Chapter 22
Ezra
The road winds ahead. It wraps around the base of a mountain and dips into the crevices of a canyon.
Blackbrush and purple sage dot the terrain.
Spindly junipers and Joshua trees scope the road’s edge, resembling a fence guarding the land beyond.
The sun is bright enough to cast the sky in a brilliant baby blue.
I’m slow around the tight bends to let Conin doze off in the passenger seat.
A dollop of drool hangs from his lips. It’s cute, but distracting, so I return my attention to the road.
We hit a rough patch, shaking the car, which jostles Conin out of his stupor. My eyes glaze over his waking body.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop that. It’s fine,” I say. “We’re almost there.”
“How’s your foot feeling?” I inquire moments later.
“I’ve had much worse, but you knew that. The brace should help it,” Conin says, grimacing.
Got ya.
The fall was a nasty one. As far as second-story jumps go, the height could’ve been worse, though it was lengthy enough to do some fair damage. His vague answer prompts me not to pry further. I’m not willing to try getting the truth out of Conin when he wishes to keep it to himself.
“Where are you?” I ask, using his words against him.
“I’m here,” he answers. He shuffles and faces the passenger window.
Cheap move.
I push on the accelerator, watching the outskirts of a small mining town grow from a speck into a sign labeled Eureka: Population 651.
Then, it hits.
An innominate force pressures my shoulders, pushing down like it wishes to bury me deep in the Earth.
It’s a sensation I’ve never experienced before; I grasp for ways to describe it, a feeling so surreal.
It binds and tethers me to something unknown, tugging at my heart, pulling, and crushing.
I nearly careen to the side of the road.
Conin asks what’s wrong, but my ears are ringing.
In an overwhelming rush, I pull over. The sensation intrudes and permeates my every synapse, but then it feels as if it’s always been there—always a part of me.
The force doesn’t exactly hurt, nor is it uncomfortable the longer we idle against the side of the road.
What I thought was pain soothes into a steady hum.
What is this?
What’s happening to me?
“Ezra? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Conin berates, but I can’t be bothered.
I wait and hope that the sensation relents. The feeling dwindles more, not so much a hum, than a buzz after several alcoholic drinks, sourced at the back of my head. It’s present, it’s there, but bearable. I’m not sure if I should be terrified or relieved. Maybe both.
“Ez?” Conin says.
I can’t look at him.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I say in earnest. “I think I’m okay now.”
Conin quiets and lets me proceed when I’m ready.
On our right is a relatively small brick building with the ugliest blue-stained roof.
In bold letters at the front are the words Tintic High School.
The familiar name rings a bell. Several paltry mining cities must be nearby with the name, in the days when Utah mined for silver.
I kinda went through a mini ghost-town phase.
Farther down the road, past sheds and warehouses, are the residents’ homes. We pass an elementary school across the street from an LDS church, because of course there’s one out here in the butt crack of nowhere.
“Where should I go?” I ask.
“Well, this should be the place. Maybe that motel over there? We can stay until we figure out what’s going on,” Conin says.
I acquiesce and pull into its vacant lot. It’s a tiny establishment, perhaps five, maybe six rooms in total with a check-in office on the far left. Conin turns to face me when the car shifts into park.
“Are we sure about this?” he second-guesses.
“Do you think Tommy was lying?”
“No, it’s just . . . what if this Atlas person isn’t who they say they are? What if we put ourselves in more trouble?”
“Co,” I whisper, “what else are we going to do?”
“Right,” he murmurs. “You should shift,” he says.
And I do as fast as possible, walking out with a confidence I do not possess.
We’re across from a Methodist church—a quaint white wood-paneled building with a small tower and spire on top. Conin limps toward the motel’s office while I trail behind. His gait is clunky, his movements deliberate, masking the fact that he’s obviously in pain.
That tether, the sensation from earlier, instantaneously blooms at an unprecedented speed.
I’m suddenly deprived of air when we enter the office space.
An invisible grip tightens my lungs, then relaxes, but that feeling reverberates in my chest and echoes long past the moment I can breathe again.
There’s a boy behind the counter: tan, golden skin, brown eyes, and brown hair with blonde highlights that streak its tousled nature.
Freckles constellate his cheeks, complemented by sleek black, square glasses.
He has a nasal piercing, a black loop that glints in the morning sun.
Impressionably, he’s objectively cute, which makes me feel guilty since I am undeniably infatuated with Conin.
He and I aren’t an item, and I don’t even know if Conin is queer, so wherever this guilt stems from, I’d appreciate it if it would fuck right off.
Plus, I’m demi, so . . . if I can equate this feeling to attraction, which I’m not even sure that’s what it is, then this is unexpected as hell.
It’s undeniable this tether binds me to him. Our eyes meet and he sharpens into focus, almost like the universe is feeding me a sign. Those overwhelming sensations roil off him in relentless waves. My eyes gravitate toward his chest where a nametag reads Atlas.
This is Atlas. This boy, who must be around mine and Conin’s age, is the person Tommy told us to find.
A boy. A boy I already feel a staggering connection to.
And why? I’m being lured toward him as if I’m a fish hooked at the end of a line.
My mouth glues shut. I’m rendered totally and utterly useless, though that isn’t anything new.
Atlas’s velvety-chocolate eyes find mine again.
We hold each other’s gaze for one, two, three seconds before the boy returns his attention to Conin, who inquires about a room and its rate.
I cannot pry my eyes away from him, a supposed Angelic, someone who can lead us to Proctus.
This is the guy. This is the guy who will lead us to our salvation.
Atlas shifts uncomfortably under my intense gaze.
I look away, anywhere but at him, though it’s too little, too late.
The damage is done. Conin’s thanking Atlas for his time, then scurries to usher me out the door.
Did he notice Atlas’s nametag? The question’s tipped on my tongue when Conin leads me to our room.
It takes him several minutes to pry open the door with the key, but we manage.
A single queen-sized bed awaits our arrival. Together, we groan.