Chapter 3

Three

Ezra

T his guy is a do gooder. It's pretty fucking obvious. For one, he's saving strangers from oncoming trains, and drowning. For two, I'm pretty sure he wanted to deck me when I ribbed him for that picture of him in a tux, and then again when I joked that he made the pillow. I squeeze the thing in my hand. Did he make it? I don't give a fuck.

Anyway, the point is that he didn't deck me. Even now, he's making this face like he's concentrating—clearly trying to keep from scowling like he wants to. "You want to see the bathroom?"he asks.

I'm smirking again as my eyes flicker up to meet his. "I think I can potty by myself. Your towels are the pink ones, right?"

Oh yeah, my new stepbro definitely wants to smash my face up to match his.

"Right." I think he tries to roll his eyes as he folds his arms over his chest. "Yours are blue."

"My favorite color."

"I'm sure. If you want to go tonight, just meet me downstairs—"

"You'll see me at dinner, DG. In fact" —I wiggle my brows— "we might even sit beside each other."

This time, he at least manages to roll those baby blue eyes. But when he tries to glare, he can't. He looks like someone's chastising father. "Do you need anything else, Ezra?"

"Oh, I need a lot of things. What do you have, Josh Miller?"

He swallows—I fucking see it—and then drags a breath in. It makes his shoulders rise. I watch them fall. "Do you need help with anything? Bringing your bags in?"He looks like he’s gritting his teeth.

"I can carry my bags. But thanks for the brotherly offer."

Another soft breath out, and he's escaping through the door that I assume must lead to our shared bathroom.

I look down at the pillow again. Soft yarn. Pretty solid crocheting. I lean my head against the chair’s back and close my eyes, remembering when I learned to crochet. I hear another door shut—one I assume leads from the bathroom into his room. I stand up and chuck the pillow onto my bed. Then I head out the door.

Josh

This guy is an asshole.

I'm not usually judgmental, but it's really obvious there's something with him. Who knows what his mom is like, or what his life was like until this point. I know he had a stepdad, and his mom and that guy got divorced, and then she married again. Maybe that shit messed him up. Or maybe up in Richmond they just raise a bunch of wise ass kids that turn into...well, bullies .

That word is over-used, if you ask me. Schools go crazy over bullies—our school even did a whole stupid video session on how to keep from being bullied, like a video could help you—but I think that's sort of what he is. He’s one of those that gets off on making fun of people.

Not that I’m worried. This is my turf. He's the new guy. The new quarterback , a little voice in my head says. I shut it up. I shut the entire line of thought down as I pull on clothes I'll wear to dinner then to Mason's. The first T-shirt I spot is indigo, with a leaping bass on the back. It's from a fishing tournament a few years back. I hit some luck that day and won one of the minor trophies, even though pro anglers rolled in from near about everywhere, with their shiny, sponsored boats and cheesy fishing vests.

I hesitate before I pull the thing on, already anticipating him calling me big bass boy or some dumb shit. For that reason, I have to wear it. Because, screw him. Ezra Masters. He might have been the king of his dumb prep school in Virginia, but no one knows him here. Everybody knows me, and they like me, too.

You need to chill out , I tell myself as I step into a pair of beat up khaki shorts. I'd honestly rather wear some basketball shorts, but that's what he had on. God knows what sort of field day he'd have with that.

"You gonna keep on walking or just eye fuck me?"

The words burble up in my brain like those methane bubbles at hot springs—toxic and unexpected.

I brush a hand back over my hair, looking at my forehead in the full-length mirror I inherited from Mom when we moved into this house. The gash is pretty bad, and my head still hurts—that dull, need-to-squint-your-eyes hurt. But I'm fine.

Need to pull that cap back on when I go down for dinner, or my mom will ask thirty thousand questions and of course, he'd notice. That douche doesn't need to know my whole life story, and I'd rather him not see Mom henpecking me. I make a mental note to be sure I'm not so cool toward her that it hurts her feelings.

Then I slip my feet into my old Adidas slides and drop down onto my love seat. I push my hands into my hair, tugging lightly. I think of my face—blue eyes, dark hair, and yeah, he's right, I've got a few freckles. My friend Jenna says I look like a young Marlon Brando, but I know that's bullshit. She's just got a hard-on for old Brando.

It doesn't matter what he thinks about you, I tell myself sternly.

"God hates fags, yeah?"

I stand up and pull on the cap again before heading downstairs. My legs feel too heavy as I move through the family room and then the dining room, where I’m unhappy to find the formal table empty. That means Mom's got everybody at the smaller breakfast table in the kitchen.

I push through the door into the kitchen, and yep. The round, oak breakfast table, situated by the hexagonal breakfast nook, is piled high with baskets and platters. Mom went all out for Ezra—even with the good cheese rolls she makes from scratch and spinach salad, Carl's sweet potato fries, and that really good asparagus they do in the skillet.

"Damn," I mutter, refusing to look at the man of the hour, who’s over near the table. My mom, standing at the stovetop, whirls around, arching her eyebrows.

"Dang," I correct with a quick grin. "Smells like heaven in here."

Mom fans her face. I notice she's still wearing her apron, and she looks tired but satisfied. Carl steps over to her, kissing her hair.

"Got some long necks from the cooler." He winks, and my mother laughs like she's in high school .

"None for you boys," she says, winking. "We’re fun here, but not that fun.”

Carl and her make heart eyes at each other, and I step over to the bar, where Mom's got cheese dip and tortilla chips. I have one, biding my time before I'll have to look at Ezra.

Then I just do it . As if my eyes and his are magnets. Being eye-locked with him sends a flare of pain through my head. My throat tightens and my heart feels like it's swelling. Like it's infected.

"Ezra," I say. I sound like one of those old guys at church who keep their faces weirdly neutral when they pass you in the halls and just say your name, like they’re endowing some kind of approval.

He lifts his brows. "Hi."

“Hi. Is that what you say in Virginia?"

I can tell I've caught him off guard. His face falters for a second, and he says, "Hey is for horses.”

"What’s the matter with horses," Carl teases, stepping over to the table.

Ezra squares his shoulders, which makes me realize he was slouching before. Also, I notice he's got on a gray T-shirt now. It looks almost threadbare, and on the front, it's got what I think is a faded Guinness beer logo.

Ezra’s lips twitch, and for a long, arrhythmic moment, his lake eyes hold onto my eyes like he's telling me a secret with his mind.

Carl chuckles, the sound awkward. Mom says, "Okay, well, this pan-seared amberjack looks ready. Let me serve you all some. Ezra, do you like fish? I also have chicken."

He takes everything my mother offers. I skip only the mashed potatoes.

"Josh doesn't care for potatoes," my mother says, sitting across from me and arching a brow.

"It's the texture," I hear myself say. I'm speaking to Ezra, I guess, but I'm looking down at my plate. I stuff a sweet potato fry into my mouth.

"So what...potato textured?" Ezra says. I can tell he's smirking. My cheeks warm as I chew.

"Sweet potatoes aren't the same."

"Well, of course," Carl says. He rolls his eyes. "Because they're orange."

I give him a death stare. I feel Ezra smirking from my left. He was right earlier; we are technically seated beside each other.

"What did you think about your room, Ezra?" my mother asks.

"I liked it. Thank you." He swallows some water, and I want to swallow, too—just from looking at his throat. There's something bitable about it. I guess because he’s so good-looking, in a weird way. Like one of those weird runway models wearing pinstriped pants, those too-thick glasses, and a feather boa—maybe more striking than handsome.

"Thank you for the pillow,” Ezra says to my mom. “I noticed the crocheting. Did you make it?"

My heart stops as Mom's eyes flicker to mine. "Actually, Josh did." She gives me her teasing grin. "I had started on it for you, but I got a little busy at work. Sometimes I have to go to the buyer's market in Atlanta for the shop. Anyway, I left it sitting, like a subpar stepmom." She smiles, and my gaze makes a covert boomerang to Ezra’s face; he’s smiling at my mom politely. "Josh picked it up and finished it. Even corrected a part I'd done a little bumpy."

"So you can crochet." He arches a brow at me.

"Told you." My face is burning as I shovel a bite of amberjack into my mouth and cut my eyes at Ezra.

"Joshua," he says, his eyes on my mom. "Is that a Biblical name?"

"Yes. It is. We're Christians...you know. It’s a Biblical name and, in fact, I’ve read that it’s important in Islamic culture, too. "

He smiles, but this time it doesn't look as polite.

"What about your name?" my mom asks.

He looks at his dad. When Carl widens his eyes like he doesn’t have a clue, Ezra looks down at his plate. "One of the weirder Bible names,” he murmurs.

"I don't think it's weird," my mom says quickly.

"Sounds like an angel,” I say. “But the Old Testament kind, where you don’t know if they’re holy or a villain that’ll kill you with a death stare.” I pin Ezra with my own smirk as he chews.

"I think it's a beautiful name," my mom says.

For the next...what feels like two hours, I try to keep my head down and clean most of my plate.

"Look at you," my mother says at one point—and I can't tell from her tone if she means me or Ezra. I don't look up.

"You're as good an eater as Josh. Would you like seconds?" I glance up at Ezra's plate, and am surprised to find it empty.

"Josh can always go for seconds,” Mom says.

"Sometimes thirds," Carl teases.

"Goes back to middle school," I mutter.

So my mom tells that story. I was too skinny for the wrestling team, which all my friends were doing, so I had to bulk up.

"He was already eating plenty, but he was all elbows and knees then. So he started eating two or three plates each meal."

I look up to find Ezra's eyes on me. "Looks like he grew out of that."

What the fuck? Is he calling me fat?

"We can't all be built like coked-out rock stars."

Mom says my name as Carl says, "Well damn, son. Not you, Ez." Carl's hand comes behind my neck, squeezing. "Joshua," he says, sounding jovial even though I hear the edge in his drawl. "That's not very nice."

"I was just joking.”

"Joshua thinks I look like a rock star? "

I refuse to look at Ezra, but I can fucking hear the smirk in his voice. "More like a weird model."

"What's that mean?" Ezra’s voice is low and soft.

I run a hand into my hair as I feel my mother's eyes glued to me. "You know. Not like...all-American. Not like Northface," I say lamely. My eyes meet his. "More like Gucci, with the stark cheekbones."

"Well, shit. I guess I’d better get some seconds." Ezra piles a few rolls onto his plate, eyeing me in a way I think he intends to be comical as he chews them.

"Yeah, yeah."

His eyes are so unnerving. They're like laser beams.

My mom says, "I don't know what's gotten into Joshua." There's a stern note in her voice as she says my name. "You are very handsome. The perfect mix of Carl and your mother, who's a very pretty lady."

I shoot my mom a look, and she says solemnly, "She is. In fact, Carl, she was briefly a model. Isn't that right?"

"Sure is."

So now this shit is awkward, and it's my fault.

"Sorry," I offer to Ezra.

"Josh gets teased for being chubby even though he's not," Carl explains.

"It's the cheeks." Ezra's eyes move over my face, and my throat forgets to swallow.

"He's got little boy cheeks. But they're beautiful," my mother puts forth.

"God, can we stop?"

I feel Ezra's eyes on me as I take my plate to the sink and get a bottle of Powerade from the fridge. I twist the top off and nearly jump because he's somehow right beside me. "Mountain Berry Blast," he says in a low voice, like he's announcing it.

"Your drinks are in the door," Carl says.

Ezra steps around me, reaching into the door and coming out with...Propel. Actually, it's called Propel Zero. "Grape," I mutter, and he arches a brow at me. I notice my mother is wrong: He doesn’t have blond hair. His hair is light brown—short on the sides and longer up top—and the top part has been dyed more blond.

He makes a bug-eyed face at me, and I realize I was staring.

"Does anyone have any plans for tonight?" my mom asks, setting her plate in the trough sink.

"We do," I'm glad to be able to tell her. "I’m going to Mason's in a few, and Ezra’s going with me."

"Be sure you drive or at least lead the way,” Mom tells me. “No offense," she says to Ezra. "It’s just that Mason lives way out there."

Ezra gets ensnared by more of my mom’s small talk, so I take the opportunity to go upstairs and look for my wallet, which I’ve noticed I don’t have. I find it fast, and then don’t want to go back downstairs. I look in the mirror, frowning at my face. It really is such a damn kid face. Baby face. I’m already able to get a light beard, so I’m thinking maybe when I can get it thicker, that’d be the way to go.

I give myself a flat-lipped look and make myself leave my room. Dude probably won't even want to ride with me. I get to the bottom of the stairs and there he is, like a homecoming date with a corsage.

I try not to look at him. My eyes might get stuck.

"You ready?" he asks.

I nod, and he opens the front door for me.

"I'm taking my car,” he says as we move onto the porch.

"Don't trust my driving?"

"Might not stay long."

"If you don't want to stay, I'll take you home." I tip my head back, and he arches a brow.

"Oh, I bet I know.” I laugh. “You want to smoke."

"Nah." He looks down at his feet. I notice his shoulders are shrugged up near his ears, his hands in his pockets. His forearms are thicker than I thought they would be, and they’re dusted with hair. I like forearms, so I force my eyes to move back up to his face.

"Think my music sucks?"

He gives a shake of his head. "I'll just follow you. Go slow."

He starts down the porch steps first, and I see a black Jeep parked in a weird spot, not quite on the driveway. I’m surprised I didn’t notice when I got home; must have been the throbbing headache. It throbs a little bit again now as I focus on the violent song of what sounds like it must be all the summer bugs in Alabama.

The air feels hot and heavy as I slip into my Jetta. I watch in the mirror as he cranks his Jeep up. Then I hit the pedal, wishing I could fly down the driveway and leave him behind.