Atlas & Miles (Gomillion High Reunion #7)

Prologue

Miles

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 was definitely attracted 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.

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, so I 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.