?” I could almost see his eyebrow go up in my mind’s eye.
“Yes! It hurts. It’s proven that cardboard cuts hurt a thousand times worse than a regular paper cut.” I had no proof of this claim, of course, but I wasn’t going to admit that.
“Is it bleeding? Are you okay?”
When he was being all sensible, I couldn’t exactly max out the drama. But I still glared down at my finger, determined to try. “No blood yet. But it wouldn’t surprise me if it was infected given the way it stings.”
Anson tutted through the phone, and I thought I heard him cover a snicker. “I’m sorry, babe.”
I sighed dramatically and plopped onto my brown leather davenport. My mother always called this particular piece of furniture a “couch,” but that sounded so low brow and uncultured. My Gammi—her mother, who hailed from Michigan—always called it a “davenport,” and my inner diva loved the formality of it, so I’d adopted the name.
“Thanks.” I sighed again, this time not for show, and took the break I’d been given from the endless unpacking to peruse my rental home.
My verysmallrental home.
“I’m gonna go, ’kay? I’m just . . . tired, I think. And I need to figure out dinner.”
“Of course, sweetie.” Anson’s voice, even from over twenty-five hundred miles away, soothed my frayed nerves. “Text me later, alright?”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “Of course. Say hi to Nate for me.”
