Chapter 30
Conin
Pan-panic. I’m suffering from it—it’s obliterating my senses and distracting me from Ezra, but I cannot easily let it go.
Because Atlas is undeniably attractive. I look at him and my body erupts all over.
There’s something about the way he treats Ezra that just .
. . turns me the fuck on. His constant smiles, his infectious mirth, their never-ending conversations about Star Wars.
And then there’s the way he treats me, like he’s intentionally flirting—like he can see right through me.
Despite his best efforts, I’m hesitant to trust him completely.
It’s difficult to pinpoint whether it’s the tether Ezra’s spoken of or my fear of Ezra’s safety, but I’ve yet to fully warm up to Atlas.
He notices, but he’s too kind to say anything.
Damn his kindness.
I hate it. I hate his charity. I hate his stupid face.
And I hate myself for thinking anything of him when my feelings for Ezra remain unresolved.
I love Ezra and that won’t ever change, but I’m simultaneously feeling things for Atlas while silently denying my jealousy over the bond he and Ezra have.
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m not liking it. Not at all.
Atlas grew up distant from Proctus. He met Ambrosia and Matt at a relatively young age, the Angelics he keeps in contact with for emergencies like ours, to extract AWOL recidivists and bring them safely to Proctus.
Matt and Ambrosia were orphaned in an attack on a recidivist safe house.
From there onward, they dedicated their lives to the Angelic cause.
Atlas, Ambrosia, and Matt met in the least likely of circumstances.
It was through Atlas’s abuelo they ever crossed paths in the first place.
His grandfather was born and raised on the Caribbean islands where he and his wife had Atlas’s mother.
His abuelita passed away before he was born and when Yailin decided to follow Scott back to Utah in the small, once-bustling mining town he grew up in, abuelito journeyed with.
Abuelito discovered the injustices committed toward powered individuals in the States and wanted to advocate for the rights of people like him.
Atlas is skeptical of how his grandfather achieved what he had in the early days of the operation, but his abuelo’s heroics and efforts attracted the attention of Esther Brown.
She personally located his family’s place of residence to commemorate him for his bravery.
They were in talks for days, weeks, and months after their initial meeting. The operation bloomed from there.
Staring at the words, their meanings are lost—incomprehensible.
I chose one of the queer selections from the MacPhersons’ book collection, one I haven’t read, in hopes that it will occupy my mind.
Every thought drifts to Mara’s limp body thudding onto asphalt, flames licking a dark infinity, Ezra’s mortified expression when our chances of escaping were so bleak.
And above it all, my ankle fucking hurts.
I’m positive I didn’t break it, but it’s definitely sprained.
I forgot to mention the injury in all the commotion and getting to know Atlas.
Maybe I should suck it up and say something before it worsens.
When the clock hits three in the afternoon, the familiar hiss of the bunker’s entrance sounds, and Atlas comes strolling in with coursework in hand.
He huffs and sits on the floor in front of the couch where Ezra and I lounge, then splays an array of papers onto the coffee table.
I sneak a glance over his shoulder, noticing the different names on each assignment.
Atlas slumps against the couch, sighing until he’s completely deprived of air.
The histrionics are almost enough to elicit a smile out of me. Almost.
There I go again.
Who the hell uses histrionics?
And why the hell am I feeling guilty when Ezra and I are nothing more than close friends?
Atlas is a stupid crush—an infatuation that will go nowhere.
Ezra’s napping, curled up at the far end of the couch while the millionth rerun of the same movie plays on the TV.
The sight of him evokes a broad smile that hurts, which Atlas notices when he cranes his neck back.
“So,” he says and I’m not sure I like the tone of his voice—the playfulness of it. “Are you and Ezra . . . you know . . . a thing?”
“What?” I splutter. “What makes you think that?”
That would explain Dan’s words at Emery’s party. Am I bleeding through that badly?
Atlas sports a shit-eating grin.
“The way you two look at each other. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes,” he mocks.
“We’re not . . . dating—”
“But you love him, right? You have feelings for him.”
I must go beet-red by the way his grin widens, and he merrily chuckles to himself, throwing his head back.
The messy tousle of his hair, the glasses, his full lips, his perfect teeth.
I’m doomed. The queer book in my hand comes as a reminder that I’m safe here.
I’m okay to express myself, but that doesn’t mean I can entertain these thoughts about Atlas. They’ll lead nowhere.
“But he doesn’t reciprocate those feelings,” Atlas states.
“I don’t know,” I answer, miserable at the gloomy reminder.
“What a shame,” he says. “You should tell him.”
“No,” I bluntly state. Atlas’s leer falters.
“You’ll regret it if you don’t. Life’s too short for secrets.” He looks guilty for saying this. “I’d want to know if I was him. It’s only fair to you both.”
I ruminate over what he said, but I worry more about what Ezra will have to say if I tell him the truth. However, Atlas is right. It pisses me off that he is.
Atlas attempts to work on the papers displayed in front of him.
I watch, masking my gaze with the cover of my book, feeling like a creep.
An unknown amount of time passes before he dramatically melts onto the carpet with a loud groan.
His dramatics wake Ezra up, who blinks groggily at the unfurling scene. I smile at him wearily.
“What is it?” I ask.
“These are the math assignments I need to grade as a tutor,” Atlas replies.
“Come on then,” says Ezra with a hint of his sarcastic nature. A part of me revels in the way he’s opening up, showing his true self to Atlas, but the selfish part of me fears what that means.
“I don’t wanna,” Atlas bemoans.
“Whatever,” Ezra whispers and wraps himself further into his hoodie.
It’s fucking adorable.
“This calls for some alcohol,” our host says and stands up. “Who wants some?”
Ezra perks up at this. I remember the times he’d take hits from Thax’s bong and drink himself silly. For hell’s sake, he showed up at my doorstep high as a kite while I had to explain to Melissa the very bare minimum, fishing for lies from nowhere.
“I do,” he says. And of course, he does.
With everything that’s transpired, I don’t blame him, but I don’t want him to lose himself to the substance.
I’m suddenly very, very angry at Atlas. I keep to myself, silently watching as Atlas roams over to the kitchen and grabs one of the various bottles Ezra told me he stocked the other night.
“Conin?” questions Atlas.
He’s removing glasses from the kitchen cupboard, placing them pristinely next to a bottle of amber liquid.
He nurses the third glass in his hand, waiting expectantly for my answer with a subtle quirk on his lips.
The stubble running across his jaw and below his nose is pronounced in the kitchen lights. I feel my blood heat.
“I’m good,” I say.
The truth is that I don’t trust myself around alcohol. I don’t trust myself to not say anything or act on any impulse desires while drunk. What would happen if I gave away that I find Atlas attractive? What would happen if I confessed my love for Ezra and not in just a bro-friend way?
Atlas returns with the bottle of tequila and two clear glasses.
He places them on the coffee table. Watching him pour a hearty amount in each, there’s the trepidation of the possibility of where this night could go.
Ezra takes the glass Atlas proffers him with a small “thank you” before downing the entirety of it in one gulp.
Ezra mentioned once his liking for tequila above other alcohols.
That worry from before settles in my chest cavity, hurting the muscle and bone that surrounds it.
“Damn, Ezra. Slow down!” Atlas says, but he’s smiling. That stupid shit-eating grin.
“I can handle my alcohol,” Ezra rebuts with an equal grin of his own.
He moves for the tequila and pours himself another shot.
Atlas chuckles. He holds out his so Ezra can give him some more.
They both down their shots after a clink of their glasses, Atlas with a fervor he didn’t before, making a race out of it.
I don’t believe Atlas will be getting any grading in tonight.
I’m the only sober person in the room. Atlas has practically told us his entire life’s story, everything about his abuelo, his parents meeting on his father’s mission, how badly he wants to be a math teacher, but how he may never get the opportunity, given his recidivist status.
And Ezra shared about Lukeman destroying his violin and Thax turning him in, revealing that Ezra’s a faux. That’s not even what pissed me off—
—it’s their conversation now while they play a video game on the PlayStation.
Ezra’s sharing too much. He’s never had this issue before, but it seems he can’t get himself to shut up now.
He’s sharing things he never would have and with someone we barely even know.
According to Ezra, we do know Atlas—whatever the link between them is.
I try not to let jealousy get the better of me when I have no right to be jealous.
And of course, they’re discussing Star Wars, a topic I’m hardly knowledgeable about. I’ve watched the movies and shows for Ezra’s sake, but the information didn’t stick.
Atlas and Ezra are shooting opponents in a game I don’t recognize, not because of indignance, but more because I am hardly a video game person. Ezra finishes spitting some rant about certain characters in one of the various spin-off shows.
“Factssss,” Atlas agrees and headshots an enemy.
Mara falls to the ground in a perpetual reel, slowed down so I can agonizingly witness the event again and again.
Ezra fires at some incoming enemies, which he surprisingly downs with ease despite his inebriation.
Blood splatters on the asphalt, a skull mask, lightning erupting midair.
I see fire and the way it burns and burns.
I can’t take it any longer.
“Turn it off, please,” I mutter.
Neither of them hear me. The gunshots continue.
“Turn it off, please!”
Atlas startles, but listens. The game is quickly shut off. Ezra’s face is plastered with concern, yet he says nothing, trying to understand my sudden outburst.
“Are you okay?” Atlas asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, ignoring Ezra’s gaze. “I’m going to bed.”
I leave the two of them without another word.