Chapter 31
Ezra
Atlas is sprawled out on the couch when I regain consciousness, head dangerously close to mine.
His glasses are discarded on the table, his eyelids shut peacefully, hair as messy as ever.
My accelerated heartbeat is far too much to handle, so I back away.
The distance I put between us does nothing to help slow it down.
The movement stirs Atlas awake instead. He blinks life back into his eyes. Groggily, he notices me at the far end of the couch. He grins and checks his phone, mouth gaping when he realizes what time it is.
“Fuck, I actually need to be at school today,” he says, then zips out of the bunker faster than I can reply.
Conin chooses that as the perfect opportunity to set foot in the entertainment room.
He’s shirtless: bare, chiseled chest imprinted from the sheets, his stomach hanging over the waistline of his shorts.
An erection pushes against my sweats. I move one leg and drape it over the other, hoping it’ll mask any evidence.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
There’s no hint of accusation in his voice, not one I can detect. Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s secretly admonishing me under all those thick, collective layers.
“I slept fine,” I say without any mention of Atlas, though Conin most likely heard his departure mere minutes ago.
“Good,” he says.
“What do you think our next steps should be?” He’s acting like nothing happened last night.
“What do you mean? I thought the plan was to wait here until the Angelics could extract us, take us to Proctus,” I answer.
“Is that what you want?”
“I want us to be safe,” I say and glare at him dead in the eyes. “Is something changing your mind? It was our goal to get to a safe haven, right?” Or so I had thought.
Conin exhales and blows the air until there’s nothing left in him. His inhale shudders. The second chink in his armor.
“I’ve just been thinking . . . about options. I want a safe haven. I want us to be safe. But what if Proctus isn’t what it’s cracked up to be? What if it’s a fallacy?” Conin says. He can’t look at me.
Again with the words!
“Conin, we have no way of knowing. I’m skeptical too, but we can’t keep living with no clear end in sight. This could be our break. This could be our only fucking chance. If we keep aimlessly driving into the unknown, the Barclay Network will catch up to us. We’ll be as good as dead.”
Is this what he wants to hear? Is this the reassurance he needs? At this moment, Conin’s unreadable. Maybe he always has been, and I’ve been too ignorant to realize. No matter how hard I try, the wall he keeps up to guard himself remains impenetrable.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m here,” he says.
We’re lounging on the L-shaped couch, a Sleep Token record winding down to the last songs. A movie plays in the background, though neither of us pays attention. Conin’s feet are close to my lap while I’m stretched out, my legs facing the other direction.
“My dad called about a week or two ago saying he was no longer going to be paying child support because I’m eighteen now.
Which, I mean, I get it. I do. But at that point, I planned to live with Mom for another year before going to college.
He was so adamant about it. It seemed he was ready to be finally rid of us,” Conin says as I gaze up at the ceiling.
“What an asshole,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Conin. You deserve better from him.”
“Can’t be as bad as your dad.” It wasn’t meant to be a low blow, but it hurts, nonetheless.
“Conin,” I say. “That doesn’t invalidate your experiences or your problems. It isn’t a competition. What your dad said, what he did to you and your mom, was bullshit. You deserve more than that.”
“Yeah, well. Here we are,” he says.
Now that was a low blow. His defenses are up, but I won’t confront him because I know the sacrifices he had to make to be here with me now.
This is a delicate situation; he and I are charting unfamiliar waters.
But I wish he’d dismantle those barriers, look me in the eye, and confide in me all his pains, thoughts, and emotions.
“I’m sorry, Ez.”
“It’s like I said. You’re allowed to feel this way.
What’s on your mind? And don’t say ‘nothing’ .
. . I know something’s troubling you.” Conin ponders long and hard.
His mind is far from here as he stares out into space, on the carpet below.
Telling me about his dad was a step in the right direction and it’s not like he hasn’t laid himself bare to me in the past, but since his dad left him and his mom years ago, he’s erected a wall I can’t break down.
I know I’m not the one to talk, but the longer he suppresses the conflicting emotions sweltering inside him, the more in danger he is of imploding.
Leaving his mom behind, his promising future, his foot injury—which, now that I think about it, we still need to address—shooting the mercenary on the highway, his sudden outburst last night .
. . he’ll self-destruct and I won’t know what to do when that moment arises.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Ezra,” Conin finally says, and stands.
He shuts himself in the bathroom. The shower starts seconds later.