I’m the only sober person in the room. Atlas has practically told us his entire life’s story, everything about his abuelo, his parents meeting on his father’s mission, how badly he wants to be a math teacher, but how he may never get the opportunity, given his recidivist status. And Ezra shared about Lukeman destroying his violin and Thax turning him in, revealing that Ezra’s a faux. That’s not even what pissed me off—
—it’s their conversation now while they play a video game on the PlayStation. Ezra’s sharing too much. He’s never had this issue before, but it seems he can’t get himself to shut up now. He’s sharing things he never would have and with someone we barely even know. According to Ezra, we do know Atlas—whatever the link between them is. I try not to let jealousy get the better of me when I have no right to be jealous.
Andof course, they’re discussingStar Wars, a topic I’m hardly knowledgeable about. I’ve watched the movies and shows for Ezra’s sake, but the information didn’t stick.
Atlas and Ezra are shooting opponents in a game I don’t recognize, not because of indignance, but more because I am hardly a video game person. Ezra finishes spitting some rant about certain characters in one of the various spin-off shows.
“Factssss,” Atlas agrees and headshots an enemy.
Mara falls to the ground in a perpetual reel, slowed down so I can agonizingly witness the event again and again. Ezra fires at some incoming enemies, which he surprisingly downs with ease despite his inebriation. Blood splatters on the asphalt, a skull mask, lightning erupting midair. I see fire and the way it burns and burns.
I can’t take it any longer.
“Turn it off, please,” I mutter.
Neither of them hear me. The gunshots continue.
“Turn it off, please!”
Atlas startles, but listens. The game is quickly shut off. Ezra’s face is plastered with concern, yet he says nothing, trying to understand my sudden outburst.
“Are you okay?” Atlas asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, ignoring Ezra’s gaze. “I’m going to bed.”
I leave the two of them without another word.
Chapter 31
Ezra
Atlas is sprawled out on the couch when I regain consciousness, head dangerously close to mine. His glasses are discarded on the table, his eyelids shut peacefully, hair as messy as ever. My accelerated heartbeat is far too much to handle, so I back away. The distance I put between us does nothing to help slow it down.
The movement stirs Atlas awake instead. He blinks life back into his eyes. Groggily, he notices me at the far end of the couch. He grins and checks his phone, mouth gaping when he realizes what time it is.
“Fuck, I actually need to be at school today,” he says, then zips out of the bunker faster than I can reply.
Conin chooses that as the perfect opportunity to set foot in the entertainment room. He’s shirtless: bare, chiseled chest imprinted from the sheets, his stomach hanging over the waistline of his shorts. An erection pushes against my sweats. Imove one leg and drape it over the other, hoping it’ll mask any evidence.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
There’s no hint of accusation in his voice, not one I can detect. Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s secretly admonishing me under all those thick, collective layers.
“I slept fine,” I say without any mention of Atlas, though Conin most likely heard his departure mere minutes ago.
“Good,” he says.
“What do you think our next steps should be?” He’s acting like nothing happened last night.
“What do you mean? I thought the plan was to wait here until the Angelics could extract us, take us to Proctus,” I answer.
“Is that what you want?”
“I want us to be safe,” I say and glare at him dead in the eyes. “Is something changing your mind? It was our goal to get to a safe haven, right?” Or so I had thought.
Conin exhales and blows the air until there’s nothing left in him. His inhale shudders. The second chink in his armor.
“I’ve just been thinking . . . about options. I want a safe haven. I want us to be safe. But what if Proctus isn’t what it’s cracked up to be? What if it’s a fallacy?” Conin says. He can’t look at me.
