Chapter 1
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, or curtains, 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 very small rental 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.”
“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’d never 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 back here. 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.
***
I ordered Thai food then started setting up the wireless internet I’d ordered from my phone carrier.
But technology and I rarely got along, and for some godforsaken reason, the damn thing wasn’t working.
So I opened my favorite task app, found a local handyman who could come out Monday afternoon to fix it, and booked the time slot.
I supposed I could live without internet until then.
Anson had been right, of course. After eating dinner from takeout containers while streaming my favorite makeover show on my phone, unpacking what I needed to sleep comfortably and making my bed, then taking a shower and getting a decent night’s sleep, I felt almost human again.
I spent the next morning unpacking a few more boxes before getting ready for lunch—what she and everyone we knew called “Sunday dinner,” a perk of living in the Bible Belt—with my momma, and my stomach fluttered with anticipatory butterflies as I dabbed on some makeup.
I hadn’t come home for the holidays last month; I’d been too depressed about the turn my life had taken and couldn’t stomach faking Christmas joy when my life was such a mess.
At the time, I’d already filled Momma in on everything, and she’d found me the job I had now moved here for.
But I had refused to ruin her holidays, too, so I hadn’t seen her in over a year.
I was so excited to see her.
My momma had gotten knocked up by a cheating bastard who’d left her the moment she told him she was pregnant. She’d never discouraged me from talking about him as a kid and had answered the few questions I’d asked, but I’d never had the desire to know who he was.
As she told it, she hadn’t shed a single tear over the asshole, instead focusing on the career she’d been building.
She’d started as a receptionist in a law office in Gomillion and worked her way up to a paralegal while raising a kid by herself.
She didn’t make a ton of money even now—perks of a small town—but she was “managing just fine,” as she assured me repeatedly.
When I pulled up in front of her house at eleven fifty-five, I’d barely managed to park the car before her royal-blue front door flew open and my momma came barreling out of the house.
I scrambled to exit the vehicle so I could catch her before she slammed into the side of my car, scooping her tiny frame up in my arms and lifting her off the ground in a giant hug.
“Atlas, baby!” she screamed in my ear, and I winced even as I squeezed her tighter. All but the tiniest inkling of my anxiety about the move here melted away as we held each other in the January sun, an icy breeze swirling around us that we both ignored.