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.”
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’sflushed, but the smile adorning his face is undeniable. Ezra ishappy.
“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.”
