Chapter 17

Seventeen

Ezra

I n the dream, I stare down at my journal.

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

It’s Halloween, I think. It’s Halloween. The 31 st .

I look up at the walls of the closet.

I have no more Wrath

I have no more Wrath

I have no more Wrath

Dream me knows I didn’t write that yet October 31, but it’s a dream, so timeline doesn’t matter.

I don’t like the red light in here. I asked for a light, but red light is worse than no light. Makes me want to claw my eyes out.

I’m writing more. They said to fill the wall. In real life, I didn’t, but in the dream, I’m covering every square inch of the closet’s wall with my handwriting.

I have no more Wrath

I have no more Wrath

I have no more Wrath

I’m writing, but my legs won’t hold me.

I’m lying on my side, my hipbone pressed against the hard floor, my shoulders curled toward the wall. I lick my cracked lips.

In the dream, I’m on my mom’s couch—jade green with floral pillows. I’m watching Archer on TV. I’m thinking about the actor’s voice. I’m thinking that I like it.

I’m not crying. If I’m lucky, I just sleep. When I wake up, I try to think about good things. Mountains. Fog on lakes. The way the air smells when it starts to get cold for fall.

But I don’t feel good.

I start to cry before I know I will. But it turns into I can’t breathe .

I wake up alone in my room at Dad’s house, hyperventilating—and I’m gonna pass out before I can get the Xanax! I roll off the bed and fumble for the Xanax. Not Xanax. The bottle blurs. Amitriptyline. Black spots swim in my eyes, and my hands shake so much, I can’t get the top off.

I think of passing out and Miller finding me.

Please, no .

I get the top off—somehow. I chew two. That’s a little much, but it’s a gamble. Feel like shit tomorrow so I don’t wake him tonight. The shit hits me pretty quick. Later, when my legs will hold me, I sneak into his room so I can watch him sleep. I think of slipping into his bed, but I don’t deserve it. Even if I did, I’m scared I’ll wake him with a nightmare.

I sit in my armchair and read until I fall asleep. I’m surprised I sleep until the sun wakes me up.

Josh

It’s a weird day.

He drives me to school the way he always does, but the drive is not preceded by our kitchen scene, where Ezra reads there at the table and I stand nearby drinking him in.

My mom makes waffles, but by the time I arrive downstairs, Ezra’s setting his syrupy plate in the sink.

I inhale my breakfast, looking forward—illogically—to being in the Jeep alone with him. But nothing happens in the damn Jeep. Not a single thing. It’s as if I’m being chauffeured by a stranger.

He parks where he normally does, beside a small tree that sometimes blooms with pink flowers. I’ve unbuckled and am reaching for my backpack in the floorboard when his fingers stroke my forearm. At least I think they do?

The next second, he’s out his door. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Everything about this thing with us is crazy. Every passing day, I feel more stupid for engaging in it, but how do I stop? How do I just…not want him?

Why do I want him? Maybe it would help to define that. I think on it through homeroom and first period, but all I get is a whole lot of not sure. The things I like the most about him are weird and intangible. I like that he’s into that quiet Cigarettes After Sex album. I like that he reads at the table. I like how his legs look after practice, with his quads all popped out, sheened with sweat.

I like how he kisses me . Like I’m the only thing he needs in the world.

I fucking love the way he whipped into the old ball fields and sucked my dick so hard and forceful.

More than that, I loved how he wrapped his arm around me that night on the couch. The tight hug. I love that.

I think about one of those first nights on the roof—the way I saw his fingers twitching. God, those fucking hands of his.

I just like him, okay?

Jesus, Miller.

I’m walking to the lunchroom and I’m dizzy with anticipation that he’ll be here today.

But he isn’t.

Ezra’s not in physics, either.

As soon as Bumble starts another mega-lecture, I fire off a text. ‘Hey. What’s up?’

He strolls in a second later, looking like he feels like shit. Looking hot as fuck in a gray T-shirt and some beat-up black basketball shorts and black Air Jordans.

During class, he texts back, ‘there’s no real up. we’re on a round planet that’s spinning’

When I shoot him a look, he arches one eyebrow. Nothing’s ever been so sexy.

And so it goes. Round and round, just like the world—we’re in a spiral and I’m not sure if it’s bad or good, or maybe neither.

Band practice is grueling. It’s fucking hot—like 100 degrees—and I hear whistles from the football field like always, but we’re trying this new formation, and the assistant director, Russ, is pissy. The only time we break is to drink water, and the football team is huddled up. I can’t see Ezra.

I have more head space to think of him during soccer. It comes to me as I’m driving the ball down the field. It’s a simple thought, with no emotion. Just—I wonder if I love him.

There’s no time to dwell on it. I’m so damn hot, my brain feels like it’s boiling. We stop for three water breaks—two more than normal—and then coach says he’s not feeling great and lets us all go early.

I’m so obsessed with Ezra—where he is, and what he’s doing—that I stand around shooting the shit with Brian and Eli, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But I don’t. Where is he?

I’ve got time to shower, so I get a quick, cool one. I don’t notice till I’m dressed again that he sent a text during the last few minutes of band practice.

‘Can u see if you can get a ride home?’

My stomach does a nose-dive. I text him back. ‘Sure. What’s up?’

No answer.

Brennan takes me home in his new silver F-150. Mom and Carl aren’t home yet, so when I get inside, I take the stairs two at a time and knock on his door.

“Ezra?”

I knock again.

“Hey Ez?”

When he still doesn’t answer, I try the doorknob, find it unlocked. I push it open slowly, holding my breath. The first place my eyes go is the empty bed. Then my gaze snaps to the armchair, and my stomach drops to the floor.

“Ezra?”

He’s sitting in just boxers, with his head leaned back against the chair’s top and his knees spread wide. His face is red, his hair sweat-pasted to his forehead, and his body is all blotchy looking. Almost like sunburn. I can tell he’s sick from half a second looking at his face—the way his eyes look tired and he winces as he squints up at me.

"Ez?"

I realize he’s sort of panting.

“What’s wrong?”

His face tightens and he lifts a hand up like he’s going to brush his hair back. I notice his fingers shaking.

“Fuck.” I crouch down in front of him on legs that feel weak. “What’s the matter?”

“Too hot.” It’s a raspy, low groan.

I reach up to touch his forehead, and it’s… so hot.

“Fuck, my dude. What happened?”

He shuts his eyes, looking like he’s in pain. “Practice.”

“You got too hot. Did Nix make you leave?”

He breathes deeper, faster—and he doesn’t answer.

Shit. What’re the rules for heat exhaustion?

“Have you cooled down? You look like you haven’t showered.”

“I don’t feel good. Miller .” He holds his face—groaning. I notice his whole body is both flushed and damp.

“Is there anything else wrong?”

He shakes his head.

“Let’s go to the shower. C’mon, angel.” I put my hand on his shoulder, finding that his skin is just as hot as his forehead was. I’m expecting him to take my hand and let me help him up, but he doesn’t move.

“Ez?” I stroke his forearm, still raised as he holds his face. “Can you get up? I’m gonna walk you to the shower, turn it on cold.”

He groans again. Shit, he must have gotten really hot at practice. Fuck Coach Nix for letting him, too.

“C’mon, Ez. I’m going to hold both arms out for you, and we’re gonna get up. You’ve gotta make yourself, so you can get cooled down. I think you have to, or I might need to call your dad.”

He looks up at me with glazed, panicked-looking eyes, and holds his hands out. I grab his arms, and he stands slowly.

He casts me a pained look. Then he’s groaning as I lead him toward the bathroom. When we get in there, he breaks away from me and lunges toward the sink. In the split second that he’s in motion, I figure he’s going for water, but he leans over it and starts to get sick.

Shit—it’s Powerade, and then dry-heaving. He’s bent over the sink, shaking all over, his skin still bright, sunburned red. I touch his back, the muscles quivering. It’s fever-hot and sweaty.

I turn on the sink and help him splash some water on his face.

“I’m s-sorry.”

“C’mon. I don’t care. Stand here. I’ll start the shower real quick?”

He nods, holding onto the sink. He’s still panting pretty loud. Maybe I should call Carl.

The shower’s on, the water turned to cold. What if that throws him off, though—getting cold too fast? Is that a thing?

When I get over to him, he lifts his head, giving me a strained, sad-looking face.

“Do you think a cold shower will help?” I ask.

He holds onto my shoulder, not answering.

He’s sick. You make the decisions.

He can barely get his leg over the tub’s side. He seems almost dizzy. In the shower, he sits down, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms behind him, propping him up, and he tips his head back. Shit, he’s drinking the water.

I notice that his arms are shaking, so I get behind him, urge him to lie back against me. Then, to make it cooler, I pull the shower curtain open. He’s still in his boxers. His skin—even the soft skin of his upper thighs—is flushed pink.

“If you think I should, I’ll call your dad or 9-1-1. ”

His eyes open. “No. No,” he groans again.

He’s heavy against me, breathing in quick pants. His eyes roll a little, trying to look back at me. “Can’t…do that…Mills.” His hand grasps my thigh. “Feeling better.”

“Ezra. You’re a liar.” I brush his hair back off his head. “Just relax. Take deep breaths. Let’s see if this helps you.”

He turns on his side and wraps his arms around my leg. His cheek is on my hip, my dick right under his head. I keep brushing his hair out of his face as the shower water presses it down. I look at him—really look. His skin’s still pink. He still feels warm against my cold skin; even with cool shower water rolling over him, his skin feels too hot.

“I feel better,” he rasps, turning his head to look at me. His face looks pale except splotches of pink up on his cheekbones.

“I’m worried you’re heat stroked or something. I don’t know how it works.”

“I’m not.”

“You still look sick.” I rub my hand over his forehead, and he gives me a crooked, tired smile.

“Nah.”

“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll run down and get a Propel? That way you can hydrate while you’re cooling down.”

He nods. He sits up and leans his back against the shower wall, and I touch his knee. “brB, dude.”

He’s still sitting there, his head tipped back and water dripping down his face and throat, when I get back up.

I don’t think he looks as red. I step into the cold water, crouch over him, and touch his cheek. Maybe cooler? “You feel cooler?”

He nods. He looks fucking tired.

“You wanna get out and set up shop on your bed?”

He nods again.

“Okay, angel.” My palm cups his cheek, and he leans his face against my hand. I can’t resist brushing a kiss over his temple .

Then I’m helping him out of the shower. He’s holding onto my arm as his body wobbles like he’s dizzy, and I’m wrapping a towel around his waist.

“You okay?” I wrap another towel around his shoulders as his heavy-lidded eyes lift open. He nods.

I wrap an arm around his waist and help him to his bed, where he lies on top of the covers. I grabbed a thermometer when I got his Propel—one of the forehead ones that you rub over someone’s brow, and it can grab the temp quick.

I do that after pulling a sheet over his legs. I’m fucking stunned when it beeps 101.

“Oh shit, man. You’re still overheated.” He doesn’t open his eyes, and my heart beats a little too hard. “Why don’t I call Carl? Just see what he thinks. Maybe if you ran and got a quick IV to hydrate?”

His eyes open, followed by his mouth; it makes a small “o”. “No, Mills.” He sits up, the movement making him pant. “I’m not going there.” His voice is part whimper, part groan.

“Why, though? Dude, I really think you might have heat stroke, heat exhaustion. Whatever it is. You were in a cold shower for like ten minutes, and you’re still really hot.”

“I’m not.” He leans back against his headboard, drawing one leg up in front of him like a shield. He wraps his arms around his knee and hunches over. “I feel better.”

His hand curls in his wet hair, the fingers pressing into his scalp.

“Dude, you have a headache?”

“Stop calling me dude,” he whispers. He tries to smile up at me, but his face is slack with exhaustion.

“Fuck this.” I come in closer, cup his forehead with my hand. I feel him panting. “Ez.” Just a little closer, and I’m hugging him against my shoulder. My hands stroke his nape, his broad back.

“Lemme take you for an IV. I know you don’t like that stuff, but you’d— ”

His head shakes against me. He wraps his arms around me, shifts so there’s less space between us. “I’ll get back in the shower.”

“I want you to see a doctor.”

“Can’t,” he rasps.

“Why not?” I’m stroking his cool, damp hair.

“Because…I’m scared of doctors.” It’s so soft, for a second, I wonder if he’s teasing. But he says nothing more.

“So you feel like you’re doctor level sick, but you’re scared to see somebody?”

He gives a small shrug.

My throat is so tight, I can barely get words out. “Did a doctor do something to you?”

His warm body leans on mine. “Take me back to the shower.”

I do, and he gets back in, looking miserable and large in the small tub space. I climb in, holding another Propel. I rub his shoulders. “Put your head in my lap, angel.”

He does. He wraps his arms around my waist and he still feels warm.

“Miller,” he groans.

“Yeah, Ez?”

“If I pass out, don’t let them take me to…the hospital. Please.” He holds onto me tighter. “Just don’t,” he says. “Don’t leave me there.”

Fuck. What happened to him?

“I’ve got you.” I smooth his hair off his wet forehead. “Let’s get more Propel.”

His eyes lift open a little as he drinks. I’m feeding it to him almost like a bottle, which makes me smile despite everything. He smiles back up at me.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Yeah. Of course.” I stroke his cheek. He’s looking less pink now, and more pale. “You feeling any better? ”

He nods.

“I think you’re a liar, angel.” His hand is on my chest. “I’m tired,” he rasps. “No hospital.”

I can tell by how heavy he’s lying on me that he’s needing sleep.

“More Propel.”

He nods. When he’s done, he whispers, “Miller.”

He wraps his arms around my waist, tucks his knees up toward his chest, and he goes quiet and still with his warm forehead pressed to my abs.

I don’t know what the fuck to do. My mind is racing from what he said. That he’s scared of doctors.

Fuck—why would he be afraid of doctors? Has he been in a hospital before? Could he have been “committed”? Is that still a thing?

I rub my hand over his wet hair. He’s so warm and heavy on my lap. Did he pass out? Maybe I should get up and call Mom.

The water’s cold. I’m damn near shivering when he lifts his head, looking up at me with wide, tired eyes. “You didn’t call them, did you?”

“No. The hospital?”

He nods. Then he frowns around the shower. “I don’t like it in here.”

I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. He feels cooler.

“Let’s get out.”

In the bed, he lies on his back, wide eyes clinging to me. I give him more to drink and push a pillow behind him so he can drink it without spilling. Then I take his temp: 99.8.

“I feel better,” he says, blinking up at me. He gives me a wan smile, which is so unconvincing that it makes me laugh.

I shake my head. “Stay right here. I’ve got an idea.”

“Are you gonna call?” he rasps as I turn toward his bedroom door.

When I look over my shoulder, he looks scared, which makes my throat tight. “No, angel. I’m just going down to get some ice packs.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay.” I cross the distance between us and kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

He nods.

He’s more stoic when I get back. I put five towel-wrapped ice packs under his arms, against his neck, over the inside of his wrist, and the last one between his legs.

“Fuckk,” he says, giving a shut-eyed laugh. “Fuckin’ cold on my junk.”

“I think it will cool you down more.”

He shuts his eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

But he cups his balls and lifts them off the towel that’s around the ice pack. I open his drawer and grab an undershirt. Then I put it below his balls. When I’m done, he’s laughing, closing a hand around his semi.

“The fuck,” he murmurs, holding my eyes with his heavy-lidded ones.

“If you think I’m gonna get you off when we’re trying to cool you down…” I make a tsk sound, shaking my head, even as I’m grinning at him.

“I know,” he says, his eyes now shut. “I feel cold now,” he whispers.

“Look what I got you.” I hold his Propel bottle out, showing him the hard, pink plastic straw I swiped from the cutlery drawer downstairs. It swirls into a heart shape at the top. “Can you drink some of it?”

He does.

I set the Propel down, and for the longest moment, he just looks up into my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is tight. I think he looks embarrassed.

“Don’t be sorry.” I sit on the bed and then I lie on my side, facing him. I can’t help scooting closer. Scooting close enough to kiss his cheek. It’s cooler now—less feverish.

“I fucked up,” he murmurs.

“How so?” With my fingertips, I brush his hair off of his forehead.

“Last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“Nightmare,” he says, lifting his tired eyes open. “I wanted Xanax, but I grabbed the wrong bottle,” he whispers. “Under the bed.”

Fuck, he’s falling asleep, and I want to shake him awake.

“What bottle?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

“Another one,” he rasps. His eyes drag open again. “Causes heat intolerance.” The words are mostly just mouthed.

His eyes shut. “So it was my fault,” he says, his voice lower.

“Ez?” I trace his brow with my fingertip, holding my breath for a long moment. “Did you get the pills you mentioned at a hospital?”

He doesn’t move—not even to breathe. Then his eyes find mine. His face is so still. “Yes.”

My heart squeezes painfully, an army of feelings galloping through my chest, pressing upward at my tight throat. I scoot closer, lay my check against his shoulder. I kiss his jaw, below his ear.

“Okay.” I nod.