Chapter 18

Eighteen

Josh

I can’t keep from hugging him up. After a minute, I put an arm over his chest, and Ezra moves an ice pack from below his arm, putting his left arm around me. Within seconds, it seems, he’s asleep.

I slip carefully out of bed and down to the floor, peeking under his mattress for…I don’t know. The box spring cover’s hanging loose, like someone ripped it in a spot—which stands out because this bed is new. I lie on my back, shimmying under the box spring, and reach my hand in through the ripped cover.

I’m so stunned to feel a little bottle that I knock it over—which makes eight prescription bottles rain down on my face. I can’t breathe as I look at each one.

Amitriptyline. Clonazepam. Zolpidem.Lamictal. My throat stings and my eyes blur as I line them back up like I found them on one of the box spring boards.

When I stand up, I take a few slow breaths and wipe my damp eyes, feeling shocked and so damn devastated. I check his temp again, finding that it’s 98.9, and then go down for dinner .

I don’t want Mom and Carl coming up and finding him all heat exhausted, so I tell them I think he’s feeling sick, but that he told me he’d be down for dinner later. Carl seems concerned, as does my mom. I wonder as I eat if they know what he told me.

Was he in a regular hospital, or a psychiatric one? Were those all mental health meds? I wish I had photographed them. My stomach feels all tight and heavy, like I swallowed a small, lead weight.

“You’re not eating much,” Mom remarks. She reaches out and touches my forehead. “No fever at least.”

“We had a hot practice,” I offer.

“Maybe that’s what happened to Ezra. The bank clock said it hit 102 today. Do you think he got too hot?”

I shrug. “Maybe. He seemed okay when I saw him.”

God, I’m such a liar.

I hustle back upstairs and find him curled on his side, all the ice packs off him, his nape warm, his mouth moving on silent words. And then he’s moaning. Recoiling from something, and I’m on the bed, he’s in my arms. My lips are on his forehead, and his tired eyes come open.

“Miller?” he rasps.

“Hey there, angel.”

I’m holding him pretty tight. He feels limp and heavy up against me.

“How’s it going?” I kiss his forehead.

“You shouldn’t kiss me,” he groans.

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

“Because why, angel?”

“I can’t even sleep. Or eat.” I pull him closer. “I’m fucked, Miller. Really fucked up.” I feel goosebumps on his arms, and then his body does this little shudder. “Sorry. I’m not cold.” Ezra’s voice sounds so weak. “I feel better.” His eyelids lift slightly open. “Can we go to your room?” He shuts his eyes, frowning like he dreads my answer.

“Yeah, of course. Let me grab the stuff we have in here and move it. Then I’ll come back and help you up.”

He nods once, and I hurry into my room with an armful of ice packs, the thermometer, and his heart-straw drink. I scoop up a pair of sweaty underwear that I left on the floor by my bed and chuck them at the hamper as I head back toward his room.

When I open the door, I’m surprised to find him standing right there, giving me this strained smile, wincing like the bathroom light hurts his head.

“Hey there, angel.”

“Mills.” He smirks. It’s so soft this time—maybe embarrassed. “Sure you don’t mind?” he says in his quiet Ezra voice.

“If you come to my room?” I wrap an arm around his lower back. “Nah, I want you to. Come on into Millerville.”

He looks like he feels like hell, even though he tries to smile again. When we get into my room, I pull the covers down and he lies on his back. I hesitate before pulling the blankets over him.

“Lemme zap you again.”

He shuts his eyes, and I’m relieved to find his forehead is only 98.7 now.

“That’s good.” I stroke my palm over his head, and he covers my hand with his.

“Thanks, Mills.”

“I’ve got you.”

“Should I go talk to my dad first?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s worrying that if he falls asleep in here, Carl might come and knock on his door.

“What about I deliver a message for you this once? Say that you told me you’re going to sleep. That I think you’re just tired.”

“Okay.” He looks younger with his hair brushed off his forehead. I kiss him again there, tuck him in and give him a small smirk .

He smirks back.

“Rest here, Prince Peach. I’ll brB.”

I’m smiling to myself at the silly nickname as I walk down the stairs, thinking of Ezra with his peach ball cap and that small, sunlit smile the day I passed him on the road back to school. I find Carl on the couch watching sports and play the Ezra stuff off pretty casually. Then, to give myself a reason to be downstairs, I go grab a drink.

When I get back to my room, I find Ez right where I left him, looking tired but maybe content.

“You look good in my bed,” I whisper. Dammit, but I love the sight. I just can’t help myself. Even with this big, new worry on my mind—about what might have happened to him—I still get hit with endorphins.

I hop on the bed beside him, reach into my nightstand for a small, white remote.

“Check this.” I turn on the neon light machine Ritchie and Pipsa gave me last Christmas, and for the shape, I choose hearts. For the color, blue. Small, blue hearts stream across my room, dotting the wall. I punch the key for “fade” and choose teal, so the hearts fade from royal blue to pale teal.

“You know what that is?” I ask him softly.

He shakes his head.

“Dream machine. This way if you dream, you dream of me.” I step into the light and strike what I hope is a funny pose.

He smiles, but it looks strained, which makes my chest ache again.

“You want a cool cloth for your forehead?” I ask.

Ez shakes his head.

“You want some space, or you want me up in your bidness?”

“Whatever you want.” He shuts his eyes.

“Well, I only ever want one thing,” I confess, climbing into bed beside him.

I stretch out on my side and brush a soft kiss over his cheek. “ I want to make you feel good.” I scoot near him, stopping to tuck my semi up into the waist of my briefs. When he feels me moving in close, he shifts onto his side to face me, and I slide an arm gently around his waist, pulling him so close to my chest that I can’t see his face. I inhale near his hair.

“You always smell so damn good.”

He snorts softly.

“You feel sleepy?”

“I don’t want to,” he says.

“I’m gonna tire you out with random questions. You’re gonna drift off, bored as fuck and thinking about something weird like your favorite month of the year.”

“What?” he murmurs. I can hear a smile in his voice.

I stroke my fingers up his spine and kick off my game. “Justin Bieber or Ed Sheeran?”

“Bieber.” There’s a tiny silence. Then he whispers, “Maybe.” His head is bowed so I can feel his breath on my throat. I can’t see his face, which I guess is his intent.

“I’ll accept this verdict.” I rub my lips over his hair, thinking of a new question. “Beauty or power?”

After a second, he says, “Power. No contest.”

“That’s because you’re beautiful,” I whisper, smiling. “I might be tempted to go with beauty.”

He kisses my chest. “You’re perfection, Millsy.” His lips find my chin. “That little cleft.” His voice sounds hoarse.

“I don’t have a cleft in my chin.”

“Yeah you do.” He leans his forehead against my chest, right under my throat. “And you’re thicc. Love your body,” he murmurs. “Succulent.”

That makes me grin. And leads me to another question. “Aloe vera or cactus?”

“Cactus.”

“Aloe has a purpose, though,” I point out.

“So does cactus.” He yawns. “They do flowers. ”

“Do they really?”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds exhausted. “Think they’re yellow.”

“How did I not know that?”

“Look ’em up. I like them.”

“Of course you do. My cactus flower.” My cheeks redden at that dumb endearment, but he scoots closer to me after I say it.

“Motorcycle or unicycle?” he asks in a soft rasp.

“I’m going with uni,” I say. “It seems safer.”

I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Doubt it.”

“Broken bone or surgery?” I ask him pointedly, thinking of motorcycles.

“Neither.” There’s a flatness to his voice, reminding me of what he said a little while ago. What a stupid question . It occurs to me that the start of this new weirdness between us—him acting all distant—happened at the hospital the other day.

I want to ask who hurt him. Why, and how? And where can I find the motherfucker? But I don’t let myself. Not now.

“Coke or Dr. Pepper?” I try.

He laughs, a soft huff. “Blue raspberry Icee.”

I think about that day I passed him walking. The way his face looked as he swung that Icee.

“Sunshine or rain?”

“Sun.” He wraps an arm around me. “Tell me something else, Mills. Tell me about you.”

I can tell he’s close to sleep, or maybe feeling bad. His voice is weak and soft. His arm around my back feels heavy.

“I don’t know what to say about me. I’m just…here. Until next year. Then I make my escape,” I whisper, smirking.

“Then?”

“I’ll be at college,” I say.

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe Tuscaloosa. I could go to Auburn. UAB. There’s always out-of-state schools, too. That’s better for this,” I say softly.

“For the gay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“You wanna stay close to home?”

“I don’t know. In-state tuition is a whole lot cheaper. What about you?”

He scoots somehow even closer to me, laying his cheek against my chest. Makes my whole damn body go warm. He says, “Wherever I can get the best ride.”

“Football scholarship?” I clarify.

“Yeah.”

He lets a restless little breath out, and then rolls away from me, putting his bare back to me. “That’s an invitation.”

Fuck. My heart is hammering as I slide up behind him. I put an arm around his waist, and he folds his arm over mine.

I lean my forehead against his upper back. “Do you know how many times I wondered what this would feel like?”

“What would?” he asks, so quiet.

“Hugging you. Like…holding you. You know.” I’m awkward now. He’s gonna laugh or something.

“I’m so tired,” he murmurs. “Can you say that again?”

Fuck, I’m babbling as he tries to fall asleep.

“I’m just weird.” I laugh. “I’m saying I’ve been wanting to hug you. For a really long time,” I whisper. “Like some kind of clinger.”

“Why did you want to?”

“Just to feel you. Maybe so I can wrap you up. I’m like a caveman.” I can’t even swallow; I’m so damn scared I’m saying this shit to him.

“Do,” he whispers. “Feels good.”

A minute later, his limbs twitch, and his hand over mine falls slightly away. His head sinks into the pillow and his shoulders relax. And I’m holding him. I’m holding Ezra Masters. My stepbrother. The most infuriating guy I’ve ever met. The smirkiest and the cockiest and by far the most confusing. The most gorgeous…and I think maybe the most broken.

I’ve got him, safe with me. And I don’t ever want to let him go.