Conin
“Fancy seeing you here,” Atlas says.
He says this every time we meet. I find the starts of a giggle lodging in my throat and the eruption of tingling nerves along my skin every time—without fail. A magnetic force gravitates me toward Atlas, almost like a tether binds him and me together like it does him and Ezra.
There’s his undeniable charm everyone loves him for, and when I say everyone, I quite literally meaneveryone. He knows every Angelic already, although that could be because of his abuelo’s operation. Regardless, a bevy of beaming, enthusiastic people are always surrounding him. A thimble of jealousy lodges itself in my stomach to the point where I can feel an irksome itch in my bones, a sprouting annoyance I have no means of stopping.
But when Atlas is with Ezra, that clawing plight dissipates. It feels right that they’re in each other’s orbit. I’m far less ill at ease when I know they’re working together or when I comehome from Headquarters and they’re sitting on the couch in an animated conversation. Ezra lights up the room when Atlas is in it and perhaps I should feel jealous, but I don’t.
My heart is full and it’s not only because of Ezra. It’s because of Atlas, too. If Ezra knew, would he understand? Would he feel the same way?
Atlas plops this week’s book club pick on the table. He sighs and leans back in the chair, getting comfortable since we’ve become regulars.
“I didn’t like it,” he says, exasperated.
“Boo,” I say and take a sip of my coffee. “Why not?”
“I just don’t know how I feel about a cisgender man writing the experiences of an intersex character, no matter if it is fictional. Though, at the same time, I acknowledge we need more stories about intersex people, as they’re often the most repressed in the queer community. God, I’m conflicted.”
“Wow, okay,” I mutter. “I didn’t think that deeply about it.”
“I still don’t understand why you keep reading these books with me when I’m nothing but overcritical,” Atlas laughs. I giggle alongside him, then thumb through the book’s pages.
“I don’t know. It’s fun. I like to hear your never-ending rants.”
“They are never-ending,” he concedes. “You’re never able to get a say.”
“And I’m perfectly fine with that.”
“Any other thoughts on the book?” I question. He’d normally be lost in a full-on tirade by now.
“Nah. I think I was mostly disappointed. How about you?”
He’s not invested, not how he usually is. At this point in our conversation, Atlas would be fully engaged in his analytical ways, but he’s not. He’s distant.
“I approached it from a more technical aspect, which—”
Atlas rolls his eyes.
“Which you told me not to do, but you know me. I’m a writer.”
“Yes, that you are,” he says. “And that’s fine. The author does have some beautiful prose in there.”
“Yeah, he does!”
Atlas leans in, resting his elbows on the table, and clasps his hands together. “Anything that stood out to you in particular?”
“No, but it’s like you said. His prose is great. I tried studying to see what techniques I could implement in my own writing.”
“How’s that going, by the way?”
“I’ve finished the first several chapters, but I think I’ll go back and touch up on the outline before continuing any further.”
“Nice! I hope that goes well.”
“Thanks. I do, too.”
Atlas’s pupils dilate and his lips curve upwards. A pleasant burgundy flushes his cheeks, his eyes crinkling behind his spectacles. His entire person gravitates toward me. I reciprocate his cordial smile after discreetly catching my breath.
