Chapter 63
Ezra
“Lie down on the goddamn bed, Conin,” I demand.
His eyes linger on the bandages that wrap tightly over fresh scars.
But he concedes, struggling to raise his feet onto the mattress.
Atlas already has a handle on things, shifting Conin’s feet onto the bed.
My boyfriend is scarlet in the face, diverting his eyes and picking a focal point somewhere outside the window.
It’s evident in the way they move: Atlas’s pupils dilated, zipping from me and back to what he was doing.
His scrunched nose, the early onset of wrinkles creasing his forehead.
Conin, silent as a mouse, finding the outside much more interesting than the boys in front of him.
Trees and their branches flitter in the breeze.
An Angelic or two cross the road with baskets, and I vaguely remember them from the fields.
I realize I’m distracting myself from the conversation that needs to happen, much like the two before me.
Atlas takes the seat I left him in and I join him on the chair beside it.
After an excruciating beat of silence, Atlas stands and moves for the door.
“I should let someone know Conin’s awake,” he says.
But before he can escape, Conin stops him with the sound of his raspy voice. It tears me apart, knowing the pain he went through—the mental casualties now tainting him. And knowing, deep down in my core, I was the catalyst that started them all.
“I want to talk first,” he rasps.
Atlas freezes under the doorframe with a white-knuckled grip. He’s slow in facing Conin, while simultaneously masking the panic in his face. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions, unlike a certain two people.
“This concerns all of us,” Conin continues, his eyes finally pried away from the window. “I want to talk about where we go from here.”
He knows. There’s a screaming, palpable tension in the room.
It blankets us, siphoning the space of its air.
I wait for something to happen, anything to happen to get me away from here, but as minutes creep on, it’s clear nothing will come from my hopeless cynicism.
He chose to discuss our relationship over everything else after regaining consciousness, so there’s no way we’re backing out of this.
And suddenly, succinctly, shifting into another alias and moving off the grid doesn’t sound so bad.
Atlas is the first to break.
He shuts the door and leans back. His eyes close—when he reopens them, piercing, glassy-brown irises take their place. Atlas glares at the ceiling, waiting for it to unfold all of the universe’s mysteries.
“You know,” I manage to say.
“Of course I do,” Conin whispers.
“We kissed.”
Atlas stifles a whine.
Conin shifts to look at me with a blank stare.
“I thought I’d be angry, but I’m not. I’m not even jealous .
. . not anymore. I’d be a hypocrite, saying that I was .
. . because Atlas quickly grew on me, too.
It wouldn’t be fair to make you guys believe that all this miscommunication is your fault when I’ve been culpable for keeping secrets as well. ”
“I wanted to tell you,” I explain, “but I was worried that if I did, I’d lose you after I’d spent my entire life wanting you. Atlas made me realize it wasn’t fair to keep you in the dark. I mean, you and I danced around this for fourteen years of our fucking lives.”
Conin releases an amused chuckle.
“It’s clear he makes us both happy. We make each other happy. So . . . why not see where this can go?”
“Hello! I’m right here, you know,” Atlas laughs.
“Right,” Conin says. He switches from me to him. “I like you, Atlas. Like, a lot. You’re sweet, funny, and mad intelligent. I could drone on and on about books with you all day and listen to your little tirades. It would make me extremely freakin’ happy if I could share Ezra with you.”
Goddammit. This boy is brilliant.
“I really freakin’ like you too, Conin,” Atlas mumbles. “You guys helped me through the hardest part of my life. So . . . thank you for that.”
I smile at him, trying to communicate where words would otherwise fail that he deserves the world.
“So, um . . . where do we go from here?”
They’re driving me nuts.
“Oh my god, just kiss already!” I say because it can’t be helped. The excitement that this is happening at last is entirely too much to bear. But we can weather anything, Conin, Atlas, and me.
Atlas beams, a striking contrast after the gloom of before.
He looks from Conin to me and back to Conin, a question furrowed in his brow.
The infirmary ceases to exist as Atlas carefully ambles forward.
He leans in on the mattress, freezing as his fingers ruffle the sheets.
Conin propels upward, his mouth parted with expectation.
Atlas lingers there a moment and then shatters the space between them.
Atlas presses his lips to Conin’s. My boyfriend kisses him back.
It’s fleeting.
But it happened.
And I feel as if my chest could burst.
Atlas retreats with a grin that could brighten the sun. Conin’s pleased gaze remains transfixed on him.
“I’ll go find an orderly now,” he says.
He pecks Conin on the mouth again before he leaves, siphoning his last breath in the aftermath. The silence that follows Atlas’s departure speaks volumes. We’re left grasping for straws in his wake.
“I’m going to see a therapist,” I finally manage to say. “After . . . you know . . . I want to get better. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
“You don’t need to tell me yet, Ezra. Not if you aren’t ready.”
“I want to,” and I find that it’s the truth.
“Do you think you can handle this? How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I find that hard to believe, but I don’t tell him. Tears slip down my cheeks and hang loose on the cornice of my jaw before I can suppress them. My chin trembles and I can’t do anything about it.
“Fuck,” I sob.
There’s a creak on the bed. Conin’s strong, muscled arm wraps around my neck and pulls me tight against his chest. Sobs wrack my body. The numbness returns.
“I’m so, so sick of this. I’m sick of craving alcohol every time the depression comes back. I’m sick of . . . feeling sick all the time—feeling useless—feeling like a fucking nobody.”
“You were never a nobody,” Conin placates. His breath is warm on my ear. “You were always someone to me.”
I’m hysterical—inconsolable. He lets me cry for as long as I need—for what probably ends up being hours.
“I wish you could see how amazing you are,” Conin says after most of my energy’s been depleted. I take in shuddering breaths. He strokes my back with the arm he slung over my shoulders, a comforting graze that settles my nerves.
“Can I tell you something?” he says.
“Sure.”
“When we were kids and I first saw your eyes—I was truly, wholeheartedly captivated.
I thought it made you some kind of superhero because I never knew someone could have two different colored eyes.
And, you know, then it turns out you actually have superpowers, which makes you a million times cooler in my eyes.
My point is . . . I was always in awe of you.
“I feel like shit that I didn’t see how much you were suffering. And the little I did know . . . I did nothing about it. I’m so sorry, Ezra.”
I nurse his hand in mine while the appreciation I feel for him multiplies.
“You couldn’t have done anything then,” I choke out.
I grip his hand to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, that he and I are fine.
“But you did what you could when it came down to it.”
Conin squeezes back.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I’ve been lost for a long time,” I admit.
“You want to tell me about it?”
I recall what Ms. Bernard said a month ago, something that was along the lines of putting trust in others.
I’ve always trusted Conin and I always will, but I think I understand now what she was trying to tell me.
She was trying to get me to open up to her then, but I wouldn’t with anyone.
But I think the time’s come to say something.
And so I do.