“Does it matter? Let me see him, now!”
“I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Delilah!” I scream. “Delilah!”
“Mr. MacPherson—”
“Where’s Delilah?”
I push my way down the hall when Matt comes striding in, panting within an inch of his life. He spots me from the entrance and calls out my name, but I won’t let him hinder me. Healers poke their heads out of rooms to see who’s responsible for the fuss. It’s me. I’m the hailstorm barging through, searching in every goddamned room for Ezra.
They’re keeping him from me (that must be it). The fury, the tornado bursting from my stomach, comes to a screeching halt when Delilah enters the hallway, holding Ezra upright. His hair is untied, falling in loose strands down the sides of his shoulders. He’s unkempt and pale, but those blue and green eyes are brimming with so much life. His mouth is parted in bewilderment—probably in surprise that I’m capable of creating a fuss when I want to.
“Ezra,” I breathe and run to him.
“Atlas?”
“He’s still weak. You need to be gentle,” Delilah says.
My feet slow down before I collide with Ezra, and it’s like the world drowns around us because I kiss him in that hallway without paying mind to anyone watching. Delilah steps away because I have Ezra, he’s in my arms, and I can keep him upright. Ezra’s surprised by the sudden kiss, as I’m sure everyone else must be. Before, it was known that he and Conin were together, inseparable, as some would say. Rumors will fly now. Their perception has (definitely) been skewed by my inability to be discreet.
“Can we talk?”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I need to see Conin first.”
Conin lies in a hospital bed, bundled in the sheets, an oxygen mask clasped over his face, and an IV drip pumping chemicals in his veins. Ezra leans over beside me and watches, stony-faced, while I keep him upright. The EKG beeps periodically like it has the choice to decide Conin’s fate. My gaze trains on the device, for fear it will flatline the second I look away.
“I’m going to therapy,” Ezra murmurs. His voice is raspy. He sounds like he’s gargling water. “I want to get better.”
Ofa’s advice returns, and Ezra saying this must be another sign that I should get help, too.
“That’s a great idea,” I say.
Ezra scoffs, his smirk pained.
“It was Delilah’s idea. But she’s right, I need to. It’s time.”
There’s so much I want to ask him. Are all his scars from self-harm? Are his sick spells because of anxiety or eating disorders? Are his eyes the color they are because of heterochromia or a result of his shape-shifting abilities? (Okay, admittedly, I’vewanted to know this since the moment we met.) But I can’t ask these questions. If he wants me to know, he’ll tell me—I trust him.
My fingers brush against the bandages wrapped around his arm. Ezra startles and withdraws, but this unbalances him, and I wrap my arms around his waist before he topples over.
“I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay,” he pants. “I need to work on that, too. Touching is . . . a sensitive spot, I guess.”
“We’ll work on it together. Okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Ezra nestles at my side—a plume of warmth bursts from his touch. It sends shivers down my spine, but they’re happy and wanted. We watch Conin for what feels like hours, waiting for the inevitable moment he awakens from his coma.
“He’ll wake up,” I say. “He has to.”
“I know.”
“We should tell him . . . when he does. About us.”
“I know.”
