Chapter 13
Ezra
Conin is not coming. I refuse.
At least, that’s what I say to him—those are the words that escape my mouth.
I don’t believe them because I know how stubborn Conin can be.
And if you dug far for the truth, you would find my selfish, petulant in my desire for him to stay.
A life without him is not a life I could live.
I would be alone, and life would be pointless.
An unhealthy mindset or not, that’s the truth.
Tommy, who’s also eighteen, checks us into a motel room with two beds. We don’t bother with the logistics of who will sleep where, because Tommy instantly makes a phone call.
Conin paces. I sit, back pressed against a wall.
Why do I feel as if a pierced blade will crush through the plaster and stab me at any given moment?
As if hands could plow through the drywall and pull me into its depths.
Still, I remain pressed against it. My eyes track Conin’s movements.
He’s only ever this nervous before his football games.
But I know, this time, his worries are much, much worse.
Despite the morbidity of the situation, I feel relieved.
At ease now that I am free of the burden that’s my family.
The sensation is odd but liberating. With these emotions comes a sadness that creeps over the other feelings.
It reminds me of what I will lose, the music I may never get to create, the possibility I might lose Conin, though he remains persistent that he’s going to come with me.
Wherever that is. I have hope for the safe haven Tommy mentioned on our way here.
It could be a fruitless hope, but I cling to it, even as my world crumbles before my very eyes.
Conin continues his pacing. The hammering of my heart is relentless.
“You have a life ahead of ou, Co’,” I say. He ignores me. “Think about your mom—”
“Shut the fuck up!” he tears at me. Tommy glances over while he remains on the phone.
My back molds further into the wall. Carpet grazes skin, fingers, forearms. He’s not my dad.
He’s not my dad. The air is difficult to inhale, but I manage, and repeat those words like a mantra.
He’s not my dad. In a flash, Lukeman’s figure looms over mine.
Then he’s gone. Conin stands above me. His expression is contorted with horror.
Lips move, but I don’t hear him at first.
“Ezra, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so fucking sorry,” Conin blurts.
God, he’s swearing a lot.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t say that. I shouldn’t have blown up on you.”
“But this isn’t fair for you.”
“This isn’t fair for you either and it’s my decision to make,” he says, then ensues the pacing. Tommy is still on the phone with Atlas when Conin kneels and whispers so only I can hear.
“So, this superpower of yours . . . it’s rare, right?” he asks.
I hate how I find his use of the word “superpower” cute. Not now, Ezra.
“As far as I’m aware. It’s not like faux are easily found,” I whisper.
“But you were found—”
“I also have a dick of a brother,” I rebut. He flinches.
“Sorry, that was the wrong thing to say. Again,” Conin says, then stands. “I made my decision, Ez. I’m coming with you.”
“You are not,” I say. But I want him to. My heart aches for him, the proximity of his body.
“I am. Don’t try to stop me.”
I won’t. I couldn’t even if I tried. It just doesn’t make any sense.
Why would he upheave his entire life to aid me in a future on the run?
Conin has a full-ride scholarship if all else fails in his literary journey, other friends who care for him, and a mom he would be abandoning.
I’ve known him like a brother since we were so little.
That brotherly love may have manifested into something more, but it’s not like we’ll be anything more.
Maybe that’s all we need—maybe all the love required to upend everything he’s known is that sibling love, to ensure my safety.
But who will protect him? I’m not capable of that if push comes to shove.
I’m not strong enough. After all, it was Tommy who came to my rescue at Emery’s.
Though, if the roles were reversed, I would do everything in my power to protect Conin.
It would be because of that love that transformed into more.
This unwavering, romantic attraction has far exceeded my ability to control.
Conin inhales—a deep, guttural breath, then releases it.
He pulls out his phone and makes a phone call—his very last.