Chapter 5

Five

Josh

I call Mom and Carl from the swing under the back porch. I don’t want Ezra to hear me talking, even though I guess he might know everything there is to know about this topic by now. I can tell my mom is worried based on how her voice sounds—the same way it used to when she talked to our dying cat, Hermano.

“I feel fine now,” I assure her.

“That’s good,” she says. “I talked to the on-call last night. Dr. Kelley will make space for you on Monday morning. We won’t be back, but I thought Ezra could drive you.”

“To Birmingham?”

“Well, yes. Is he an unsafe driver?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“You don’t want him to go? I’ll call Jenna’s mother. She can—”

“No, Mom. I don’t need you to do that. Jenna would be worried. I don’t really want to tell her right now.”

“Well— ”

“Did you tell Ezra already?” I ask.

“Not yet. But he offered to do anything we needed.”

My dick twitches at that, and I have to shut my eyes and put my face in my hand.

“That’s fine,” I tell her. “I can ask him myself.”

“Carl will ask. He’s a nice, safe ride for you anyway because he used to be a lifeguard. Meaning he knows CPR and those sorts of things.”

“What?”

“Like you, he was a lifeguard for most of his summers.”

“Was he really?”

I hear the smile in her voice. “Are you so surprised?”

“I guess I don’t think of Richmond as having a lot of pools,” I bullshit.

He’s a fucking swimmer , and he nearly drowned himself down at the trestle bridge?

I shoot the shit some more, to reassure my mom, and then I swing for a while, arching my bare foot against the cool deck, rocking myself slowly.

That’s just…so weird. About the swimming. I run my tongue carefully over my teeth, still tasting blood. Back inside the house, I eat a half sandwich and take the stairs back to my room, where I lie on my back on the bed with my eyes half shut. I don’t even like fried catfish that much. I don’t know why I said I did.

But…I do. I do know.

I think of Ezra in his room. I think of Ezra’s arm around me as we lie in his bed. I pull his sheet around me, set my phone’s alarm, and let my eyelids drop shut.

I wake to the alarm three hours later. My room is too hot, and I’m thirsty. There’s one sip left of the Icee. I swallow it then go brush my teeth before getting in the shower. My left shoulder is pretty sore, and so is the back left side of my head. When I wash my hair, I try to be sure there’s no bump there—but there’s not. I’m okay.

I throw on some olive green shorts and a pink Polo shirt and my most comfy pair of Jordans, and it’s almost six. Shit, I’m moving slow. I feel better, but still sort of weird and spaced out.

I knock on Ezra’s door a few times, and when he doesn’t answer, I go downstairs. The house is quiet. Smells like dish liquid—the green Dawn stuff. By the time I get back up to his door, he’s opening it, looking sleepy-eyed with messy hair.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking. “I’ll get ready quick.”

“It’s all good.”

Our eyes hold for just a moment too long. He gives me a strained smile before shutting his door. A few minutes later, while I’m sitting at my desk chair fucking with the cello, I hear the shower come on.

I don’t know why I want to play right now. I guess I want to hear the music. I start into Beethoven’s “Cello Sonata No. 3,” the third movement, feeling half surprised to find my arms and hands still work like normal. By the time he knocks, I’ve moved to Debussy. I’m so into what I’m doing, I’m still playing when he opens the door.

I can’t breathe as his gaze finds me. I check him out as quick as I can, noting his crisp, white Rolling Stones T-shirt, black shorts, and black Jordans. Then I notice his mouth open.

“Shiiiitttt,” he says, his lips curving into a grin.

I try to suppress a smile as I set the cello back on its stand. “Hope it didn’t sound like that.”

“That’s fucking amazing, dude.”

“Is it?” I turn back to face him, and I know I’m frowning, but I can’t help myself.

“It is.” Ezra holds my gaze. He’s got his thumbs tucked into the waistline of his shorts, one thick shoulder leaned against my doorframe. His hair is damp, hanging over his forehead like it does. He looks like a pinup. Like a nice guy. I can’t look at him for too long.

I grab my phone off my desk, scoop my keys up, and slide my wallet into my pocket. We don’t talk as I follow him downstairs. I don’t let my eyes drop lower than his back, which means they’re stuck on his now-bulky shoulders. How’d he do it? I swear, he’s put on fifteen pounds of muscle since he moved here.

There’s about two feet between us as he wraps his hand around the front door’s handle, pulls it open, and steps onto the porch. I’m stepping out behind him when he turns back around. I bump into him.

Both of us say, “shit.”

Ezra’s eyes widen. “Sorry.” His hand comes down on my shoulder. Then he lifts it off and steps back, bumping into my mom’s fern stand.

“Fuck,” he mutters, steadying the thing. “I was wondering—do you need a soda or water?”

Is this awkward Ezra? Why’s he looking at me like that?

“Do you?” I laugh.

His face closes itself off. “I’ll get something.”

I don’t want to trail him like a puppy, so I stand in the doorway, feeling awkward myself.

He returns with one of his Propels and hands me a Powerade, his gaze flicking up to mine before he's out the door. He walks down the steps and straight to his Jeep, leaving me to lock the front door. Which...is good, I guess. At least he doesn't think I'm an invalid.

What does he think after last night? I can't even think about him finding me like that. I'm pretending that part didn't happen.

As I get to his passenger side, the door swings open a little.

I give him a skeptical look as I climb in. Then I frown because it smells like...bubble gum?

"You ready?" he asks. He looks pensive, unsure, and—if I’m being honest—pretty fucking hot behind the wheel.

"Not unless you give me some gum."

He gives me side-eye, like he doesn’t want to share his stash. Then he opens a compartment in the dashboard and pulls out a pack of gum. He tosses it lightly at my lap.

"Give me a piece, too," he says as he rolls by my car and starts us down the driveway.

"Uh...can you unwrap it?"

"While I drive?" He gives me his old smirk as he makes a grabby hand at me. "Let's find out. Or you can put it in my mouth."

I can't help a soft laugh.

"I'm just dicking with you."

"Always." I lean my head back against the headrest, shutting my eyes as I shake my head again.

"You gonna give it to me?"

Oh, that’s right—the gum. I pass a piece to him. It's Bubble Yum. When I was a kid, my mom used to buy it for me when we'd stop to get a Powerade from the gas station after soccer practice. I loved the duck on the wrapper. It's this punk rock duck.

I crack an eye open to see Ezra unwrapping the thing while steering with his knee. He really does look good in the Jeep. I think it suits him.

I look down at my legs, pressing my lips together. This was a bad idea.

What did you think it would be like, Josh?

I'm hit with a wave of exhaustion—so bad I almost tell him we should go back. But I can't bring myself to say it. For a while we’re quiet as he drives down neighborhood streets.

"My dad texted about Monday,” he says as he turns right, toward the town’s main drag. “One o'clock in Birmingham?"

"Hell if I know. Is that what he told you?"

"Mmhmm. He said take you by a burger place there." Ezra smiles, lifting his brows as his eyes find mine before settling on a red light. "Even told me your favorite burger."

"The Purple Haze one?" Shit, this is embarrassing.

"He said you like the one with Worcestershire and goat cheese?"

I stare at the dark road ahead of us. It’s my turn to reply. That’s the Purple Haze one. I should say something to him. Goat cheese is better than the regular cow stuff. Instead my mouth opens and I hear myself ask, "Are you a lifeguard?"

I can feel him get uncomfortable, even though my eyes are set on the road. After a second, during which he hangs a right onto a side street, I figure he isn’t going to answer. Then he says, "Who told you that?"

"My mom. She said you'd be good to take me to B'ham because you know CPR. As if I'm going to need CPR.” I roll my eyes. “Or you to remember my burger."

I squeeze my eyes shut. It's because of what happened—seizures throw your feelings off—but I feel like I'm going to fucking cry here. In his car. Driving quiet roads at night. Driving toward the cabin even though I didn't tell him how to get there. I'm like...baggage. Baggage he doesn't want—and I know I am.

I ask him, "Did you want to die that day?" My chest feels hard and dark, like it's encased in armor.

"Truth or truth, Mills?"he says.

"You know all about me. Right down to the taste of my cock. So, yes. Truth, Ezra."

He doesn't wait even a second before he says, "Yeah.”

I stare out the windshield.

“Did you?"he asks back.

I refuse to look at him. To see what kind of face he’s making, try to read what’s in his eyes. "No more than any other day."My voice sounds hard, unlike me.

"You want to die on any other days because of where you live?"

"What does that mean?” A car in front of us turns onto a side-street, and it’s just us moving down Vertical Road, with all its shuttered storefronts, closed for the night.

"Because of all the bigots?"he asks.

I smile, even though there's nothing funny. "Not all of them," I tell him. "Only some. Everybody has their baggage."

"What's your baggage, perfect boy?"

"Is that a joke?"

"Well, you can't be part of Team No Homo. So I guess that's something. But what else isn't picture perfect? Even your name sounds like a hero. Josh Miller—it’s like Clark Kent.”

I clench my jaw, sore from the seizure. "You don't know shit about me, Ezra. Not even one thing."

"I know you like when I lick your little slit. And if I run my tongue around the rim of your dickhead, it starts leaking. I suck it like a popsicle, and your hand in my hair will pull, but never too hard. Perfect gentleman, you are."

"Yeah, you know what my dick likes,” I say, feeling my throat ache. I swallow hard. “I'm not a dick."

"Touché." He takes the right just after Fairplay BBQ, turning onto County Road 9.

"Why do you want to be a slut, Masters?” I ask. “What about that question?"

He grins, looking genuinely pleased with himself. "Do you consider me your slut, Millsy?"

"I think you're a twisted fucker. I think you do it for the power feeling. Maybe all your mom's boyfriends were assholes."

"They were husbands, dipshit." He says it casually, keeping his tone even.

"Maybe that, or maybe you're gay just like me."

Even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I see his jaw tick as his hands tighten on the wheel.Knowing I’ve made my mark offers me no satisfaction. If anything, I feel even more pissed off; it’s anger that comes from knowing he won’t be honest.

"You think I won't push because you’re driving and I’m sick or something?” I ask. “I'm not sick. This is my brain on life. So let me say it for you, Ezra. I think you're a big, cocksucking gay fag just like I am. I bet if I put a dick in your ass, you'd fucking love it. Everyone knows cocksuckers like a big dick in their asshole."

He whips off the road so fast I’m positive we’re going to roll right off the shoulder, flip into the pine forest below. But the Jeep jolts to a clean stop. Then he's out. He's stalking around the hood, a shadow in gold light. He's on my side, four or five feet away from my door, facing the thick woods. His shoulders heave as he lights up a cigarette. Another second, and a puff of smoke drifts up toward the bright moon.

He’s breathing hard. Because I upset him. I watch as his hand sifts back through his hair. Then I shut my eyes because fuck that shit . Anger tightens my chest—that it’s all a fucking game to him.

I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. Find him lighting up another smoke. Okay, so he’s big-league mad. I’m not feeling bad for that. I called him out and shook him up—like he shakes me up every fucking moment that I'm in his presence.

I guess I miss him throw the smoke down, because the next second he's passing like a shade back through the headlights, sliding back into the driver’s seat. His face is perfectly impassive as he puts the car in drive and pulls onto the road. Actually, it isn’t. His features are set like stone now. Hard—as if he’s pissed off.

He has no right. Like I ever did a fucking thing to him except be nice and get head-fucked.

I remember clocking him, and that’s a vision I like right now. When it’s clear he wants to drive in silence, I say, "You smell like an ashtray.”

He slits his eyes in my direction, narrowing them at me for a long, heart-pounding moment. "You must really feel like hell, Mills."It’s quiet and earnest, taking me off guard, so I can’t help but lash out again.

I laugh like he’s lost his damn mind. "I feel perfect."

"You're a guy who plays the cello and does Boy Scouts. I guess I can get you mad, though," he says, sounding thoughtful.

"Oh yes, only you. So special . You knowallmy dirty secrets."

"I know everything I need to. I was having fun making you squirm, and you enjoyed it. Don't pretend you didn't want it."

Is he talking about our nighttime adventures in his bed? Why is he using past tense?

"Don't pretend you cared whether I did,” I fire back.

He laughs, the sound soft and derisive. "I went slow every time. Except that night on the roof. I took it slow so you could push me away, but you didn't want to do that, did you? You pushed my head down. You made sure to stuff my mouth full of your dick because you wanted that shit. It was worth the shamed feeling you had when I would send you out of my room."

"No it wasn't." I stare out at the road as my throat aches like tears are coming.

"That’s fine, because I won't do it again."

"Too afraid to be with someone like me, dick face?” I’m pretty damn sure Mr. You Can’t See Me Cry is freaked out by me now—after what happened last night. Maybe he thinks it was his fault. “Your mouth's not good enough to break me.” It’s a murmur.

"I think we both know it's good enough for anything you want it to be." I glance up at the moment he swallows. His eyes widen as they move over me. When he speaks again, his voice sounds choked. "Do you think it was me?"

I know what he’s asking, but I don’t want to talk about my fucking epilepsy—I don’t want to let him off the hook—so I dodge the question. "Sure fucking hope it was you. Every night I went in your room, it sure as shit looked like you."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then say it." I'm just fucking with him. Fucking with him like he fucks with me.

"Do you think what I did...caused the..."

"Seizure?" I snap.

"Yeah." He says it quiet. His profile is bathed in silver moonlight. I can see his teeth bite on his lower lip.

"Would it matter if it had? Would you feel bad or something?" I can't do what he does. I can't really fuck with him. So I say, "You didn't. No. Your lips are pretty fucking sweet but not that sweet, angel."

Ezra’s hand, propped against the wheel at two o’clock, re-grips it. His left one comes up to his face, smooths his hair back.

"All of that was a...lapse,” he says quietly. “No one can find out that it happened."

"Fuckin’ shame. Was gonna put it on the jumbo screen at halftime at the first football game next week."

"I’m not kidding, Mills. You can't tell."

I laugh despite the way my heart is pounding. Hurt and...shame. That I got twisted up by someone like him. "I won't tell, man. Don't worry, I’m not a fucking dick. Your little secret's safe with me."

"It's not my secret,” he says.

"Oh, that’s right. Because you're not gay. It was just a lapse. You just love…to toy with me.” I quirk a brow.

"Next time, bang on the wall."

It takes me a minute to realize what he means. He doesn’t think I should come into his room again. I shut my eyes and feel the rhythm of the Jeep's wheels on the cracked, potholed road. He says nothing for the remaining minutes it takes to reach Brennan’ s uncle’s land. When we reach the white, hand-painted sign nailed to a tree, and I say, “This is it. Take the right.”

Ezra drives slowly down the dusty, red-dirt road, its tire lines gleaming faintly pearly in the moonlight. About a fourth of a mile later, there’s another sign—this one a cardboard pizza box nailed to a tree and marked with glow-in-the-dark paint.

PARK THERE . An arrow points ahead, and slightly right.

“There’s a clearing there—just go past this tree with the big limb that hangs down…”

Ezra doesn’t speak at all as he parks on a row with three trucks and an SUV.

As soon as I step out into the muggy air, I point myself away from him. I can’t drive myself, but I can sure as shit avoid his fucking ass. And catch a different ride home.