Chapter 46
Conin
Ezra and Atlas are lounging in the chairs when I regain consciousness.
A Star Wars movie plays on TV and they’re chipping away at takeout—Chinese, I think when the scent wafts over to my nose.
The two are engaged in an enthusiastic conversation, probably something regarding the fictional universe, but it oddly enough puts a smile on my face.
Seeing Ezra enthused about a topic, talking with a friend, and branching away from his comfort zone is a breath of fresh air.
I sit up and hug one of the pillows to my chest. Atlas briefly stops speaking when Ezra turns to me with a small grin.
“We didn’t want to wake you, so there’s takeout for you in the fridge,” he says.
“You looked like you could use the sleep,” Atlas mentions.
“Thanks,” I say.
I feel far from rested.
I don’t know how I will be after yesterday’s events.
My feet carry me to the kitchen, where I find the Styrofoam box of Chinese food waiting amongst empty refrigerator shelves.
I scoop the box’s contents onto a plate and start microwaving it.
Leaning my frame against the granite countertop, I watch Atlas pick up where he left off.
Ezra’s eyes are trained on the TV. He’s actively listening, subtly nodding, and agreeing with other parts of Atlas’s speech.
Ezra rarely displays this side of himself.
I never meant for Ezra to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with growing up.
But I always challenged him, invited him to parties or events, and ensured he knew he was wanted.
He’d at least attend my football games, usually accompanied by Mom.
His presence there meant the world to me.
Suddenly, there had been a pep in my step, an invigorating boost when I’d spotted him in the bleachers.
Of course, Ezra would reject the other, countless social engagements I invited him to, but he had tried. I sincerely love him for it.
I may not understand this tether between him and Atlas, whether this makes them more than fast friends, but whatever the case, I accept it: without jealousy, without animosity, and without feeling as if Atlas will take Ezra from me.
Atlas treats him the way he deserves—in the way the guys on the football team should have.
He’s thoughtful and genuine, serious when he needs to be.
He and Ezra already share so much in common.
Atlas’s eyes are alight with passion as he gestures widely with his hands in animated bursts.
His tousled hair waves with each movement, his glasses askew, tipped at the nose, while his lips sharpen into focus.
Atlas is attractive as hell. That’ll be two times now that I’ve confessed this to myself.
But before panic settles in, Ezra’s face dampens, turning sour.
His mouth tilts downwards, his fork suspended over the takeout box holding an unbitten piece of chicken.
He sets the food on the coffee table, excuses himself, and proceeds to the bathroom.
The door shuts loudly in his wake. Atlas roams to the kitchen, his gaze fixed on where Ezra departed.
“He doesn’t seem to be taking everything in well,” he whispers.
There’s that pain again—that intense understanding only years of friendship will get you.
“Ezra’s always kind of been this way.”
“What is it?”
“He’s never outright told me, but I think it stems from his anxiety. When it happens, I give him the space he needs,” I say.
That might sound like I don’t care, like I can’t be bothered with his mental health issues. Truth is, I’m too scared to push Ezra away.
“Before you freak out,” Atlas says, “Ambrosia told us to come back, but Ezra and I went out to get food . . . didn’t make it past the third floor. He started to have one of these . . . spells and puked in the restroom. Do you think it’s an eating disorder?”
“Maybe,” I replied, cringing at the bluntness of his question. I have no clue what it is. We never talked about it. And the idea of that makes me feel horrible and scared and a plethora of other crappy emotions.
I plaster on a smile, remembering the food in the microwave. After several bites of the takeout, its contents grow dull and tasteless in my mouth. Each bite leaves bitter entrails.
Eventually, Ezra returns and sits on the couch as if nothing happened in the first place. Neither I nor Atlas acknowledge it. Instead, we return to our seats and watch the movie in silence.
Atlas strikes up a conversation again. Whatever he says breaks Ezra out of his spell. He guffaws and bursts into a stream of heavy laughter. Atlas grins, watching Ezra clutch his stomach and roll into the pillows on the chair.
“What’d you say?” I ask, leaning conspiratorially toward Atlas.
“It wasn’t even that funny,” he says, chuckling. “I was just saying Ezra’s more expressive when he’s sad and mopey than Hayden Christensen could ever be.”
“But we like Hayden Christensen, right?”
“We love him.”
The Nevada sun starts to set on the horizon. There hasn’t been much for the three of us to do, so we’ve interlocked in conversations as movies play on in the background.
“God, I was so infatuated with him. It’s so cringy to look back on.” Atlas laughs.
“Oh no, what happened?”
“I waited until we were in a secluded part of the school to ask him out. And I did because I’m an idiot with no filter .
. . I wasn’t subtle about it. At all,” he says and buries his face into his hands.
“We live in some hick town in rural southern Utah, of course his reaction wasn’t going to be good! ”
Ezra’s mirth is contagious. He hugs his legs against his torso, peering over his kneecaps.
“He looked away, rubbing the back of his head like he was some stereotypical anime schoolgirl, and I took that opportunity to teleport the fuck out of there.”
We howl with laughter.
“That sounds like you,” Ezra says.
It does . . . sound like him.
“So . . . what about you two?” Atlas questions. “I was talking to Conin several days ago and that crush of his was still unrequited. What happened?”
Ezra’s red in a millisecond.
“Well,” he mutters, “I’ve . . . loved him for a long time, too.”
We haven’t had a moment to discuss this yet: he and I, us two, alone. His words erupt my skin into a furious blush. I can hardly look him or Atlas in the eye, finding a focal point somewhere on the floor. The leg of the coffee table suddenly becomes very interesting.
“So, you were both oblivious? How cute!” Atlas coos in a mocking tone. “You know, I told him he should confess. I am the perfect matchmaker.”
Ezra’s expression is torn between many things, but cheer prevails, and he spews it like a geyser. “So, I’ve heard.”
Our conversation halts abruptly after a knock at the suite’s door.
Atlas is the one to answer it. He peers through the peephole and opens the door to reveal Ambrosia, Mafu, and Matt stand on the other side.
They walk in, situating themselves around the lounge area.
Ezra sits up, all traces of relaxation gone.
His posture is straight, and his shoulders are tense, drawn back against the slope of the couch.
Ambrosia whispers something into Atlas’s ear. His face incontrovertibly relaxes.
“Leeanne and her crew are on their way. They should arrive sometime tomorrow,” Ambrosia informs us.
Atlas nods. Ezra’s tight-lipped, staring off into space.
“I understand we haven’t been completely transparent with you three. You deserve some explanations.”
“We do,” I say.
Mafu sits on a stool at the kitchen island—he’s impassive, watching the sun drown under the cerulean sky. Matt has his arms hugged to his chest. He’s concentrated, yet still manages to display a jovial front.
“Truth is, the Angelics are spread incredibly thin. Our numbers are dwindling. A lot of this has to do with an influx of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and recidivist trafficking networks. Laws and alliances are rapidly changing because of the attack on Buford Elementary. We’re noticing increases in shifting allegiances with people we once relied heavily on, even in states that are known to protect recidivist rights.
“The fight’s more brutal than ever before. Leeanne’s crew . . . their latest recruit was a trap set by a local network. Several died. They just barely managed to escape. So, when they arrive, expect them to take extra precautionary measures. Luck’s running thin. We must be more careful.”
“So, why here? Why in plain sight?” I ask.
“It’s a lot easier to run our operation this way,” Matt answers. “The last thing people would suspect is for an Angelic operation to be running amid so much activity. It’s the perfect cover-up.”
“You mentioned earlier Esther owns the Excelsior? How’s that?”
Ambrosia opens her mouth to answer, but Atlas interjects.
“Can I?”
She gestures for him to continue.
“The CEO of LAM Resorts is Esther’s father. He bought the Excelsior back in, what, 2006?”
Matt confirms this.
“Erwin knew his daughter was an Angelic when she was very young—of course, the laws on mandatory testing and patient confidentiality were much stricter then. Erwin had to pay millions of dollars in hush money to keep Esther’s abilities secret.
“But he bought the Excelsior and lets Esther use it for secret Angelic operations. Essentially, it’s like our own underground railway.
She’s in charge of aiding runaway recidivists and getting them safely to Proctus.
So many of the workers here are people like us—Angelics with abilities they’ve hidden their entire lives. ”
“Precisely,” Ambrosia cuts in. “Now you know. Be prepared for when Leeanne arrives.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You should get some rest,” says Matt.
The trio takes their leave, abandoning the rest of us to think about what they said.
“I’m gonna shower,” Ezra says after a while.
“I’ll go,” Atlas sighs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ezra disappears around the bend after Atlas says his goodbye.
I stay suspended, ruminating over all this new information, feeling the world crumbling and crashing down on my shoulders.
We’re so small in the grand scheme of things that this feels too much to handle.
Water starts in the bathroom. His voice is soft, and inaudible at first, but when he repeats my name, my heart skips a beat. It sounds like a prayer.
“Conin,” he says. “Can you come in?”