Chapter 35
Ezra
On our fifth night in the MacPhersons’ bunker, Conin, Atlas, and I surround the coffee table, each with a deck of cards. It’s been a week since Callum Finch phased through the mirror at Emery’s party. It’s been a week and a day since Lukeman Gray destroyed my violin.
Story of my fucking life.
Conin’s stubble sketches his face across his jaw and neck. It offsets the sapphire red of his faux hair: two nuanced shades of red and one considerable headache for me. Stubble looks nice on him, though. I wonder how it would feel to caress his cheek, kiss the line of his jaw, his lips . . .
We’re playing a card game, Ezra. Focus.
Atlas stares at me. His lips are compressed, and his cheeks are puffed like he’s on the brink of laughter.
I cast a furious glance at him that should wipe the smug look off of his face, but he only bursts into a fit of giggles, back pressed against the carpet as he kicks his legs in the air.
His cards get discarded somewhere on the floor in favor of clutching his stomach.
It’s not like I’ve said or done anything that would give away my love for Conin. Or have I? Am I that obvious?
This card game is no longer fun.
I chuck the deck of cards onto the floor.
They scatter over the living space, one nicking Conin on the cheek as he elicits a slew of stern protests.
He has this endearing habit of scrunching his face every time he’s captivated by whatever’s caught his interest. Conin always had a competitive spirit. It’s hilariously cute.
Atlas ruptures into another onslaught of laughter when he captures Conin’s scrutiny. I’m the next to break. He and I are bunched up on the floor while we howl with laughter.
That wall, that protection, has a chasm in it now—an Atlas-shaped chasm.
I’m not certain when it happened, whether it has anything to do with this link, this tether that intertwines our existence.
But this chasm is being chipped open more and more each day, flooding over with Atlas, Atlas, and nothing but Atlas.
Our society and the people in it are loathsome (Conin and his mother have always been the exception), but I like Atlas, and the notion fucking terrifies me. The bubbling mirth welling inside me fades. I’m left rocking with a developing headache.
When Atlas’s laughter dims, he moves to the couch and shuffles into a comfortable position. A familiar ease. Conin discards his pile, then sits back.
“So,” Atlas says, an icebreaker, “tell me about a mutual embarrassing moment from your childhood.”
You never know where our conversation will lead with Atlas.
Conin gives me his full, undivided attention with a wry grin. He’s about to embarrass the ever-loving fuck out of me. When Atlas discovers Conin’s dead cadaver tonight, it wasn’t me.
“I have this distinct memory from when Ezra and I were kids. God, we were probably like twelve or thirteen,” Conin starts the tale, and I already know where this is going.
“Shut up!” I swat at him, and he swats back with a giggle.
Atlas sits up in earnest.
“I dragged Ezra along for all my little daring expeditions back then, so one night we decided to go skinny dipping and—”
“Shut up!” I yell.
I lunge for his mouth and press a firm palm against it so he won’t speak.
My body pins him to the floor, but it doesn’t feel right.
Larger legs fasten kneecaps, meaty hands snare wrists.
The frame of someone more imposing, large, and threatening to look at: the husk from the motel.
We’re suspended while time involuntarily slows.
I hover over Conin’s figure with a faux strength in these muscles that carry none of their own. Panting breaths escape my mouth.
Conin looks taken aback. The glimmer in his azure eyes is a dead giveaway.
They swim in an unspoken guilt. He crossed the line and it’s evident in his eyes he realizes this—I don’t want Atlas, a stranger, to know my most embarrassing moments.
No matter the ties that bind us or that chasm, this is my and Conin’s secret—ours alone, witnesses aside.
Not only had my underwear been snatched by some feral dog, but I had emerged from the water with an erection I couldn’t placate.
The mere closeness of our naked bodies had been scintillating with the boy that I loved.
Conin played it off as a normal teenage occurrence, so I was never suspected.
Still, I doubt Conin would share that more intimate aspect, but he’d surely tell the tale of our arduous journey home. How humorous he finds it.
“I’m sorry,” Conin whispers.
The broad stature of this projected facade fades into a slim body, scarred and imperfect.
It feels like the moments in my childhood when I’d slip and shift—a mistake that would have been a detriment to my entire life if I had been caught.
The impression is degrading. I hate it. I recoil from Conin and sit against the couch, a hot flare reddening my cheeks when I remember Atlas is in the room with us.
“Sorry,” says Atlas. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Conin says.
He takes the rocking chair. The piece of furniture has unquestionably become his in our short time here. His foot kicks the chair into motion, followed by smooth, repetitious movements, vacillating to and fro.
“I remember this day when abu was alive, my first time meeting the Angelics,” Atlas tells us, maybe to break the sudden awkward tension that permeates the air.
“I was so determined to make a good, lasting impression. Something they would remember me by and be like, Oh! That’s Augurys’s grandson!
He’s going to amount to something great one day.
Remember him—’” Atlas trails off, his expression grim, but then he smiles as if the memory is bittersweet.
“I wanted so badly to show them what I could do, that I wasn’t just this nerdy, useless kid—a kid who was picked on, bullied for who he was,” he says.
He notices the shock on my face, the curved O of my mouth. Did they—
“They didn’t know about my powers, no. But I was determined to show the Angelics and prove I had prowess. So, I did. I teleported. But I was thinking about those kids at school and materialized in one of the hallways.”
“Shit,” Conin mutters under his breath.
“I just realized how not funny this story is,” Atlas guffaws.
His display of emotions is difficult to face when all I do is hide, but if I can challenge myself for Conin, I can trudge through this too.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“No one was in the hallway, not at first. A staff member came strolling through, and asked what I was doing out of class . . . I skipped because I didn’t want to miss the Angelics’ visit.
When she spoke, I ran. I ran the mile home and walked in on my panicked grandfather giving orders to the Angelics on where they could go to search.
The relief on abu's face made me believe it would be okay, but I knew the others were silently scrutinizing me. They asked what had happened and I told them, thinking it would win me some brownie points. Even when no one witnessed me teleporting into the school, the Angelics still thought it was necessary to wipe away the memories of everyone there. It’s not a large school, so it was easy.
I was embarrassed and hid from the Angelics for the remainder of their visit. ”
Atlas chokes on his next words, and they stumble one over the other as his eyes develop a glassy sheen.
“When the Angelics left, abu took me aside, lifted me, and hugged me tight against his chest. He told me what I’d done had been an honest mistake, that he was proud of me, and that he knew my heart was in the right place.
I never thanked him then, but at that moment .
. . it was paramount. It helped me as I grew up.
Shaped me into who I am, knowing he’d be proud no matter where I ended up and what I did with my life. ”
“He sounds like an amazing man,” Conin says. His sentiment shocks me, but that’s Conin. He’s kind and understanding.
“He was,” Atlas choked. “I wish he was still here. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Well, if it’s any reassurance,” I say, “I think you’ve been doing a good job.”
My voice trembles with this complete and utter vulnerability amidst a stranger—except, is that really who Atlas is to me anymore? It’s as if I’ve known him for years.
“Ezra and I are indebted to you. I can’t thank you enough for saving our necks,” Conin says.
Atlas nods and mutters a “thank you.” He blinks rapidly to suppress the tears. “I want to do the right thing and continue abu's work. But I also know I’ll miss you two.”
Had I heard him correctly? I’m as confused as Conin appears. Atlas turns his head, grumbling under his breath when neither of us replies. If I pause to sit and reflect, can I say I feel the same?
“I’ll miss you, too,” I whisper.
Atlas’s eyes dart to mine. In that suspended moment, I know he will forever remain prevalent in my life, a mark fated to stay for eternity.
“I’m queer!” he blurts out.
It’s not Atlas I turn to, but my unsubtle want to memorize and ascertain Conin’s feelings. He gapes, his maw open. He clenches his jaw. Oh god. Oh, motherfucking god. Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me.
“Oh,” Conin says. “That’s awesome!”
What?
“I’m pansexual,” he tells us.
What? The fuck?
My jaw is on the floor, and I couldn’t pick it up even if I tried. Atlas’s stunned expression is like mine—I don’t think he was expecting Conin’s confession, but maybe he’s not surprised. Maybe, it’s just the sudden brevity of those words. Those two words that rattle my entire world.