“I thought you were a ghost,” Atlas says.
“Nah, it’s just me,” I whisper, to be cordial while playing cool. Atlas ambles over to the TV where I remain. He grins with an awkward tilt of his lip, then notices what’s playing.
“Good choice.”
Does he likeStar Warstoo? Who wouldn’t? Is he a toxic fan or is he one in a million like me with a secret love for everyone’s most hated prequel movie? I study his fixation on the screen and realize too late that I need to say something.
“Which is your favorite?” I ask.
“Oh,Revenge, hands down. This one’s a close contender,” he answers.
“Everyone thinks I’m weird when I say it’s my favorite.”
“Really?” he inquires. “Not at all. But out of all the content, or just the saga?”
“Nah, just out of the main nine,” I say.
“Preach,” he says, that grin plastered on his face. Atlas is lost in the movie. This mysterious boy is mesmerizing, from his darker skin to his tousled brown hair, glimmering from the gleam of the TV screen that reflects off the lenses of his glasses. His lips are plump, his body lean, several inches shorter than me, but with an overall attractive persona. I know almost nothing about him, though it feels as if I’ve known him for so long. The binding force lures me toward his being, toward his heart. If I plucked it from him, could I then be at peace?
“Ezra, you alright?”
“Sorry, what?”
“You blanked out. Are you okay?” Atlas repeats.
“Yeah, fine,” I say. “What’s up with the alcohol?”
Atlas’s countenance shifts into a sheepish look. He brushes his fingers over the nape of his neck and lingers their touch where strands of hair branch out. There’s that numbness, lodged in my throat. It craves the taste of alcohol—a temporary means to end the numbing.
“Ah, I tried to be discreet about that,” he says. “Can I admit something to you? You won’t judge, right?”
I won’t, but I’m not sure I like the sound of that.
“Of course not.”
Atlas wrings his hands together and lets out an elongated sigh. He chuckles, but his eyes crease sadly. They glisten behind their mask.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he sputters, sprawling out on the couch. He inhales sharply, gazing off into the distance. Hesitantly, I lower myself on a cushion about a foot or two from him, unexpectedly ready to listen to this boy who took us in with the kindness of his heart.
“My grandfather passed a month ago. This was his thing, his operation. I should’ve taken this safe house stuff more seriously because I wasn’t prepared for the moment he would leave us behind. Leaveme. Neither of my parents has abilities, so they can’t teach me and I no longer have him to learn from. I wish I’d paid attention more, listened to him, and helped him out more where possible. Before, I was obsessed with an unachievable normal life—crushing on people at school, tutoring math, working on college applications.”
Atlas collects himself.
“Deep down, I always knew a normal life wasn’t for me. With my abuelo’s legacy, our ties with the Angelics, these powers? I was working so hard for nothing when I knew that one day, I would need to continue abu's work,” he says, sounding lost, his words weighed down by the grief he carried.
He’s unabashed over admitting his deep insecurities to me, a total stranger, someone he only met yesterday. I feel compelled to comfort him in some way.
“I’m sorry—”
“I didn’t share this with you so you’d feel bad . . . I guess, what I’m trying to say is, I understand . . . needing to leave a life behind. I’d want to dull these worries and thoughts if I were you, especially if I was in a similar situation. Abu would be pissed if he knew. He never allowed alcohol before.”
I won’t say how badly I want some—
—nor do I ask how he got his hands on the various bottles of booze. He hasn’t shared his age with us, but he mentioned he’d been applying to colleges and attending school, so he must be around my and Conin’s age.
He and I are quiet for a while. The movie continues. Atlas then inches closer, the tether subtle but there in the subconscious, a pull in my chest. My entire body freezes when he’s near, waiting for what he’ll do, expecting an unprecedented move. “Across the Stars” swells in the background, though neither of us is watching. Atlas’s lips, round and thick, are close. His breath tickles my ear, grazes my neck. I suppress a shudder.
“Do you feel it, too?” he whispers, barely audible over his breath.
