1
ATLAS
I’m not fine,but I’ve gotten very good at pretending I am.
Sitting in my car with the engine off, watching fairy lights blink across the door to the Pine Ridge Community Center like something out of a wedding catalog, I wonder how much longer I can pull this off.
My phone sits dark on the passenger seat. Three missed calls and a string of unread texts. Probably from my best friend and mother hen, Jordan. I don’t look at either list.
I dressed carefully this morning—dark jeans, a button-down shirt in slate blue that I ironed twice, and boots that look casual but cost more than I should have spent two years ago when I bought them. I look like someone who has his shit together.
The suitcase in my trunk is packed like I’m coming on a weekend trip, not like I’m fleeing a life that has collapsed.
“Atlas!”
My mom’s voice by the door to the building snaps me out of my pity party-slash-panic, and I get out of the car.
“Mom. Hi.”
She reaches me and pulls me into a hug that smells like her perfume and the lavender soap she’s used for as long as I can remember.
“You’re here,” she says into my shoulder. Then she pulls back, her hands on my arms, and looks at me. Really looks at me. Her smile falters. “You look thin. Are you eating?”
There it is. Five seconds and she’s already seeing through me.
“Mom, I’m fine. Just busy with?—”
“Atlas.” My dad’s voice, steady and warm. He appears beside Mom, and his hand lands on my shoulder with the kind of weight that saysI’m glad you’re here, I’ve missed you, I love you.
I turn and hug him. It’s brief but solid, and when he pulls back, his eyes—the same dark brown as mine—scan my face with the same concern Mom’s did.
“Good to see you, son.”
“Yeah. You too.” My voice sounds almost normal. Almost. “Congratulations. Forty years. That’s incredible.”
Mom waves a hand like it’s nothing, but she’s still looking at me with that expression I can’t quite decipher. “We’re just happy you could make it to the party. I know how busy you are in Denver.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“How’s work?”
I dig my nails into the palms of my hands.
“Busy. Really busy. We just um … well, you know how it is.” I don’t look at either of them directly. I focus on the banner behind them that saysHappy 40thTeresa and Emilio, the fairy lights, anything but their faces.
Mom squeezes my arm. “You work too hard. You need to take care of yourself.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.” I pivot, gesture toward the community center. “Let’s go inside and join your party, yeah? Even the weather has come out for you.”
They exchange a smile as they talk about the unseasonably warm weather for late May this year.
More people arrive, cars pulling into the lot behind us. I recognize most faces, neighbors from childhood, family friends, distant relatives. They’ll all want to talk to me. They’ll all want to know how I’m doing, what I’m working on, when I’m going to settle down.
I’ll lie to every single one of them.
Mom is still talking, gesturing toward the food tables. Dad gets pulled into a conversation with Uncle Joe. I’m left standing there with Mom, her hand still on my arm, her eyes still searching my face.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks quietly. “You seem… I don’t know. Stressed.”
