Chapter 6

Six

Ezra

I t’s not hard to keep an eye on DG. He’s tall, dark, and handsome in the pale pink Polo. Guys in Fairplay wear a ton of pink shit. Pink and white plaid—very preppy shit here. Though no one else has on pink tonight, so as I stand near the kegs, holding a Solo cup I filled with beer and then replaced with water, it’s easy to watch DG move about the living room and kitchen.

The first time I look, he’s talking to his friend Jenna. Then he’s with Marcel and a guy I don’t know, standing near the fireplace. I’m playing pool with Brennan and a couple other guys. Then Marcel comes to play. DG sits beside an older-looking dude and fucks around on his phone.

He won’t go near his two best friends because they’re here at the pool table with me. As I aim for the solid six ball, I see someone walk up to him. I sink the shot and glance up. It’s Arnie. What the fuck? He’s handing DG a red Solo cup.

I wait a minute and tell Brennan, “I need a smoke. When Josh is finished talking, get him to cover for me? ”

“Yeah, man.”

Brennan hasn’t noticed that DG and I aren’t bro buds. Marcel has, so he shoots me a look. I arch a brow at him and head out the cabin’s front door. Greene, one of the running backs, is overseeing the fish situation. He’s standing on the front porch in front of something that looks a little like a grill, but I guess it’s some sort of fryer.

“Dude, is there hot grease in that thing?”

“It’s hot in here.” He nods. “Won’t hurt you.”

I make a yeah right face at him and start through the trees. I was so distracted earlier when I got out of the Jeep, I left my Marlboros in there.

I don't need the cigarettes, though. Just needed to get Mills away from fucking Arnie. Who names their kid Arnie ? What kind of college dude comes home on weekends to chase someone younger? Wait—but Arnie might not be chasing DG. Maybe he's just here, being a small-town loser.Shit, I really do need a smoke.

Walking through the woods alone at night, hearing the pine straw crackling under my shoes... It reminds me of other shit. But there's country music drifting through the muggy air, and I can hear the noise of people talking on the big porch that’s tacked onto the back side of the cabin.

I grab my Marlboro Lights, plus my lighter. I think of DG in the car when I climbed in from smoking by the roadside. Telling me I smelled like a fucking ashtray. Goading me. Because he hates that I'm a liar, or because I said the shit with us is over?

I light a cigarette and smoke as much of it as I can before I step into the clearing where Greene is working on the catfish. He motions me over, wanting to show me how the frier works. I try to act interested even as I'm gritting my molars. Then it's back inside to find thatmy plan didn’t work. The pool table has been commandeered by Cara, Landry, and some of their friends; Brennan and DG are nowhere in sight. As soon as the girls see me, Cara waves me over.

"Listen," she says softly, as I search the room for DG. "James is here, and I can tell he's jealous. Landry told him you and me are a thing. Can you play with us and do some flirting?" she asks. The word sounds like flirtin ' in her Deep South accent.

"Sure." I try not to let her hear me sigh. We start a new game. She says, "Pretend I'm a bad shot and you have to help me."

I wink and give her a rakish grin—right at the moment a door at the back of the room opens, and Arnie, Miller, Marcel come through. Marcel's hauling something: a card table.

They start playing cards. The game is loud, and it gets louder as they go. James comes in and joins them, and he's watching Cara and me as I give him the show Cara asked for. DG looks up when I'm standing slightly behind Cara, helping her adjust her pool stick. I can't help brushing my lips over the nape of her neck.

She shivers, and it's totally real. Then she's laughing. She turns her back to the card game, wraps her arms around my neck, and she says, "Ezra Masters. That was naughty. Downright dirty. You...scoundrel."

Over her shoulder, I see DG. Dude's looking in our direction. I wrap my arms around Cara, giving her a hug I probably need more than she does.

She beams up at me like I'm her hero. It feels good to be the nice guy for once.

"Is he looking?" she whispers.

"Oh yeah." I haven't been keeping a close eye on James—I was too busy scoping out DG—but dude is definitely glaring at us right now.

Landry, as it turns out, is pretty good at pool. I guess she’s been holding back to give James a chance to see me helping Cara, but she must be bored now because she starts sinking all the stripes. I have to go after the solids. I pretend my back's not sweaty underneath my shirt. That my hands don't want to break the fucking pool stick.

Arnie's re-located; now he's beside DG.

The next time I look, DG's got his cheek in his palm, his elbow propped on the card table. He looks tired. When he gets up a second later, disappearing through a door I figure must be a restroom or bedroom, I try not to stare a hole in Arnie. Don't you follow, fucker . When a few minutes have passed and Arnie's still playing cards, I excuse myself and try the door DG went into.

It’s a bathroom—hunter green tiles and a green and brown duck shower curtain. There's a door at the other end of the small room, and that door is open.I move through the lamplit bathroom into another small room, a dark space that makes my fucking stomach flip so hard I almost can't step forward.

"DG?"He doesn't answer, but I think I hear him breathing. "That you?" I ask, stepping toward the soft sound. My eyes adjust, and I see...a couch?Yep. He's sitting on a couch that's pushed against the bedroom's back wall. Something tightens just below the base of my throat as I take another slow step toward him.

"Hey...you okay?"

"Are you a dickface?" His voice is a rasp, which makes the tightness in my throat spread down to my chest.

I notice he's holding a Solo cup in one hand. "Is it good to drink tonight?"

He takes a sip. "You should tell me. This is root beer."

I give him a smile. "I’m not drunk driving with such precious cargo."

"Fuck you, Ezra."

"Yeah, yeah. Wish you could." I step closer to him. "You’re tired. I’ve been watching you. You’re really obvious."

"Oh yeah. How is that?" He shuts his eyes and leans his head against the spine of the couch. I feel bad about my lie, and the reality behind it. I wasn't watching him to see if he was okay. I was watching him with Arnie like a jealous boyfriend.

"It's just obvious to me," I tell him quietly. "You were playing pool, but you were sitting down a lot of the time otherwise. Your face is tired. When you smile, it looks tired. You need to go home."

He makes a snort sound, lifting his eyes open. "Is that right, Dad?"

"Daddy's here to take you home, kid."

His eyes hold mine. Even in the dark, I see them boring into me. "Maybe I’ve got someone else who’s gonna take me."

"Arnie?" I ask.

"Maybe."

My chest feels like someone's squeezing it. "Well, is he?"

"Might be."

"He’s a fucker if he hasn't followed you in here." Then a worse thought hits me. "Are you waiting for him?"

"No." He rubs his head. Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dark, I can confirm he looks exhausted.

I hold a hand out for him. “C’mon, Mills. Let’s go.”

"I don’t need your hand." He gets to his feet.

"You want to meet me outside? You need to say bye to anybody? Arnie Warnie?"

He shoots me a fuck-off look. "I’m ready now."

As we say bye to everybody in the living area, I notice Arnie's eyes on DG, who's telling the others he isn't feeling well.

I step outside first, and I feel him behind me half a second later.

As we pass, Greene says, "You leaving me?"

DG gives him a smile. "Eat my piece for me."

"Can't believe y'all leaving! Yankee ain't had fried catfish."

"Next time," I promise with a soft laugh .

My throat tightens as we walk into the woods again. A cabin in the woods—I should have known I wouldn’t like it.

A sharp whistle turns my head, and I realize Brennan's jogging through the woods behind us. "You bros leaving?"

"Yeah. I've got a stomachache," DG says. "Maybe something I ate."

Brennan frowns. "What about you?" he asks me.

"One car."

He nods, probably assuming one of us is drinking.

Brennan slaps Miller’s left shoulder. I can tell it hurts because his face tightens.

“Bye, dude," Brennan tells him. “Bye, dude’s bro.” He slaps me on the back, too.

We start walking, silence between us. DG stumbles on a tree limb jutting up out of a pile of leaves. I grab his elbow, but he snatches it back.

"It was a lapse." I hear my own words in my head as I stride out in front of him and pull his car door open.

I don’t let myself watch him get in or shut the door for him. By the time I’ve cranked the car and had a chance to look discreetly at him, he’s slumped into my passenger’s seat. He’s even got his eyes shut. Fuck, I shouldn't have brought him out here.

"Lay your seat back,” I say. “I'll drive slow. Watch for deer and bears and shit."

“You should,” he says. He reclines his seat and shuts his eyes again.

“Here, I’ve got a jacket," I say, reaching for my black fleece in the backseat. "It’s clean.”

I watch as he rolls it up and leans his head against it.Then I back carefully out of my leafy parking spot and drive slowly toward the county road.

He’s quiet and still for a long time.

I saw an Eagles T-shirt in the hamper recently, so I fire up their iTunes "best of" playlist, hoping that might make him feel good. I can't tell if it works, because the next time I look down at him, he's asleep.

When he twitches, it scares me so much, I put my palm near his lips to be sure he's breathing. My hand hovers over his forehead. I want to touch it. Give his hair a little stroke. To say I'm sorry this shit sucks.

The Do Gooder with his perfect Mayberry life and all his life-long friends, his fucking cello and his soccer cleats, his little preppy car. And he can't even drive now.

I wonder how that feels. To not know what's wrong in your brain. I wonder if his tongue still hurts, and if his shoulder's bruised. Or, even worse, the back of his head. I let my hand linger over his arm. I think of touching it...holding his hand.

I want to touch him—somewhere—so bad that I almost do. Never touching him again, never feeling his hands in my hair…it makes my throat close off like I can't breathe.

But I can.

It's okay.

This shouldn't be happening to him.

He still has his good life.

What if it's a brain tumor or something?

He had childhood epilepsy, dumb shit.

It's not because I care about Mills. I'm reacting this way due to my own shit. Miller’s just a...vehicle. For PTSD or some shit. Also, I like to hate him, and now I can't, so that's annoying.

It was a lapse. That's what I said—because I meant it. Fooling around with him was nothing other than a lapse in judgment. Because he's like a fucking alien to me.

Hurting him was always at the core of what I hoped to do. Make him beg and watch him writhe.I wanted power. Just until I finally get some peace.