Chapter 68
Ezra
Performances always scared the living hell out of me.
There’s a scintillating thrill to them, an intense, frenetic energy—the obligatory attendance from friends and family, but their wholesome willingness to cheer you on and congratulate a performance well done.
The Grays never showed up for any of mine, but Conin and Ms. Bresshet took it upon themselves to never miss a single concert.
I’d see Conin in the crowd with his mother at his side and my heart would swell twice the size.
My frantic pulse would keep me on edge, but their presence never failed to amplify how well I performed.
But I always wanted to perform perfectly, especially when a certain boy was in attendance.
It was the watchful eyes of others that sent my anxiety racing—their possible judgments and their expectant stares for an inevitable mishap.
A small portion of me waited for cruel words to strike.
A vile glare, a contorted, hostile expression worthy of Lukeman Gray’s consideration.
But they never came. It was reassuring after a while, knowing the awe I evoked out of others.
Many would congratulate me. My confidence grew, but Lukeman Gray’s words would tear me apart when I returned home.
Thax’s blade would search for a new stretch of skin left unscathed.
And now it’s been almost a year since I last performed in front of an audience.
Those daunting reminders rush at me in droves, but I attempt to stifle them with the coping mechanisms Quincy taught me.
I thank myself for every moment I took a step back today to reflect and meditate.
I think of the good that’s happened and remind myself of the good that’s in my life: this violin performance, my song, Proctus, and our safety.
Me, Atlas, Conin. I bunch up the unwanted thoughts and picture them as printed polaroids on an empty desk, scattering them to the floor to be forgotten.
I inhale, hold that breath, then exhale until my heartbeat slows, the tunnel vision soothes to a steady plane, and I no longer feel the sting of anxious tremors.
I feel okay. It might be momentary, but for the time being, I’m okay.
I’ve come a long way from the man I was before therapy, before arriving at Proctus, before leaving the life I knew behind with the Grays.
Realistically, there’s still so much that needs to be worked on.
I occasionally relapse and cut myself when the depression hits the hardest. When before I’d choose my forearms, I moved on to my legs, to the familiar planes of my stomach and chest. The self-harm has lessened the more I’ve tattooed my body. Claude is the best.
There have been instances where Conin and Atlas have grown frustrated, we’d get into an argument, and something or another would trigger a memory of Lukeman Gray or Thax’s cold brothership.
In those instances, I had to remind myself that neither of my partners were my estranged brother and father. And that I am not my anxiety. I’m not.
Conin’s PTSD has been on and off; the night he shot Mara—despite her being alive, from what we know—and abandoning his mother at home without a proper goodbye continuously haunts him.
He misses her immensely. Ms. Bresshet is being monitored by an Angelic until Callum Finch is found.
Callum was reported missing days after the Eureka incident, but the news didn’t reach our ears until weeks later.
Ambrosia and Matt returned to Utah for a few days to relay what happened with Esther, but now they’ve returned to Proctus indefinitely.
Their reasonings were unknown, but I know Conin and Atlas are happy to have them here.
Therapy’s been great for all of us. It’s no linear path, but it has helped me further understand how the past year has affected us in more ways than one.
It’s certainly helped our . . . throuple (god, I hate that term) grow closer.
There are nights when Atlas and I need to placate Conin from a nightmare that jolted him into a screaming fit.
We’d cuddle from then on out, Conin squished in the center, the three of us a tangle of limbs and bodies and warmth.
Atlas continues to struggle with guilt from abandoning his grandfather’s work.
And, you know . . . I have my issues. We’re works in progress.
Someone breaks me out of my reverie with a five-minute warning.
Gracie’s at my side while she resins her bow.
Several others talk animatedly behind me; a gaggle of kids younger than I am converse over how nervous they are to participate in their first performance.
The familiarity of the setting crinkles the corners of my eyes.
Gracie smiles back cordially, then returns to her pre-performance ritual.
These people, the Angelics around me, resemble friends, in some regard—people I look forward to seeing in practices or around the haven.
The Angelics are family, in some semblance or another.
The younger instrumentalists are called to the stage.
When they file out, Gracie and I peek out the side of the door to take in the packed audience gathered here tonight.
We’re sequestered in an open space between Pops, and a converted art gallery.
Edison bulbs string overhead in a zigzag pattern that illuminates the setting in an orange glow.
Both brick walls are a painted tapestry of flowers, fields, mountains, and trees.
An old bicycle wheel is mounted onto the art gallery’s wall—an abstract installment I still can’t understand.
The various age groups play their pieces until it’s time for Gracie and I to take the stage.
“Break a leg,” she says, and mimes a snap with the bridge of her viola.
I take the rear, immediately spotting Conin and Atlas in the second row with Ambrosia at their side. My stomach flips uncomfortably. I suppose this means I’ll have to reconcile with her afterward—I’ve prolonged the inevitable for far too long now. Her presence is most definitely Conin’s doing.
Atlas’s eyes brighten at my approach, his glasses glistening under the glow of the Edisons.
Conins’s more reserved, but I can see the subtle enthusiasm in his expression while he laces his fingers into Atlas’s.
Ambrosia nods with an upward tug to her lips while I shuffle behind Gracie.
An emphatic murmuring rises in the crowd—I feel the strong itch to get my fingers on the strings of my violin.
We set our sheet music on the stands, pause momentarily, and then harmonize the opening notes together.
I get lost in the melody, in the sound of our instruments clashing eurythmically together, in Gracie’s solo when I’ve finished mine.
I cast surreptitious glances toward my boyfriends: the awed, childlike wonder of Atlas’s countenance and Conin’s peaceful, relaxed expression.
Somersaults and butterflies, warm afternoons and nights intertwined.
This piece reminds me of them, of how lucky I am to have them in my life, to have them as my own.
The last faint echoes of the vibrato smooth out into oblivion and the raucous applause of the audience swells.
Gracie and I bow—we’re joined moments later by the rest of the crew.
When it’s all but me left on the stage, Maggie, my instructor, makes an appearance.
“Now, don’t leave quite yet, folks. We have one last, final surprise for you tonight. Give it up for Ezra Gray, who after months of endless writing and editing, has a special song for two very special someones in the crowd here.”
My traitorous legs almost lead me away from the microphone. I hold the mouthpiece close, gaze pressed on the boys who mean the world to me—the only two I can see in this endless wave of people.
“Conin and Atlas, this is for you.”