Chapter 32
Ezra
In the following days, I deliberately avoid any war-related or shooting video game that may trigger another outburst from Conin. Yes, it sets off a PTSD tick of my own, remembering the flagrant fear in the blue of his eyes, but more than anything, I want to ensure it won’t happen again.
The hours trickle by. Conin finds a book to read that keeps him occupied for a good chunk of the time. The familiar sight provokes happy, sentimental memories. I can’t help but smile.
“You know what this reminds me of?” I ask, poking at him with my big toe.
He recoils even when a laugh escapes his mouth. Conin pushes back, farther from me, which cracks me the hell up.
“What? What does this remind you of?” Conin says. He clutches his stomach. I avert my gaze.
“All those times growing up when you’d have a book propped open and I was on your TV, playing some Star Wars game.
You remember? That’s how we spent most days.
We’d help each other with our homework. You would listen when I practiced on the violin.
I’d avoid going home, spend so many nights in a sleeping bag on your floor .
. .” I choke. A sob crawls up my throat, lodging itself somewhere in the larynx.
“Fuck,” he says. “Ezra—”
He wraps two big burly arms around my neck and pulls me close. There’s a hint of shampoo, something citrusy in his hair, and a musky body wash. Clean, yet entirely familiar.
“This is so awkward,” I mutter. “I’m okay. Promise.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes, Co. I am,” I emphasize.
“You sure?” He pins me down. His kneecaps find both outer sides of my legs, and his hands grip my wrists, glued to the couch cushions behind me.
He straddles me, perhaps unaware he’s doing so, and I plead desperately for the blood in my dick not to betray me, though a tent already pitches itself against the fabric.
Conin hasn’t noticed yet—he’s not privy to the way his body has a direct effect on mine.
It’s only a matter of time before he does.
There’s enough space for me when he moves off that I can quickly prop a pillow over the direct giveaway.
Conin’s face is close—too close. I can feel his sweet, minty breath brush against my nose. What’s he doing? What the fuck is this?
This feels like the other day when he tackled me to the floor of his home. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.
I choose the most horrible, terrifyingly sarcastic comment that will obliterate every sense of normalcy we have left.
“Jesus, Co, just kiss me already, won’t you?”
The sudden energy shift is tangible. Conin blinks, then blinks again, aghast at my comment.
He’s petrified. Perhaps I revealed a part of myself he’d been suspecting for a while.
I confirmed his suspicions with one stupid comment meant to be a joke, even if it was what I wanted.
He backs away. I’ve scared myself shitless, so I’m relieved that my erection is gone.
“Conin, I was joking.” I laugh to play it off.
“Yeah. Right,” he says and plasters on a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That was weird. I’m sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood,” Conin clarifies. He returns to his book, and I resume my game. An indeterminable amount of time passes before he speaks again.
“Do you trust Atlas?”
Oh god. Did my quip prompt him to ask?
“Where did that come from?”
“I’m curious. That’s all,” Conin says.
“Considering he hasn’t done anything suspicious over the past two days we’ve been here, I think that’s a sign enough to trust him,” I answer, alluding to nothing.
He studies me for a moment.
“What were you two talking about the other night?”
The panic swelters to a boiling point. Kill me. Now. What does he think is happening here?
“Atlas brought the alcohol, saw that I had a movie on. He and I talked about it. He remembered that he hadn’t shown me his ability yet, so he did. Atlas can teleport, by the way,” I say with some snark. “Whatever you’re worried about, there’s no reason to be.”
Why is he so damn persistent?
“I see,” Conin says quietly. “I don’t know. I’m on edge since Tommy.”
Understandable. But what does any of that have to do with my joke about a kiss? Seconds later, we hear footsteps carrying closer to the secure door. Atlas crosses the threshold, backpack slung over his shoulders, a notebook in hand.
“I don’t know why I do this to myself. It’s not like this shit’s useful anymore,” he exclaims, exasperated.
Atlas has become overtly cordial around us. I’m not opposed to his openness or vulnerability—it’s just . . . jarring.
“What?” I say.
“Homework. It’s bullshit. If I need to continue abu's work, why the hell am I working so hard for a future I can’t have?”
Conin cringes. Damn, that hit too close to home.
“Because your parents want you to?” I suggest.
“Yeah, and it makes no sense!” he says, tossing his coursework on the floor.
“How old are you?” questions Conin, eyes peering over the top of his book.
“Seventeen. I turn eighteen in several months. I hate that I rely on my parents so much. I need their help because I can’t do this alone.” Atlas sighs. “So, I adhere to their requests. I suppose it’s the least I can do.”
“You’re a good son,” I say. “A good grandson.”
Conin murmurs in agreement. Atlas thanks us and hunches over his homework pages that are sprawled out across the coffee table.
“Shit,” Atlas says under his breath when a text chimes on his phone.
Conin and I glance at each other in apprehension. Atlas inquires if he can change the channel. He clicks through a few before settling on a local news station. Pure dread blankets the room. Photos of me and Conin transition into the other and I know, we both know, who’s responsible for this.
Joyce Bresshet. I’ve never met another worrier like her.
“If you see these two, please contact the local police,” the news reporter says before the segment changes.
“Ah, so you’re a blonde,” Atlas says.
“We’ve received word about recent investigations on a car that mysteriously caught fire outside Tooele on I-80.
It is believed the Chrysler exploded because of fluid leakage or an overheated catalytic converter.
Forensics has reported that no bodies were found in or outside the immediate proximity of the car.
It is also said that whoever was driving the vehicle fled the site and failed to report the accident to the proper authorities.
No further information has been provided at this time. Now, back to you John.”
Every drop of blood has fled my face. Conin doesn’t seem any better than I am. He stares at the television, blanched paper-white, far after the segment’s end. Atlas takes a seat on the rocking chair.
“I texted ma and asked if she watched the entire segment on you two. I’ll let you know what she says,” Atlas informs us. But we’re not listening. How could we?
“There was no mention of Mara,” Conin says. I noticed that too, and it doesn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t sit well with me at all.
“What happened to her?” Atlas questions.
Conin hesitates. There’s that disconnect, the buildup in his decision, but it’s clear when he caves into confiding in Atlas.
“I shot her. I saw her go down. It wasn’t certain whether she had died or not, but it seems now that she got away,” Conin mutters. The relief on his face is evident. I hope that this takes away part of what was burdening Conin.
“It’s a good thing you disguised yourself,” the boy says. “Let’s see if it’s effective.”
Another text alerts on Atlas’s phone. He reads it with a grim expression.
“Ma said she caught the middle of it. Looks like Conin’s mom filed two missing person reports. Nothing on Ezra’s powers yet.”
I’m not surprised the Grays have kept their mouths shut.
Typical. They’re so keen on forgetting they ever had a second-born son because if others were to find out about my abilities, the repercussions would be too much to bear.
I can imagine Thax wants no one to know, either. I shouldn’t feel hurt. I shouldn’t.
“We require alcohol,” Atlas decides, moving to the kitchen. “I’ll contact the Angelics in the morning, but in the meantime . . .”
Excitement perks at the mention of the substance that will dull all this anxiety and worry—this overwhelming stress that builds and builds, collecting like layers of earth.
I’ll be buried in it—my grave of all my inane fuckups.
I get up to follow Atlas when a strong set of sturdy fingers wrap around my wrist.
“Ezra,” Conin says deliberately.
“I need it,” I say and he lets go.
His gaze sears into the back of my head as I enter the kitchen.