She gives me privacy to change. I shuck out of my pants and underwear, strip my torso of the blemished T-shirt, and let it fall to the ground with the rest of the tainted clothing. I study the indents on my ribs, the lean muscle on my chest, the bruised patch on my shoulder from cradling Ezra in my arms after stumbling over the sleek tile.
The clothes fit loosely over my frame. I crack open the door to let her know I’m finished. Ambrosia inserts herself, then sits me down on the toilet seat. She leans against the wall, arms folded, staring down at me like I’m some kid in need of a scolding—or, I don’t know. (She kind of always has a scrutinizing expression on—a no-bullshit attitude.)
“You might’ve just saved his life,” she tells me. The checkered tiles below my feet zoom into focus.
“I could’ve stopped him,” I mumble.
“Could you? You told me what happened, and all it sounds like to me is an unfortunate series of events. At the end of the day, Ezra made his decision. You made yours by calling for help.”
Ambrosia may be stern and standoffish, but she always knows what to say, without fail.
“I’ve missed you,” I say.
She kneels and wraps me in her warm embrace. She smells oddly of mint, permeating from her thick locs. I breathe her in, nestling my nose into her skin.
“I missed you, too.”
There’s a subtle set of knocks. Ambrosia mimes an apology and goes to answer the intruder. The silence builds and as it looms, tension mounts. She cracks the door open to a sliver, then shuts it momentarily to look at me.
“It’s Mafu,” she says.
“No.”
She frowns. “Come on, Atlas. You two should talk.”
There’s nothing I want to talk about, not when everything’s in shambles, but it was bound to happen sooner rather than later, so I might as well get the confrontation over with (much to my chagrin). I gesture for her to let him in.
“I’ll be right outside,” she says.
Then it’s just me and Mafu in this tiny restroom, alone. The silence is brutally uncomfortable. My eyes don’t leave his feet, instead staying suspended, neither panning down nor moving up to look at him in the eyes. He reclines against the porcelain sink. His gaze burns into my head, leaving singed skin, hair, and my waning, dying composure.
“I’m so sorry about Conin and Ezra. I hope they recover,” he murmurs.
So, he knows.
My heart on a goddamn silver platter.
Another stretch of empty words left unsaid.
“Are you really going to stay mad at me forever?”
I contemplate what Mafu said with my lips sealed. He squirms, his foot tapping relentlessly on the tile.
“Fine, I’ll go,” he says.
“Wait,” I blurt out.
I—
“—I’m not mad at you.”
He doesn’t push any further—he waits idly by. I still can’t look him in the eye, which usually isn’t a problem for me, but now it’s unfathomable, shirking myself of this protection. I have no more vulnerability to give.
“Things were changing too quickly. I wanted familiarity before it was stripped from me. I wanted things as they were and not the responsibilities I knew I was going to have when abu passed away. You and the others made it bearable. When you left, it felt . . . I guess it felt sort of like a betrayal,” I say, the words tumbling out one after the other.
“I wanted to stay,” he says, “but I felt the need to follow them after all the sacrifices my parents made. And, well . . . the operation was yours and abuelito’s. It felt wrong intruding.”
He and I are at an impasse, momentarily, while we collect our thoughts. The tension has faded and there’s only familiarity in the space between us, a lifetime bursting with our shared experiences.
