But I need to know. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“I may have gotten him to confess a thing or two,” Atlas says.
We start our descent when a sudden thickness lodges itself in my stomach. Bile rises in my esophagus—my larynx constricts. I try not to let my panic show, suppress it like Conin would—paint on a stoic facade with this faux face. Atlas is none the wiser.
The elevator halts. The steel doors push aside and reveal two of our Angelic comrades. Ambrosia has a slim purse to her mouth, with creased eyebrows. Matt’s indifferent, but his expression isn’t unfriendly. They slip in to occupy the space next to Atlas and me. The gates shut and we continue descending.
“Where are you two going?” questions Ambrosia, giving me a once-over.
Does this form unsettle her too? How well did she know Tommy, if she knew him at all?
“We were going to get something to eat,” Atlas says.
“We’d rather you not. How about you return to your rooms, and we’ll get you what you need. Whether or not you’re recognized is irrelevant. It’s safer to stay in your rooms until Leeanne can extract us.”
“Sure,” he replies, and that smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes again.
He and I exit at the next stop. Ambrosia nods, satisfied, before she and Matt slide out of sight. Though my anxiety ebbs at first, a sudden, irrevocable spike catches me off guard. The walls oneach side start to cave in. Atlas blurs while the ground below me sways. An image of Lukeman Gray raising a hand to strike me finds its way to the surface. Shards of ebony. Fragments littering the floor. I try to find Atlas, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and the walls only grow tighter against me. I sense the first retch, my body instinctively fighting against it, because this sucks, this sucks, this fucking sucks. Crippling apprehension rattles my every limb until I wander aimlessly in search of a restroom. There’s one nearby, thank god, just a turn down the adjacent hallway.
“Ezra?”
“Ezra?” he repeats. The voice is too far away.
I’m not sure what triggered my relapse. Maybe the past week’s events have finally settled and my body decided to reject them the best way it knows how. I hate this body, this skin, these scars, this face, these eyes, my very fucking, cruel existence.
I’m so sorry, Tommy.
Barriers surround me, a stall climbing up. My throat thickens, fingers raking down the tissue. I don’t want to see it. I don’t. The fear in me pulsates, pushing harder, and I gag, vomiting into the porcelain what little contents remain in my stomach. It’s not much. Saliva droops, pools on the rim of the toilet seat. I divert my eyes. Two gentle hands cup my shoulders. They surprise me at first, which rockets me closer to the toilet, but I acquiesce, lean into the touch, and relish it.
They’re not Conin’s.
Atlas’s soft, gentle hands never leave my side. He mutters reassurances, loud enough for only me to hear. Atlas waits and never probes. He’s patient until the wracking shakes subside, helping me to my feet while stroking soothing fingers down my spine. Even as they grace the knobs, warmth blooms with each caress from the hands of someone I met a week ago. A flutteringsensation in my stomach crawls upwards and quickens the beat of my heart.
What the hell?
He assists me back to my and Conin’s suite, lets me know I’ve shifted into myself. These clothes feel normal against my body, something I can at least live with. Atlas helps me inside, where Conin is still fast asleep on the sofa bed. He must’ve slept very little on our ride to Vegas, though that’s no surprise. What we went through in Eureka is not something so easily forgotten. Atlas lowers me onto a plush chair, then occupies the one opposite the coffee table. He seems amused by Conin’s slumbering form. Brown irises find mine.
“Want to see if anyStar Warsreruns are on while we wait?” Atlas says in his low baritone.
“Sure.” My heart catches.
He and I discuss favorite movies from the saga, where I again disclose my unfettered love withthe second film.Our conversation veers into the series, the independent films, the ones slated for release in the distant future. Atlas’s knowledge, which far outweighs Conin’s, and is almost on par with mine, comes as a pleasant surprise. We talk for a long while. My cheeks won’t relax, stretching painfully wide.
We avoid the previous day’s events, the millions of questions unasked, our thoughts, feelings, and emotions in favor of this shared interest. I hope one day we’ll talk about what we keep silent about for now, but for the time being, I am perfectly content at wasting away in a fictional universe.
And there, still present in my stomach, is the unnerving sensation of butterflies taking flight.
Chapter 46
Conin
Ezra and Atlas are lounging in the chairs when I regain consciousness. AStar Warsmovie plays on TV and they’re chipping away at takeout—Chinese, I think when the scent wafts over to my nose. The two are engaged in an enthusiastic conversation, probably something regarding the fictional universe, but it oddly enough puts a smile on my face. Seeing Ezra enthused about a topic, talking with a friend, and branching away from his comfort zone is a breath of fresh air. I sit up and hug one of the pillows to my chest. Atlas briefly stops speaking when Ezra turns to me with a small grin.
“We didn’t want to wake you, so there’s takeout for you in the fridge,” he says.
“You looked like you could use the sleep,” Atlas mentions.
“Thanks,” I say.
