Series: Peach State Stepbros Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I laugh. “I’ll take that as a massive compliment.”
I learn the woman is, in fact, his mom, Judy, and while Milo sits with us at a worktable, she joins the other parents in the corner of the room, where refreshments have been set out by Activate Kindness volunteers. Atlas and Milo work through a puzzle and flashcards before Milo starts reading aloud. It’s a side of Atlas I’m not used to seeing. For a guy who’s so on guard, around this kid, he’s relaxed, at ease. He’s patient and thoughtful, even when he corrects Milo about a mispronounced word or explains something that seems to be tripping him up. The way he navigates the session suggests just how long he’s been doing this work.
We finish up about forty-five minutes later, and Judy and Milo head on their way.
Just before they go, Milo says, “Bye, Troy,” and I reply, “Please, call me Piotr.”
Milo chuckles, but I earn a look from Atlas. “What? Just two X-Men nerds hitting it off.”
“I knew this whole jock thing was an act,” he teases before explaining, “Now we have a little break before another group comes in at two. What?”
“I’m just surprised, is all. You handled that like a real pro.”
“I’ve been doing it a long time. Mom took me to a center that had a program like this. Taught me about listening to people, hearing what they need, and finding ways of working with their strengths. If you think I’m a natural, you should’ve seen her. She was the real deal.”
In all the times I’ve known him, this is one of the only times I’ve heard him open up about this side of his mom. It’s nice to hear him share it. To know how much this matters to him.
“I wish Glen could see you talk about this right now.”
He glares at me. Should’ve expected that.
“I meant because I wish he could see how much it means to you,” I explain.
“I don’t want to share it with him.” He frowns. “Glen knows Mom was always volunteering for programs like this. He never took them seriously. He called them her pet projects. He can’t understand doing something because it’s the right thing, or just to help someone else. He saw it as a way to look good and impress others. He sure as shit doesn’t think I would ever really care about something like this. If he knew, he’d make it like I only do it to get back at him, just like he thinks everything is about my spite against him. Maybe that’s what a guilty conscience does—everything goes back to his sins. Nothing exists outside of him and his horrible mistakes. I just don’t wanna hear his thoughts and opinions about my life and choices.”
“It’s weird hearing you say that.”
“Why?”
“When I consider my dad, the way he left us, you’d think I’d feel the same, but I look back at high school, and how hard I tried at football, and I know that deep down, I thought if I just did the right thing…if I really did something impressive, he’d come back.”
Atlas rests his hand on my thigh. “Troy…”
“We really have some amazing dads, don’t we?”
“Yeah, we won the lottery there.”
I snicker. It’s bittersweet, and Atlas and I share a look, a familiar one resembling others we shared throughout high school. That deep sense of things we just know about each other.
“Regardless of what Glen would think,” I say, “this is really cool, and I appreciate your sharing it with me.”
A warm smile plays across his lips. “I appreciate your letting me share it with you.”
28
Atlas
It’s been days since I saw my name written on Troy’s wrist, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Like I get with everything Troy-related, I’ve become obsessed with how it felt to see my name on him. Me. Atlas McCallister.
The asshole.
The fuckup.
The one who let his mom down.
The son Glen will never be proud of.
But to Troy, I’m different.
Troy wants me, and not just on the same level as other people I’ve fucked or who’ve wanted to fuck me. With Troy, it’s more. With Troy, I can share things like helping kids learn to read and why I like doing it. I can share that I help feed the homeless, and that I look at data on kids who have mental health coverage from a young age, and how it helps to have parks and libraries close by, and Troy listens. While it’s a new side of me for Troy, he doesn’t doubt me. He knows it comes from the heart, and that means something to me.
I rub my thumb over the spot on my wrist where Troy had written my name on his. I know it’s not his spot on my body. That’s below my pec, but if I sit in this class, rubbing my chest while listening to my professor give a lecture, there’s a good chance I’ll get kicked out of school.