Page 3 of Atlas & Miles
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
I tapped the red button on my phone then tossed it on the cushion next to me.
This was not how I’d expected my life to turn out.
Until about six months ago, I’d owned a highly successful fashion marketing firm in Seattle. We were—emphasis on the past tense—very niche, but that made us highly sought after. Our clients were exclusive, our accounts were extensive, and income was good.
Until it wasn’t.
My phone pinged with a notification, and since unpacking was unappealing, I glanced down at it, slumping until my knees were spread wide in front of me and my neck was resting on the back of the davenport. I was going to pay for this uncharacteristically masc posture later—I was way closer to forty than I would’ve liked—but I didn’t care.
Sorry about your cardboard cut, babe. You okay?
I smiled, lifting my phone into my line of sight so I didn’t have to move my head.I’m okay, I’m just in my head. Moving is stressful, and I’m already worn the fuck out before unpacking much. I might just be hangry, tbh.
Anson sent a laughing emoji, which brought another smile to my face.
I’d met Anson in college, and he and his best friend, Nate, had been there for me when everything was falling apart. We’d been through so much together—I already missed him.
When are you seeing your momma?
I sighed. After shit went down and I’d exhausted every avenue I could think of, I’d finally tucked my tail between my legs and called my mother—or my momma, as I always called her—for help. I loved the woman who’d raised me as a single mom; since my earliest days, it had been us against the world. But she’dnever had a ton in the way of money, so I felt terrible even bringing it up.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be closer to her. Though I talked to her multiple times a week on the phone, video chatted with her at least weekly and on special occasions, and made too-short visits almost every December for the holidays, I hadn’t seen her nearly enough. We were both thrilled I would be within easy driving distance now, and I could visit her anytime.
I just didn’t want to move backhere. My income wouldn’t even come close to what I was making in Seattle, but I could live with that. It was more that moving to my childhood hometown made me feel like a complete and utter failure.
Goddammit.
Sliding up to a more age-appropriate seating posture, I typed out my response.She asked me over for lunch tomorrow. Then I have one more day to sort out my shit before work starts Tuesday.Ugh. Two fucking days to get my life unpacked and sorted.
You’ve got this, babe,he replied.Remember what we always say when we’re going through the hard stuff?
I chuckled.Of course. Stay hydrated, do gay shit, and be fabulous as fuck.I added the painting nails emoji, a crucial element I knew he wouldn’t let me skip.
Damn right. Now go get some food in that flat stomach of yours, unpack what you need to, take a shower, and get a good night’s sleep. Everything will look better in the morning.
I scoffed to the empty room as I typed.Stop Daddying me.
I smirked at the dancing dots that immediately popped up, knowing what he was going say.Just because you’re a Daddy, too, doesn’t mean I can’t boss you around. Friend prerogative.
I call bullshit,I replied, fucking with him. We bantered about this all the time.
When we met, neither of us knew we were Daddies. Looking at us now, we much more closely fit the boy stereotype. But a late-night visit our senior year in college to a kink club—now since closed—had opened both our eyes.
I hadn’t found a permanent boy yet, but I was perfectly fine with the occasional scene and regular hookups on the Daddy’s Boy app. People told me that I would eventually hit the age where I’d want to settle down, but at just a few months shy of thirty-eight, I wasn’t convinced that day would come. My mom had even stopped asking regularly a few years ago.
A glance at my phone told me Anson hadn’t replied, probably because he assumed I’d follow his commands. Which . . . I would. It wasn’t bad advice, after all.
Before I could push to standing, a notification slid in from the top of my phone, and I peered at the preview, my brows furrowed. What the hell?
I tapped on the banner before it disappeared, and the social media app opened an invitation to an event happening right here in town in May: my twenty-year high school reunion.
A year ago, I would’ve been thrilled to come home, see all my old friends—okay, mostly acquaintances, because living your high school years out and proud in a small town meant friends were hard to come by—and show off how fabulous my life was. But now, I was in possibly the absolute worst position of my adult life.
Shit.
