Chapter 28
Ezra
Ican’t eat. Atlas was kind enough not to mention it and offered to store the food in the fridge for later, but I insisted I’d finish. Even after he left because he had school in the morning, I couldn’t give the lovingly home-cooked meal the proper attention.
Comfort food is always easier to stomach.
So is tequila, but I don’t have that.
Ice creeps through my body.
And now, sleep is hard to come by. The tether persists, clawing at my eyelids to stay open while Conin stains the brunt end of these intoxicating thoughts.
His expression was brief, only catchable if you were already suspicious that he was upset.
I was lucky enough to catch the momentary chink in his armor.
He’s dissuaded by mine and Atlas’s tether, but the distrust is there and it’s ravaging his insides. There’s more to it, there must be, either because his protective instincts are kicking in or he really wants to believe we’re safe now, out of the home stretch.
I can’t say my faith in Atlas is concrete, but a spark has been kindled, and the tether urges, no, beckons me to trust him without any substantial reasoning.
Or could Conin’s strange attitude be—
No, of course he doesn’t love me. Not in that way. He made it clear he saw me as no more than just a brother. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. After all, his expression could have been many things. Would he tell me if he liked me in that way? I know I wouldn’t. I doubt he would.
Atlas is a stranger. It makes sense that Conin’s hesitant.
Though he’s relaxed some now that a part of the burden is on Atlas’s shoulders, Conin’s guard’s still up.
He carries that damn gun everywhere, waiting for the moment everything goes wrong.
Atlas attempts to warm up to him, but he maintains his distance. Rightfully so.
When it’s obvious that I won’t get any sleep tonight, I toss in bed and check to see if Conin is asleep.
The steady rise and fall of his stomach, and the subtle noise rising from his mouth are indications enough.
I move stealthily, a skill I acquired over the years in the Gray household. The sheets rustle gently when I stand.
Exiting the room, I hadn’t realized I’d been suffocating, the claustrophobia pressed tight against my lungs.
There must be a distraction, something to alleviate this anxiety.
The arcade machines look enticing, but that’ll be loud—so, no point in listening to any of these records, either.
There’s a gaming console near the TV and I browse through the selection of games.
Nothing piques my interest, so I end up perusing through the movies instead.
And to my delight the second Star Wars movie is aligned with the other films. It’s slotted into the DVD player immediately.
But when my favorite scenes unfurl, their enjoyment is lost. The past several days have sucked the joy from me.
One Halloween a handful of years ago, Conin and I decided to dress as Star Wars characters.
We were seven, maybe eight—he’d settled on Obi-Wan while I was Anakin.
Conin was large for his age at the time and could have easily passed as a fledgling middle schooler.
I reached out for him in a bout of confusion, coming to find out he wasn’t the only one dressed in the costume.
Somehow, we’d been separated, and being the kid that I was, I panicked in silence.
I searched and searched and searched, but to no avail.
Eventually, I crumpled on the curb. Tears welled, but they wouldn’t shed.
The panic surged and people passed, but no one stopped—no one cared.
Until, suddenly, his voice sounded in the dark.
It called to me—concern, fear, and eagerness wrapped into this voice that brought me immense comfort.
A pillar of light, Conin came back to me.
His lightsaber was ignited, pail brimmed with candy, and his stance hero-like amongst the hundreds of passersby. My Jedi knight in shining armor.
A crash echoes just beyond the sealed door, thrusting me into the present.
I jump, then peer at it skeptically, unsure whether anything should be done about it.
What if Callum or the masked mercenary tracked us down?
What if that’s one of them behind the door?
I find out when it slides aside a moment later. Atlas steps through the threshold.
Tucked in the crook of his arms is a box that clinks with every movement.
He doesn’t notice me here, not yet, as he makes his way to the kitchen island with a disgruntled expression.
The bottom of the cardboard box thuds to the counter and Atlas starts to unload bottles of alcohol.
He has yet to notice me uselessly standing here in the entertainment room.
When he finishes stuffing the cupboards full of booze, he turns for the box and sees me standing there in the exact position I was in when the door opened. Startled, he clutches his heart and shuts his eyes, glasses askew.
“Jesus fuck,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I say.
Hi? Are you fucking kidding me, Ezra?
“I thought you were a ghost,” Atlas says.
“Nah, it’s just me,” I whisper, to be cordial while playing cool. Atlas ambles over to the TV where I remain. He grins with an awkward tilt of his lip, then notices what’s playing.
“Good choice.”
Does he like Star Wars too? Who wouldn’t? Is he a toxic fan or is he one in a million like me with a secret love for everyone’s most hated prequel movie? I study his fixation on the screen and realize too late that I need to say something.
“Which is your favorite?” I ask.
“Oh, Revenge, hands down. This one’s a close contender,” he answers.
“Everyone thinks I’m weird when I say it’s my favorite.”
“Really?” he inquires. “Not at all. But out of all the content, or just the saga?”
“Nah, just out of the main nine,” I say.
“Preach,” he says, that grin plastered on his face.
Atlas is lost in the movie. This mysterious boy is mesmerizing, from his darker skin to his tousled brown hair, glimmering from the gleam of the TV screen that reflects off the lenses of his glasses.
His lips are plump, his body lean, several inches shorter than me, but with an overall attractive persona.
I know almost nothing about him, though it feels as if I’ve known him for so long.
The binding force lures me toward his being, toward his heart.
If I plucked it from him, could I then be at peace?
“Ezra, you alright?”
“Sorry, what?”
“You blanked out. Are you okay?” Atlas repeats.
“Yeah, fine,” I say. “What’s up with the alcohol?”
Atlas’s countenance shifts into a sheepish look. He brushes his fingers over the nape of his neck and lingers their touch where strands of hair branch out. There’s that numbness, lodged in my throat. It craves the taste of alcohol—a temporary means to end the numbing.
“Ah, I tried to be discreet about that,” he says. “Can I admit something to you? You won’t judge, right?”
I won’t, but I’m not sure I like the sound of that.
“Of course not.”
Atlas wrings his hands together and lets out an elongated sigh. He chuckles, but his eyes crease sadly. They glisten behind their mask.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he sputters, sprawling out on the couch. He inhales sharply, gazing off into the distance. Hesitantly, I lower myself on a cushion about a foot or two from him, unexpectedly ready to listen to this boy who took us in with the kindness of his heart.
“My grandfather passed a month ago. This was his thing, his operation. I should’ve taken this safe house stuff more seriously because I wasn’t prepared for the moment he would leave us behind.
Leave me. Neither of my parents has abilities, so they can’t teach me and I no longer have him to learn from.
I wish I’d paid attention more, listened to him, and helped him out more where possible.
Before, I was obsessed with an unachievable normal life—crushing on people at school, tutoring math, working on college applications. ”
Atlas collects himself.
“Deep down, I always knew a normal life wasn’t for me. With my abuelo’s legacy, our ties with the Angelics, these powers? I was working so hard for nothing when I knew that one day, I would need to continue abu's work,” he says, sounding lost, his words weighed down by the grief he carried.
He’s unabashed over admitting his deep insecurities to me, a total stranger, someone he only met yesterday. I feel compelled to comfort him in some way.
“I’m sorry—”
“I didn’t share this with you so you’d feel bad .
. . I guess, what I’m trying to say is, I understand .
. . needing to leave a life behind. I’d want to dull these worries and thoughts if I were you, especially if I was in a similar situation.
Abu would be pissed if he knew. He never allowed alcohol before. ”
I won’t say how badly I want some—
—nor do I ask how he got his hands on the various bottles of booze. He hasn’t shared his age with us, but he mentioned he’d been applying to colleges and attending school, so he must be around my and Conin’s age.
He and I are quiet for a while. The movie continues.
Atlas then inches closer, the tether subtle but there in the subconscious, a pull in my chest. My entire body freezes when he’s near, waiting for what he’ll do, expecting an unprecedented move.
“Across the Stars” swells in the background, though neither of us is watching.
Atlas’s lips, round and thick, are close.
His breath tickles my ear, grazes my neck. I suppress a shudder.
“Do you feel it, too?” he whispers, barely audible over his breath.
I whip my neck to stare at him, mouth agape.
“Wha-what?”
“This binding force that shackles me to you. I’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s strong . . . I can’t describe it.”
I’m speechless. My hands tremble, but not because of his proximity. He doesn’t have that control over me. I’m frightened at the implications, and what this means. I’m frightened that I’m staring the issue straight in the eyes, faced with it with no option to go back.
“I feel it.” My voice shakes. “I-I’ve always been inept at feeling other recidivists’ presences. I don’t know why this is different,” I say.
The arcade machines are shut off, their presence looming like figures in the shadows. The paintings behind us, this couch, watch over our conversation, watch the way my body tenses from head to toe. Atlas blinks, then blinks again.
“I’m not sure what it is, either,” Atlas confesses. He backs away, his warmth dissipating. Cold waves wash over the room. “It’s . . . intoxicating. I wish I knew why. It feels . . . it feels as if I’ve known you for a long time.”
“I thought I was going crazy,” I admit and let out a relieved chuckle.
“Me too,” he says. “I’ve felt others in the past, but nothing like this.”
That inadequacy rears its ugly head once more, but I stifle it and shove it back from where it came. Not all recidivists can feel when another is close, I need to remind myself. It would be a disservice to Tommy if I didn’t heed his words.
“That reminds me. I never showed you my ability.”
The awkward tension from before melts into curiosity.
Atlas stands, moving farther from me. I stay rooted, unsure why.
He settles in the space between the entertainment console and the billiards table.
In a moment of concentration, he scrunches his face, and is gone the next.
I stare at the empty air his body no longer occupies.
An eerie silence rings through the bunker.
A tap on the shoulder confirms the presence of someone behind me.
I whirl on the spot and see Atlas MacPherson gazing at me with wonder in his brilliant eyes.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah.” Sure.
He furrows his brow but doesn’t persist on the matter.
My spine is straight. My shoulders are tense.
I look at Atlas and see everything that I’m not.
I look at Atlas and see a boy who has come to terms with his powers, is unashamed of them, so freely uses them without a care.
Every time I use my own, I feel like I’m caving in—hiding from my true self. I hate it. I hate it so fucking much.
“So, you can teleport?”
“Yeah. Not as impressive as your shape-shifting. You should do it again,” Atlas says.
“Um,” I say. “Maybe some other time. I’m tired.”
“Right.” He looks at his phone with eyes that pop out of their sockets when he sees the hour. “Oh, shit. School’s in like . . . two hours.”
I nod and bid him good night. He leaves me here alone in this dark room, this quiet bunker, reeling from his secrets. Secrets told at night.