Page 1 of Atlas & Miles
Miles
Prologue
April, Twenty Years Ago
“Miles Johnson!”
I jumped, smearing my paintbrush against the plywood backdrop in front of me, one I’d built myself. I grumbled under my breath, knowing I’d need to redo this spot; the grassy knoll had just taken a sharp left turn into the sky.
Painting sets for the spring play—which was in a few short weeks—was relaxing when the director wasn’t yelling at me.
With a quiet growl, I pushed to my feet. I scowled, dropping my paintbrush into the can of green paint sitting on the covered floor before I turned around. Ms. Michaels, the middle-aged drama teacher who was currently standing in front of a small group of students rehearsing near the front of the stage, put a hand on her hip. Her unruly blonde curls formed a halo of sorts around her head, made more pronounced by the spotlights beaming from the back of the state-of-the-art auditorium.
But she wasn’t an angel.More a frazzled being of chaos,I thought.
She wagged a finger at me. “Fix your face, young man.”
I glared to prove she had no control over me, but then I remembered that Coach—football, not swimming—had yelled at me multiple times to pull back the antagonism. “You’ll catch more flies with honey” was a common quote of his, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I wanted to catch flies in the first place.
But I was smart enough to know what he was saying. I couldn’t stay on the team if I terrorized the teachers and staff at school. Team members had an image to uphold, and football—and more recently swimming—was just about the only thing keeping me sane these days.
So I forced a strained smile to my face. “Sorry, Ms. Michaels. How can I help?”
She blinked at me, her hand sliding from her hip as she deflated. “Thank you. Can you please help with costumes in the back? Apparently Charlie is having an issue.”
I opened my mouth to protest since it wasn’t my job, but Coach’s voice ran through my head again, so I sighed and nodded. “Sure, Ms. Michaels.” Then I turned and trudged behind the curtain to my right. I was sure the location had a fancy theater term, but I really didn’t care to learn the details. I was just here to build sets.
I sauntered backstage to where the costumes were hung. We didn’t have a dressing room, so someone had brought in flimsy privacy screens and set up a makeshift one in the corner. Small towns, small budgets . . . and small minds. If my luck ever changed, I’d leave here the first chance I got. But that was never going to happen.
I’d never been that lucky.
“Charlie?” I called as I rounded the edge of the closest screen. I saw a long mirror lit with vanity globe bulbs and a white counter beneath it first, and a rack of clothes had just started to come into view when an ear-piercing shriek sliced through the air.
I leapt, my heart lurching for the second time in the past five minutes, then I flew back around the partition. Throwing my hand over my eyes, I called out to the shrieker. “I didn’t see anything, I promise!”
“Stay out there!”
My heart stuttered.
I knew that voice. I heard it in my dreams.
Atlas St. James.
As I waited dutifully behind the screen, images of Atlas flashed through my mind. We’d had a few classes together over the years, and he’d captured me from the first moment I realized I was into guys. He was actually the person who made me realize it.
I didn’t know him well, I just knew that he wore whatever the fuck he wanted and didn’t conform to any particular gender, from what I could tell. During the extensive time I’d spent in the library—though I was a jock, I loved learning and got good grades—I’d read about people who used different pronouns than they were born with, but I hadn’t heard that he did.
Every time I saw him dress in a skirt or rock a blouse, a secret thrill ran through me. I loved that he felt so comfortable being himself.
I’d known I was gay for six years now, but I hadn’t told anyone. Sometimes I wondered if I had gotten into sports so I wouldn’t get stereotyped or bullied—which was a very real possibility; I’d seen that firsthand, and much too recently—for who I was attracted to. And I wasdefinitelyattracted to Atlas St. James.
Not that I would ever tell him.
“Can I come in?” I called once the rustling of fabric had died down.
I heard a loud huff then a snarky “Fine.”
Smirking, I rounded the corner carefully. And once my eyes found Atlas standing on a small round platform in what looked like half of an Elizabethan-era costume, I had to fight to breathe. Holy shit. Even half dressed—though his body was fully covered—he was beautiful.
