Page 41 of Atlas & Miles
It had been like this all day. I swore she was the busiest person in Gomillion.
Finally, she tucked her phone back in the side pocket of her fashionable leggings. She was dressed for the gym, and for all I knew, that was where she was headed next. She appeared to be in better shape than I was. “Sorry about that. Now . . .” She clapped her hands together quietly, taking another look around the gym. I took the opportunity to do the same this time.
The prom was still a week away, but the decor was really coming along. I was basically a toddler in the eighties, but it was shaping up to be what I thought the eighties might look like.
“Yes, good.”Okay, whatever that means.I clearly wasn’t privy to her internal dialogue.
She launched into her next duties for me, which mostly involved fixing a few things and moving heavy objects around. Though I always made sure to grumble in front of Cloudy to make a point, I didn’t really hate the work. I had been an outcast in this town for too long by my own design, and it had been time to change that.
And maybe because I’d agreed to this, the universe had realized I was ready for a change and rewarded me with Atlas.He’d come into my life and turned it upside-down in the best of ways, and every day with him just got better and better.
Except . . .
Despite our talk last month, I was no closer to feeling ready to come out. We’d had a few more conversations about it since then. Atlas was being the patient Daddy he was—though I’d learned he was only patient as a Daddy; in everything else, he had the chill of a sugar-buzzed five-year-old—but I sensed he was starting to struggle with keeping our relationship under wraps.
I couldn’t blame him, though I didn’t know how to move forward. Everything I’d told him last month was true, and I’d done my best to let it go, like he’d said. At the time, I thought I had. Crying it out had definitely made me feel better, but as soon as I seriously considered coming out again, the familiar dread seized my body, and I froze in place. I couldn’t move forward like this, and Atlas wouldn’t stick around indefinitely, forever in the closet. He was too incredible to stay in the shadows.
My brain fought with my heart as I moved around the large gym following Vanessa’s directions. I liked Atlas—much stronger thanliked, if I was being honest—but why wasn’t that enough for me to say “screw it all” and just announce to the world that I loved to fuck Daddies? Okay, sure, that wouldn’t be how I’d word it. But still—showing up to the reunion, to the prom being held in this very gym in just one short week, with Atlas on my arm would be like holding up a giant billboard yelling “I’m not straight!” I wasn’t sure if I could handle that.
I wasn’t lying when I said I loved being seen with him, either. This wasn’t about him at all. I was proud of him, how boldly he moved through the world, and I wished I could have even an ounce of his confidence in who he was.
After a bevy of instructions, Vanessa hurried off to attend to something I didn’t even want to ask about, unsurprisinglytapping away at her phone once more. I crossed the gym with my canvas bag of tools, dropping to the floor near a chair she’d told me had an uneven leg. As I started working, I accidentally tuned into a conversation happening between a few of the helpers at one of the nearby tables who were putting together some decorations.
“Yeah, things with Ray are hard right now,” a woman who was likely in her mid-thirties was saying, “but he agreed to talk with someone.”
The other woman, probably around the same age, gasped. “Like who? You know people in this town will talk if he’s seen going to therapy.”
The mention of it made my gut clench, but despite the fear it confirmed for me—that some people in this town would likely hate me if I dared venture outside my usual wallflower behavior—I also felt a grain of rightness, of possibility, of hope in it.
And I wondered if maybe a therapist would helpme.
Over the years, I’d idly thought that going to therapy would’ve helped my mom. Once I was out of the house and effectively out of her life, a friend had floated the idea of going to therapy myself to work out all my shit with my parents. I’d waved him off, and to my shame, barely spoke to him afterward until our paths diverged. I hadn’t thought about him until now, but I couldn’t ignore the ring of truth the idea had brought up today.
Atlas made me want to be strong for him, and if I couldn’t come out to give our relationship a fighting chance—when I knew it was right for me—maybe I needed to bring in some outside help to give me that final push. Maybe I should do something for myself for once, prioritize my mental health so I could live that full life Atlas had talked about. Maybe I needed to take a chance on something, give all the haters the middle finger by proving to myself that I didn’t care what they thought. Maybe . . . maybe I really could move forward.
Maybe it was time to go to therapy.
***
Late May, Thursday, Day Before the Reunion
“Miles Johnson?”
My eyes flicked toward the door that had just opened into the small room. I set the magazine I’d been pretending to read on the table next to me before pushing off the plastic chair and crossing the waiting room. “That’s me.”
I nearly rolled my eyes at myself as I followed the younger man down a bright hallway. What an absurd thing to say. I’d been the only one in the room.
The doctor I’d made this appointment with a week ago led me into a cozy office. A brown, comfy-looking couch flanked by end tables—one of which had a box of tissues and a disposable water bottle on it—was facing a plush arm chair that sat next to a small desk with a laptop and a reusable water bottle on its surface. The metal bottle amusingly boasted a collection of queer, sex-positive, and bookish stickers. A fuzzy white rug sat between the inviting furniture, pulling the room together, and soothing art on the walls in blues and browns completed the welcoming vibe.
He motioned for me to sit on the couch, as I’d expected, while he sunk into the armchair. When we were both seated—him comfortably, me decidedlynotcomfortably—he gave me a small smile. “I’m Dr. Larson Jameson. Since that’s a mouthful, you can call me Lars.”
I smiled at his obvious and successful attempt to lighten the mood. “Thanks for meeting with me, Lars. I’m Miles.”
Lars’s smile widened. “Good to meet you, Miles. As we discussed over email, today will just be a getting-to-know-you session. We both want to make sure we feel good about this relationship going forward.”
I nodded, swallowing my nerves down. What was I doing here? I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans.
I got a good look at Lars as he reached for a pen and paper he had on the table near his chair and resettled himself. He was a lean man with blond hair atop his head, long on top and shaved at the sides, similar to Atlas’s style. But where Atlas’s eyes were fire and passion, Lars’s were soft and kind, possibly even timid under certain circumstances. I couldn’t meet his gaze for more than a second, so I wasn’t sure what color his eyes were, but I would’ve guessed blue.
