Chapter 53
Ezra
The first few days on the job are strenuous work.
I underestimated the effort put into gardening and how out of shape I was.
It’s somewhat enjoyable, like I’m making a change with work integral to feeding the citizens of Proctus.
Like I’ve finally done something useful in all this—for once pulling my weight, instead of cowering behind others.
Atlas and I take lessons together, though we’ll be partnered up after our training, once we have a handle on the fields’ operations.
Neither of us has any prior horticultural knowledge, which must be irksome for the Angelic conducting our training lessons.
After each eight-hour day, Atlas vents his clear frustration with their teaching methods.
“I’m not a quitter,” he said when I asked why he didn’t just seek out another occupation, which I didn’t want. Not at all. “Besides, you make the job worth it.” He winked. I melted on the spot into gelatinous goo.
And how my heart soared.
The time came for us to receive hands-on training, so naturally, Atlas and I were paired as newcomers under the supervision of a seasoned Angelic.
Ofa was Mafu’s older sister. She arrived at Proctus years before Mafu did, according to Atlas, who was once good friends with them both.
The details of their falling out are foggy from there, leaving lots to the imagination.
We learned to garden, harvest, and manage the crops.
When Ofa left us to our devices, Atlas would strike up a conversation with a friendly cadence, an ease that could fool anyone into thinking we’d been friends for a long, long time.
I reveled in it. Our conversations sent my heart tripping over ghostly obstacles I couldn’t best.
We would talk and talk and talk about everything.
It stemmed from Star Wars and branched into every aspect of life, discovering our mutual love for Sleep Token and music in general, to our hopes and dreams and aspirations—a future so bleak and unobtainable, nothing but a dream.
I urged him to inquire about a teaching position, somewhere he could start simply by teaching younger students.
However, with his tutoring experience, there was confidence he could do so much more.
He beamed when I told him, casting careful glances my way that became sloppier as the day wore on.
He was not discreet. Maybe a part of him wanted me to see.
Every time I caught his eye, I’d trip over again, covering the upward tug of my mouth like I was wiping perspiration off my top lip.
That damn grin was glued to my face for the remainder of the day.
We cast secret glances, smirked through the foliage and tomato vines.
He’d brush up against me and my body would ignite, flame and embers spreading everywhere.
I was afraid they’d be visible for the world to see.
Atlas made me forget. He made me forget the bad and the ugly, the evil and the dangers of the world outside Proctus—the life I had left behind.
He shared stories of his childhood and adventures with Ambrosia, Mafu, and Matt when they were younger.
Atlas would trail his abuelo everywhere.
He told me how his family came to settle in Eureka, falling in love with the small-town life, the abandoned ghost towns that littered the area and land around them, and how his abuelo would take him to every one until they had explored each bend and crevice.
The day his abuelo died, Atlas could no longer feel his presence.
It was painful that he was constantly reminded of his abuelo’s passing—when Angelics who knew him or were helped by Augurys’s operation approached Atlas to thank him or offer condolences.
Their tokens of gratitude were another mnemonic that he had failed to continue the legacy.
Tears welled in his brown eyes. I clung to him and let him grip my shirt.
We sat in secret amongst the evergreens enshrouding the high school.
He understood the tether with his abuelo to be a familial bond, but the one between us was unexpected, unfamiliar.
He thought to ask Ambrosia and said he would, but getting my hopes up wouldn’t do any favors, so I masked the brewing worries with careful nonchalance.
Atlas saw right through that facade. I was getting lazy with my poker face.
Repaying in kind, I told him of the time Conin and I first met at the park beneath the sweltering sun with ice cream cones, the stories about my violin, how it was my most prized possession, and recounting the drastic moment Lukeman Gray shattered it into bits and pieces.
I told him about Thax, the strained relationship with my mom, her detached submissiveness, but of her instincts to patch me up—about Conin, Conin, Conin.
Doubt trickles in, pitting in my stomach, craving my attention.
Conin and I are happy. We’re finally together, so why does that pit feel like a never-ending hole?
It craves more, but I can’t give it more, because I don’t know what it wants.
Conin’s filling it, but not completely, and that terrifies me.
What the hell is happening?
“When did you fall in love with him?” Atlas questions me one day.
We’re sequestered between a bed of potatoes and a line of evergreen trees.
His expression is indiscernible and he’s just as stoic as Conin is.
A good chunk of the garden is in the high school’s track field.
Students run around its perimeter on the asphalt.
I can’t help but feel they’re watching us, judging, waiting for the inevitable.
“A long time ago, I think. I, uh, didn’t realize then I was demisexual, but I knew without a doubt Conin was the one. I never thought he’d reciprocate those feelings.”
“I think he’s always loved you too,” Atlas says with a knowing grin. “From what I observed.”
He chuckles, magnetizing me with his infectious mirth. We cultivate the potatoes, placing them roughly into a wicker basket at our side.
“So, when do I get to hear you play the violin?” he asks.
“Never,” I say.
He’s crestfallen or it’s a ruse, but I’m rushing to tell him that I promise I will, I’m a bit rusty, I was only joking because I’m a sarcastic little—
“You were being sarcastic,” Atlas says.
“Yeah.”
“Well, stop it. I’m serious. I want to hear you play.”
Soon, I promise. He nods, content and satisfied, and returns to his work.
I picked up the violin again a mere few days ago. Conin said he discovered through the grapevine that two Angelics in the community were offering lessons. Instruments were limited, but there were several slots still open. I hopped onto the opportunity immediately.
Sometimes you don’t realize how much you miss something until you lose it.
The thrill of the violin underneath my chin, its long, curved frame reaching my extended arm, and the scintillating sensation of the strings brushing against my cuticles.
I missed it all, from the upkeep to its sweet trill.
The notes resonated far after I released the bow.
The ebony instrument was back in my possession, I was attending lessons again, and life felt okay.
Somewhere along the way, lyrics popped into my head again—the same song I’d been testing the waters with before shit hit the fan.
Turns out, a relationship isn’t the cure-all for life’s obstacles.
The words were difficult to come by still but committing them to a blank page felt more attainable than ever.
A week later, Conin left on a shift with the Angelic Guard.
He kicked off training and returned each day with palpable enthusiasm.
I’d smile, kiss him full on the lips, and snuggle with him on the couch or in our bed, where we’d drift peacefully to sleep.
Pride welled in my heart, geared my mouth upwards into an unabashed smile that couldn’t easily be negated.
Conin would beam back, rake his fingers down my hair, and tell me with familiar persistence that he should tie it into a bun again before he became rusty. I let him every time.
“I’m so proud of you,” I’d say. He’d kiss me until my lips grew numb.
Now, he is away for guard training, and I am home alone, left with a brain full of thoughts and a stringed instrument waiting to be played.
I pick it up. The strings are familiar, the weight of the bow a comfortable reassurance.
I raise it to the tip of the frog, then swipe down with an elegant thrust. My index finger wobbles, emitting a smooth vibrato, which hums deep into my hands, traveling upwards.
The sound settles in my ears and brain. It is alive, alive, alive.
I am alive. Familiarity washes over me, taking me to wherever it pleases.
And finally, unprecedentedly, a knock sounds on the door.
The knock tells me to freeze, so I do. The violin is set down.
With pent-up anxiety, I amble toward the front door, willing for the knocks to recede and for whoever is behind the entrance to go away. Instead, more come. I sigh, grip the handle, and pull it open.
Atlas MacPherson stands over the threshold.
The first thing he says to me is, “I heard you.”
My face heats, but it also feels like all the blood’s been drained out of me.
“You sounded amazing,” he says next. “Can I come in?”
“S-sure,” I reply.
Atlas slips in and takes in the interior of our apartment, which he’s seen plenty of times before. He sidles up to the violin placed on the glass coffee table. I watch to see if he’ll pick it up. He doesn’t.
“I thought you were some neighbor coming to tell me to keep it down,” I say.
“If I were your neighbor,” Atlas smiles, “I’d tell you to play all the fucking time.”
“Oh.”
“I went to the library to meet Conin for book club, but he never showed. I thought I’d come to check if everything was alright.”
My heart deflates. Embarrassingly, I had hoped he had come to see me.
“He had to pick up a shift,” I say.
“Oh, well. Fancy seeing you here.”
It picks back up, performing somersaults upon somersaults. A quick beat of silence. Then, “Play me something,” Atlas demands.
“I—” don’t want to.
“Please! I won’t judge. I promise. I just want to hear your prowess.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Fine.”
With the violin back in my clutches, the rest cups my chin, and then the bow finds my fingers.
I hold the horsehair near the frog for longer than necessary.
Atlas watches with patience, eyes lit with childlike enthusiasm.
He awaits the performance of a lifetime, and I fear I’ll subvert his expectations.
Burn them to the fucking ground. It’s not a big deal.
I take steady breaths. He waits, smiling, patient, attentive.
I stroke the bow down and the beginning notes of John Williams’ “Across the Stars” resonate through the tiny apartment. Atlas’s smile could brighten the world.
The prelude swells into the dramatic chorus.
I cast a brief, wary glance at Atlas, whose eyes are wide with wonder, mouth agape.
Jolts of pleasure shoot up my spine, striking my heart in its epicenter.
The surge to play more powerfully, to show Atlas everything I have overcomes me.
I use our tether to hold on to him, making it impossible for him to let go.
Every ounce of energy is put into the vibrato when the outro arrives, echoing far after I’ve concluded the piece.
He stares in awe. My heart pounds frivolously against my chest, threatening to break through blood and bone, muscle and sinew. The butterflies are out of control.
“Wow,” he mutters. He’s breathless. I have that effect on him. Me.
“So?” I question and look at him without looking at him.
Wow could mean anything.
“You memorized it?” he chokes on his words.
“Yeah.”
“Of course you did.”
Atlas stands. There’s a slight tremor in his knees.
“Was that for me?” he asks, but I can barely hear him.
“Yes,” I say.
And it’s the truth.
The press of his lips is soft against mine.
Fireworks erupt from our bated breaths.
He grips the bridge of the violin and pulls it from my grasp.
There’s no space between us, but he parts his mouth, searches deep into my eyes.
It’s agonizing. My lips open in expectation.
I don’t object, I only stare, only wait for him to kiss me again.
And he does. It’s wonderful, otherworldly, perfect.
A wave of panic crashes over me.
Atlas breaks away quickly. Horror laces his expression and the wide curvature of his eyes. My heart’s descent causes whiplash as it drops deep into the earth.
“Oh my god,” he whispers.
“Atlas—”
“Oh my god,” he says again, “what the hell have I done?”
“I kissed you back,” I say, uselessly.
“What the hell have I done?” he repeats as if he could take back what he just did. What I reciprocated.
“Conin—” and the words are lost.
Conin.
I—did I cheat on him? Have I betrayed him? Would he understand? Would this be okay for him? Would he allow it? Does he feel the same?
“Ezra, I’m so sorry.”
“I–it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t want to ruin what you and Conin have.”
“It’s okay,” I say. But I don’t know if it is. I don’t know if I believe it. All I know is that I love Conin, but there’s obviously chemistry between Atlas and me.
“This isn’t how I wanted you to find out. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”
I kissed back.
“Find out what?”
“That I like you. And that I like Conin.”
“Oh.” Oh. OH. “Have you two—”
“No,” Atlas quickly interjects.
“So, you’re—”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry, Ezra.”
“It’s alright,” I say because maybe it is. “I think I am, too.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I believe so.”
“Well, shit,” he says, breathless.
“Shit,” I say.
One second, two, three.
“What now?” he asks.
“This,” I answer.
I pull him close. Our bodies flush hot near each other. The kiss I give him is a promise: soft, subtle, warm.
Maybe this is okay.
Maybe we will be alright.