Again with the words!
“Conin, we have no way of knowing. I’m skeptical too, but we can’t keep living with no clear end in sight. This could be our break. This could be our only fucking chance. If we keep aimlessly driving into the unknown, the Barclay Network will catch up to us. We’ll be as good as dead.”
Is this what he wants to hear? Is this the reassurance he needs? At this moment, Conin’s unreadable. Maybe he always has been, and I’ve been too ignorant to realize. No matter how hard I try, the wall he keeps up to guard himself remains impenetrable.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m here,” he says.
We’re lounging on the L-shaped couch, aSleep Tokenrecord winding down to the last songs. A movie plays in the background, though neither of us pays attention. Conin’s feet are close to my lap while I’m stretched out, my legs facing the other direction.
“My dad called about a week or two ago saying he was no longer going to be paying child support because I’m eighteen now. Which, I mean, I get it. I do. But at that point, I planned to live with Mom for another year before going to college. He was so adamant about it. It seemed he was ready to be finally rid of us,” Conin says as I gaze up at the ceiling.
“What an asshole,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Conin. You deserve better from him.”
“Can’t be as bad as your dad.” It wasn’t meant to be a low blow, but it hurts, nonetheless.
“Conin,” I say. “That doesn’t invalidate your experiences or your problems. It isn’t a competition. What your dad said, what he did to you and your mom, was bullshit. You deserve more than that.”
“Yeah, well. Here we are,” he says.
Now that was a low blow. His defenses are up, but I won’t confront him because I know the sacrifices he had to make to be here with me now. This is a delicate situation; he and I are charting unfamiliar waters. But I wish he’d dismantle those barriers, look me in the eye, and confide in me all his pains, thoughts, and emotions.
“I’m sorry, Ez.”
“It’s like I said. You’re allowed to feel this way. What’s on your mind? And don’t say ‘nothing’ . . . I know something’s troubling you.” Conin ponders long and hard. His mind is far from here as he stares out into space, on the carpet below. Telling me about his dad was a step in the right direction and it’s not like he hasn’t laid himself bare to me in the past, but since his dad left him and his mom years ago, he’s erected a wall I can’t break down. I know I’m not the one to talk, but the longer he suppresses the conflicting emotions sweltering inside him, the more in danger he is of imploding. Leaving his mom behind, his promising future, his foot injury—which, now that I think about it, we still need to address—shooting the mercenary on the highway, his sudden outburst last night . . . he’ll self-destruct and I won’t know what to do when that moment arises.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Ezra,” Conin finally says, and stands.
He shuts himself in the bathroom. The shower starts seconds later.
Chapter 32
Ezra
In the following days, I deliberately avoid any war-related or shooting video game that may trigger another outburst from Conin. Yes, it sets off a PTSD tick of my own, remembering the flagrant fear in the blue of his eyes, but more than anything, I want to ensure it won’t happen again.
The hours trickle by. Conin finds a book to read that keeps him occupied for a good chunk of the time. The familiar sight provokes happy, sentimental memories. I can’t help but smile.
“You know what this reminds me of?” I ask, poking at him with my big toe.
He recoils even when a laugh escapes his mouth. Conin pushes back, farther from me, which cracks me the hell up.
“What? What does this remind you of?” Conin says. He clutches his stomach. I avert my gaze.
“All those times growing up when you’d have a book propped open and I was on your TV, playing someStar Warsgame. You remember? That’s how we spent most days. We’d help eachother with our homework. You would listen when I practiced on the violin. I’d avoid going home, spend so many nights in a sleeping bag on your floor . . .” I choke. A sob crawls up my throat, lodging itself somewhere in the larynx.
“Fuck,” he says. “Ezra—”
He wraps two big burly arms around my neck and pulls me close. There’s a hint of shampoo, something citrusy in his hair, and a musky body wash. Clean, yet entirely familiar.
“This is so awkward,” I mutter. “I’m okay. Promise.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes, Co. I am,” I emphasize.
“You sure?” He pins me down. His kneecaps find both outer sides of my legs, and his hands grip my wrists, glued to the couch cushions behind me. He straddles me, perhaps unaware he’s doing so, and I plead desperately for the blood in my dick not to betray me, though a tent already pitches itself against the fabric. Conin hasn’t noticed yet—he’s not privy to the way his body has a direct effect on mine. It’s only a matter of time before he does. There’s enough space for me when he moves off that I can quickly prop a pillow over the direct giveaway. Conin’s face is close—too close. I can feel his sweet, minty breath brush against my nose. What’s he doing? What the fuck is this?
