Chapter 69
Conin
Ithink my heart skyrockets out of my chest. That’s just how excited I am when Ezra takes the stage again, looking antsy at his feet—a white-knuckled grip on the microphone, lips brushing against the mouthpiece.
In the seconds of silence that lead up to Ezra’s encore moment, I turn to gauge Atlas’s reaction, wanting him to experience that same eagerness.
His eyes bug from their sockets. Ambrosia’s lips are tight as she watches Ezra from the seat over Atlas.
“Did you know about this?” I whisper.
“No, not at all.”
The only times I’d see Ezra crawl out of his shell were the days he had scheduled orchestra performances or when he’d attend my football games with Mom.
In the fifteen years I’ve known him, he never once mentioned singing—never once expressed interest in lyricism or branching out from the violin.
Is this what he meant when he said he wanted to compose music?
I thought that entailed movie scores or his own fame-bound symphonies.
But this is Ezra—he’s chock-full of surprises.
The fear of leaving his comfort zone held him back most of his life, but watching him on stage tells me one thing.
He’s ready to break free. The sight of him sends adrenaline pumping—my excitement pulses with Ezra’s static breath.
He swallows and looks up. His face is red juxtaposed to the pale of his skin, but he overlooks the crowd.
His one blue and one green eye spot me and Atlas in the throng of the audience.
I gift him a reassuring nod. He grins, ever so slightly.
His voice is silk, raspy in a way I never imagined possible.
His baritone is heavenly to the ears. When the chorus crescendos, he procures a falsetto that ignites every organ in my body.
I’m transfixed and I know that the crowd is, too.
Ezra sings with an unbelievable prowess that’s both equally poignant and raw.
The lyrics are gut-wrenching, vocalizing every single one of his emotions—his story of the life that he lived.
A tear caresses my cheek. There are so, so many people around me, but I’m unabashed in my emotions because the only three people at this moment that matter are Ezra, Atlas, and me.
The world falls away and the spotlight lands on us—the rest, a dark backdrop.
His final note lingers, resonating far after he’s ended his song.
The audience erupts into rapturous applause.
The sound is deafening from our spot amongst the crowd.
Ezra mutters a small thank-you, then points at Gracie on the piano.
Atlas has tears spilling down his cheeks.
He claps and hollers louder than anyone here.
Even Ambrosia has emotion tainting her tight composure, applauding with the rest.
Suddenly, Atlas rushes to the stage before Ezra can escape the outpouring of attention.
He takes him by the arm, helps him off, and kisses Ezra with dramatic gusto.
Atlas certainly has a flair for dramatics.
Hoots and hollers are voiced from the obstreperous audience.
I’ll take that as my cue to join my people.
Cheers burst from the crowd when I press my lips to Ezra’s.
He’s flushed, but the smile adorning his face is undeniable. Ezra is happy.
“It needs some work, but . . .” He pauses, equal parts flustered and embarrassed. “Was it okay?”
“It was brilliant!” Atlas exclaims.
The look Ezra turns to me is hopeful. I lace my fingers with his, searching beyond his eyes to convey with all that I have just how brilliant I truly think he is.
“I’m so proud of you.”
His beaming smile is electric.
“That was really good,” says Ambrosia, who’s joined us from the sidelines.
Ezra startles. Ambrosia already seems dismayed, ready to back out of the situation.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
Behind us, the applause dies down and Angelics start to pour out of the venue.
A few congratulate Ezra before leaving, but in our tiny, clumped group, an uncomfortable silence ensues.
Ambrosia initiates another stilted conversation with him that I try to eavesdrop on, but Atlas pulls me aside.
We place ourselves under a tapestry of colorful mountains that span a nonexistent horizon.
He interlocks his fingers with mine and we watch as Ezra’s reluctant discussion with Ambrosia becomes more animated.
“You okay?” Atlas asks.
I’m not particularly worried about them. I know they’ll work it out—Ezra is aware how close Ambrosia and I have become over the months since the warehouse incident.
“You know what?” I say. “I’m happy.”
“Me too,” he says.
He rests his head against my shoulder, which I can’t imagine is comfortable, as he’s about an inch or two taller than me, but he and I lean against the bricked wall of Pop’s while the conversation increases to a buoyant cadence.
“You excited to see your mom?” he whispers to me.
Atlas knows that I am, though I think he’s just trying to get my mind off the two in front of us.
“I think she’ll like it here. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
“Do you think she’ll like me?”
“She has to. I mean, she likes Ezra . . .”
Atlas hits me playfully on the arm but giggles nonetheless.
“I’m sorry you had to leave her for so long.”
“I’m sorry, too . . . for how everything abruptly ended for you. If Ezra and I hadn’t shown up, you’d still be there with your parents—”
“Stop,” Atlas says firmly. “It was never completely safe there, not even when abu was alive. Besides, it was my job. Aiding people with special abilities was a decision we made collectively as a family. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“I’m excited for them to come here—come home,” he whispers.
Because Proctus is home. If you had asked me when we first arrived if I ever thought that possible, I’d have said no. But it’s true. I can’t wait to live our entire lives together here.
“Me too,” I say.
“I can’t wait to tell them about my teaching position!”
“They’ll be so proud.”
I scoop him up, kissing him passionately on his beautiful lips.
“I’m proud.”
“Hey, you two,” Ezra warns, “there’s people here.”
Ambrosia chuckles. Ezra shuffles our way to join in on the fun.
“Did you know she cosplayed as Aayla Secura? Queen.”
I knew he’d gain a significant amount of respect for her after learning about her cosplaying days. She looks pleased but keeps a respectable distance from us. I nod and mouth a thank-you.
“Well, I need to help take everything down. Meet you guys at WellWorks after?”
“Of course, love,” I say. Atlas squeezes his shoulder.
Ezra disappears into Pop’s, leaving the three of us alone in the venue once teeming with enthusiastic Angelics. We saunter to Sacramento Avenue, the night alive with palpable vigor. Many crowd into WellWorks for late-night drinks and food, so we follow along, basking in the hype and liveliness.
It’s a testament to how far we’ve come, a promise of a long, fulfilling life with people who’ve undergone so many of the same experiences. My heart soars and I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.