I feel far from rested.
I don’t know how I will be after yesterday’s events.
My feet carry me to the kitchen, where I find the Styrofoam box of Chinese food waiting amongst empty refrigerator shelves. I scoop the box’s contents onto a plate and start microwaving it. Leaning my frame against the granite countertop, I watch Atlas pick up where he left off. Ezra’s eyes are trained on the TV. He’s actively listening, subtly nodding, and agreeing with other parts of Atlas’s speech. Ezra rarely displays this side of himself.
I never meant for Ezra to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with growing up. But I always challenged him, invited him to parties or events, and ensured he knew he was wanted. He’d at least attend my football games, usually accompanied by Mom. His presence there meant the world to me. Suddenly, there had been a pep in my step, an invigorating boost when I’d spotted him in the bleachers. Of course, Ezra would reject the other, countless social engagements I invited him to, but he had tried. I sincerely love him for it.
I may not understand this tether between him and Atlas, whether this makes them more than fast friends, but whatever the case, I accept it: without jealousy, without animosity, and without feeling as if Atlas will take Ezra from me.
Atlas treats him the way he deserves—in the way the guys on the football team should have. He’s thoughtful and genuine, serious when he needs to be. He and Ezra already share so much in common. Atlas’s eyes are alight with passion as he gestures widely with his hands in animated bursts. His tousled hair waves with each movement, his glasses askew, tipped at the nose, while his lips sharpen into focus.
Atlas is attractive as hell. That’ll be two times now that I’ve confessed this to myself.
But before panic settles in, Ezra’s face dampens, turning sour. His mouth tilts downwards, his fork suspended over the takeout box holding an unbitten piece of chicken. He sets the food on the coffee table, excuses himself, and proceeds to the bathroom.The door shuts loudly in his wake. Atlas roams to the kitchen, his gaze fixed on where Ezra departed.
“He doesn’t seem to be taking everything in well,” he whispers.
There’s that pain again—that intense understanding only years of friendship will get you.
“Ezra’s always kind of been this way.”
“What is it?”
“He’s never outright told me, but I think it stems from his anxiety. When it happens, I give him the space he needs,” I say.
That might sound like I don’t care, like I can’t be bothered with his mental health issues. Truth is, I’m too scared to push Ezra away.
“Before you freak out,” Atlas says, “Ambrosia told us to come back, but Ezra and I went out to get food . . . didn’t make it past the third floor. He started to have one of these . . . spells and puked in the restroom. Do you think it’s an eating disorder?”
“Maybe,” I replied, cringing at the bluntness of his question. I have no clue what it is. We never talked about it. And the idea of that makes me feel horrible and scared and a plethora of other crappy emotions.
I plaster on a smile, remembering the food in the microwave. After several bites of the takeout, its contents grow dull and tasteless in my mouth. Each bite leaves bitter entrails.
Eventually, Ezra returns and sits on the couch as if nothing happened in the first place. Neither I nor Atlas acknowledge it. Instead, we return to our seats and watch the movie in silence.
Atlas strikes up a conversation again. Whatever he says breaks Ezra out of his spell. He guffaws and bursts into a stream of heavy laughter. Atlas grins, watching Ezra clutch his stomach and roll into the pillows on the chair.
“What’d you say?” I ask, leaning conspiratorially toward Atlas.
“It wasn’t even that funny,” he says, chuckling. “I was just saying Ezra’s more expressive when he’s sad and mopey than Hayden Christensen could ever be.”
“But we like Hayden Christensen, right?”
“Welovehim.”
The Nevada sun starts to set on the horizon. There hasn’t been much for the three of us to do, so we’ve interlocked in conversations as movies play on in the background.
“God, I was so infatuated with him. It’s so cringy to look back on.” Atlas laughs.
“Oh no, what happened?”
“I waited until we were in a secluded part of the school to ask him out. And I did because I’m an idiot with no filter . . . I wasn’t subtle about it. At all,” he says and buries his face into his hands. “We live in some hick town in rural southern Utah, of course his reaction wasn’t going to be good!”
Ezra’s mirth is contagious. He hugs his legs against his torso, peering over his kneecaps.
“He looked away, rubbing the back of his head like he was some stereotypical anime schoolgirl, and I took that opportunity to teleport the fuck out of there.”
We howl with laughter.
