Conin’s upturned lips falter for a brief second before he corrects them. I decided, instead, to redirect the conversation elsewhere—his sudden change in mood is stifling.
“Would you like to come see our apartment?” I ask.
And so, we show him around. He’s particularly vocal about his jealousy and complains all about the trailer home he shares with Mafu and some other guys. But I’m no longer listening, no longer paying attention to his words. My eyes are transfixed on Conin. His expression is unreadable, his emotions tucked underneath all the barriers he’s erected to protect himself. I’m not sure what I find, but whatever it is . . . it doesn’t sit well with me.
Chapter 52
Conin
Ezra has his feet lounged over my lap when a knock comes at the door.
“I got it. Relax,” I say.
There’s some awkward navigating and untangling, which feels oddly reminiscent of being in a relationship with him—almost like I have no idea how to act when we’ve been friends our entire lives. I love him, though, so these baby steps and the awkward fumbling are entirely worth it.
Sandra’s returned, but this time with a grim expression. My hope crumbles, any chance for a position with the guard subdued.
“Well, the council has collectively come up with a decision,” she says, disgruntled.
“And?” I question, matching her energy.
“The Council has granted you clearance to become a guard, but with conditions. You’ll need to speak with them on Wednesday morning. Ambrosia will then meet with you to goover the ropes. Make sure to be at the police station at 8 a.m.,” Sandra tells me.
She’s made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t approve.
“They were impressed . . . with what you had to say. Make a good impression, okay?”
She departs with a smirk, bidding us farewell before climbing down the stairs. No matter. Elation overcomes me when I shut the door. Ezra’s tall, lean form stands near the coffee table, his face fixed into a broad smile.
“You heard?”
“Yeah,” he says.
I’m more satisfied I won my case than anything else. This goal wasn’t long sought out, but it feels right. And seeing Ezra, hair out and loose, with a beaming smile that matches how I feel inside, I could kiss him until our lips grow sore. He crosses the distance between us with four long strides, grabs the nape of my neck, and presses his mouth firmly on mine. We kiss and stumble, finding our footing on the laminate wood floor.
Ezra bumps the coffee table, emitting a tiny chuckle with a breathy “Ow” before I playfully push him onto the couch. His long limbs spread out, bangs over his forehead, his cloak of hair draping over the couch’s arm. He stares up, one blue eye, the other green—filled with twinkling stars—I almost lose myself in them, in the distant galaxies they create.
“You okay?” he asks.
No. But right now, with him? I think I will be. Eventually.
It’s better with him.
It somehow always is.
I lean down and kiss him.
An indeterminate amount of time later, our clothes pile in heaps on the floor.
Ezra’s chest is firm, our naked bodies flush against each other. He strokes my hair and breathes warmly on my ear. We stay like this for a while, silent, the only noise our breathing lungs. His beating heart is in unison with mine, a reminder he’s alive. We’re both alive despite everything we’ve been through. Despite all odds.
But something’s been gnawing at me since we made love for the second time. I don’t want to ruin this moment he and I created, so it’s better to stow it away for some other time. As always, Ezra senses a thought troubling me. Like how I can sense when something’s off with him, he seems to have honed that ability, too.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Did you mean it? When you said you were okay with me kissing your scars?” I question, cutting right to the chase. The quiet before he answers lingers for a beat too long. I screwed this up, didn’t I?
But a small part of me, a tiny part of me, feels as if he’s lying for my sake.
