Chapter 4

Four

Josh

M ason lives out in the boonies. His family used to be in farming—like, for generations—but they got a big payday a few years back when they were bought out by some corporation. Some of that money was used to build a badass pool which, just a month ago, was filmed for some kind of best pools ever TV show. The thing's got four huge slides and a floating lagoon encircling the pool itself.

I didn't mention swimming to Ezra. Didn't even think about it. Now that we're parking—in an old peanut field, alongside about two dozen other cars—I feel kind of bad about that. I've got trunks in the back seat that I could loan him, and I could borrow some from Mason, I guess.

I look through my passenger door window, and I can see Ezra sitting in his black Jeep, looking down at what must be his phone. I'm still surprised he said he'd come along. I think he did it just to fuck with me.

I remember something as I open the back door to scoop my trunks out: Ezra left me in a boat alone. After I got knocked out. What the hell does that mean? Is that a normal thing to do? Is he some kind of psychopath or something?

I glance up and see him leaning on his Jeep door. My stomach dips hard as I walk around my car to greet him.

"Hey, man." I'm trying to think of how to explain the pool—which I can hear people splashing in, from out here across the lawn—when he starts walking toward the red dirt driveway.

Yeah, the guy is moving fast. Like he doesn't want to talk to me.

I pick up my pace, and he keeps going, right toward the front door.

"Ezra?"

He looks over his shoulder. I notice his hair looks straighter now, a longer, blond piece hanging over his forehead. And he looks annoyed.

"Yeah?"

I open my mouth, but what am I going to say? Don't you want to walk with me? Dude already accused me of having fuck-me eyes or something, and he said God hates fags.

"Just wanted to give you these." I close the distance between us, holding out my black trunks. "Swim trunks," I say, and he takes them with what seems to be reluctance.

"Okay." It sounds sharp.

"Unless you want to swim in your shorts."

He hands the trunks back to me as his upper lip curls. "Not gonna swim."

"Okay." I fall in step beside him as we walk up the steps and to the door, which is slightly open.

"Mason's parents went to Mexico,” I tell him. “Things might be a little crazy."

He sneers at me. "You need an early bed time?"

"No, but you might." Asshole .

He looks surprised and gives a harsh laugh. "You think so?"

I shrug. "Seem like an early to rise kind of guy."

"That right?" He leans in till his face is so close I can smell the gum he’s chewing.

"Looking at that gash you gave me?"I taunt.

"Bullshit. You're the one who followed me up."

"After you almost drowned?"

He laughs like that's outrageous. "Almost drowned? I got choked, but I was swimming till you put me in a headlock."

"You jumped off a bridge that's more than a hundred feet above the water. With your shoes on. I thought you were gonna die or something."

He laughs again. "You're dramatic."

"You're full of shit. Fucking liar."My eyes dart into the foyer, and I’m relieved to find it’s mostly empty; no one can hear us.

"Whoa. Chill out, bro. There's no need for character assaults,” he says, feigning horror.

"Not when we have literal ones, huh?" I gesture to my head before I reach to push the door all the way open, but he catches my wrist.

"Don't tell anybody how you got that."

"What is that, a threat?" My heart is beating harder as my eyes hold his.

"I said don't talk about it. That's a command, not a threat. It doesn't have to be a threat, because you won't tell."

Something in my stomach sinks. I feel like I can’t breathe as I murmur, "Won't I?"

"I don't think so.” He looks cocky. “Not if you enjoy sleeping, using your toothbrush in the comfort of your bathroom, trusting that it's clean." He lifts one of his shoulders.

"You're a dick, dude."

He grins. "Your mom doesn't think so."

Ezra

Mission accomplished. DG makes a beeline for what I soon find is the living room. I'm not sure why you'd have a formal living area open to a pool deck, but whatever. It’s not my problem. There are people everywhere, in swimsuits, dripping on rugs and smoking right inside the house like it's a frat house. Lots of red Solo cups, big drunk grins, and chicks in short shorts and half shirts.

I find the hunch punch where I figured I would—in the kitchen, in a big, white cooler swarmed by people. I don't like parties, but I made this shitty choice and I'm following through with it. Can't have Do Gooder thinking I've gone chicken shit.

I fill a Solo cup so high it's almost spilling. Then I slurp some of the liquid down so I can take a few steps with it. I move into the mini hall that leads into the living room and collide with something pink. Someone—a tall, blonde girl in a short, fluffy looking pink dress.

"Whoa there, Anna Pavlova."

"Oh my god." Her red lips twist into a huge, sparkling white grin. "You know Anna Pavlova. And you're hot." She giggles, and I smell a waft of vodka. "Do I know you?" She screws her pretty face up.

"What do you think?"

"I think I am druuuuunk ."

"Druuuunk, huh?"

Her face twists again, in exaggerated confusion. "You don't have a Southern accent."

"I do,” I tell her. “I'm from the South."

"What city?" Her eyebrows draw together like she’s skeptical. "Are you an Army brat? My dad was in the Army." She's so drunk, she's swaying slightly. I put my hand on her arm and steer her carefully into the living room. The place has two peach couches topped by the frilliest pillows I've ever seen, and a big, brick fireplace with a mantle displaying some sort of cotton vase arrangement. I note it with puzzlement, wondering if cotton ought to be centerpiece material in these modern times. Then again, it’s Alabama.

"What were we talking about?" she asks as she sits heavily beside me. She looks into my eyes. Hers are glazed but pretty hazel, reminding me of another girl and another pair of pretty hazel eyes.

"You were accusing me of being a damned Yankee.”

"Oh, that's right. Because you are a Yankee! Your voice isn't Southern." She pulls a flask from her purse and twists the cap off.

"Hey, now. I don't know about that." I give the flask some side-eye, and then aim the look at her, so she’ll notice my disapproval.

"You're a fuckin' stranger . There's no boys around who care if you get shitfaced.” Shit, she’s really drawling.

"Nobody in Fairplay that would watch your back? Try to be sure you don’t get sick?" I ask.

She shakes her head, looking crestfallen. "Only Josh Miller, but I think he might be gay because he never wants to kiss me." Her hand slaps over her mouth. "Oh my God, I didn't say that."

"You didn't?"

She lowers her voice, leaning toward me. "I'm an awful person,” she says sadly. “The worst."

"Nah. And I won't tell."

"He might just not like me . But he's tall . Like you. I like the tall guys. Like me ."

"Short guys can't get play?" I ask.

She looks forlorn. "They don't want to."

"I bet that's not true."

She brightens. "Hey you want to go get in the pool?" Her eyes widen like a child’s, and I laugh.

"I think you should stay out of the pool tonight."

"Is something bad in the pool?"She looks alarmed.

I decide to roll with it. "Yeah. I heard there was black mold or something."

"Mold is bad." She nods.

I nod with her. "Mold is so bad."

A few more minutes talking to her, and she tells me her best friend, a girl named Cara, is dating a guy she likes.

“He’s tall, too.” She gives an exaggerated frown, almost like she’s miming.

It takes some effort to hold in a laugh.

“There’ll be other tall guys,” I tell her. “Or what about the short ones? That might work out okay.”

“Maybe.” She looks unconvinced.

A second later, a shorter, curvier girl steps over to us. She’s Black, with a ponytail high on her head and a yellow dress.

“What are you doing, Landry?” the girl asks my new friend. “I’ve been looking for you.” Her eyes widen as she fans her face. “And who is this?”

I run a hand back through my hair, feeling self-conscious even as I smile at her. “I’m Landry’s new, tall boyfriend.” I wink at the girl beside me, and she covers her face with both hands.

“Landry, what did you do?” The yellow dress girl looks at me. “I’m Cara, by the way. Our girl here has had too much to drink. You can’t be picking up boys from the city,” she says to Landry.

I laugh. The city? “What city?”

“Are you from Huntsville or Atlanta?” she asks. “Or I guess it could be Chattanooga.”

I grin. “What makes you think I’m from one of those places?”

“Well, you’re not from here.” Cara crosses her arms, looking down her nose at me, which makes me laugh again. “You’re a city boy. I know ’em when I see ’em.”

I grin.

“See? Even that smile says city boy. You had braces?” she asks.

“No. I didn’t. Does it look like I did?” My hand hovers over my mouth.

“No, but you’ve got white, straight teeth like all those city boys.”

“That sounds like stereotyping.” I lift a brow, and Cara falls onto the couch with Landry. They’re clutching at each other, laughing, clearly both drunk as fuck.

When they come up for air, still holding onto one another, Cara giggles. “I may have had some spirits myself.”

I nod, feigning somberness. “You may have.”

“Who the hell are you?” Cara laughs.

“I’m Ezra. I’m from Richmond ,” I say, lifting a brow. “And I just moved here.”

Josh

I lose Ezra for half an hour. I’m tracking the time, because I’m thinking if I don’t see him soon, I’ll need to go check for his car. Maybe he left.

I'm sitting at one of the oversized white picnic tables on the pool deck, drumming my fingertips on the faux wood and frowning at people as they drift by in the ribbon of water that surrounds the massive pool, when I spot him on Shamu.

What the fuck?

Shamu is this giant, blow-up whale float that technically belongs to Mason's father. No one is allowed to ride on him because Mr. Young is uptight and protective of his superior flotation device.

But...yeah. That's definitely Ezra. He's got on red swim trunks—whose, I don't know—and he’s holding a bottle of what has to be beer.

Shamu is spinning slowly as the lazy river current drags him through the water. Ezra’s head is leaned back against the whale's...upper back? He looks completely chill. Like he belongs here. I can't help the way my gaze moves over his chest—comparing. Admiring.

So, he's not as lean as he looks. Or...really, he is. There's no fat anywhere on him. But he's ripped.

See, he’s like a model. You had that part right at least.

His hair is falling over his forehead. It looks darker in the dim light of the tiki torches than it did in my mom’s kitchen.

I'm looking right at him as the current swirls Shamu so Ezra’s facing me directly. I don't know what I'm expecting—but he winks. That dickhead gives me a small smile that looks mean, and he winks, making a gun with his free hand, waving it slightly at me.

Guess he really is a fucking psycho. But the good guy in me is relieved to see he’s doing okay. Not sitting in some corner alone or something.

An hour later, I'm in shock—in awe —at how he's hanging with my friends. I watch from my spot in the pool, where I'm playing volleyball with some folks, as Ezra sprawls out in one of the pool chairs, folding both his arms behind his head. Reese and Landry are on him like magnets. Reese sits with her backside pressed against Ezra's upper abs, near his pec. Landry’s perched herself between his ankles. I watch as she fusses with her pony tail.

What a fucking night.

When the volleyball game breaks up, I wade toward the pool’s side, finding that Ezra and his admirers have re-located to a picnic table about twenty yards away. Marcel’s dealing cards, and I wonder for what game. There are six people on one bench and five on the one across the table.

Ezra says something, and everyone laughs. I find a pool chair a little ways down, fucking with my phone just so I won’t look at him when a voice says, "Joshie."

I jump, making my head throb, and there is Jenna Whatley, one of my closest friends; she was my across-the-street neighbor back when Mom and I lived in the Fern Street apartments.

"What happened?" She's wearing cutoff jean shorts and a bright pink sleeveless shirt over her swimsuit, and she’s pointing to my head.

"Oh" —I wave— "it's nothing. Just hurt it today out on the boat."

Her nose wrinkles as she frowns, tilting her head. "How, though?"

I shrug. "Bumped into this ridge...sort of. The underside."

She widens her eyes, and I can tell she thinks I've lost it. "Oh right,” she says. “I remember, all those ridges we have here. So rocky..." She waves her hand and does a little move that reminds me of interpretive dance. "Mountainous ridges that hang down over the water." She sits down beside me, frowning suspiciously at me out of the corner of her eye. "So, bruh, your stepbrother."

I’m nodding, trying to keep my face neutral, when Arnie Pierce strolls up.

"Arnie. Hey." Arnie Pierce is…the last person I need to see right now. Shit.

“Hey, man,” he says, looking as blond and tan as ever. “What happened to your head?” His brows draw together, and he peers down at me like he’s looking at a bug through a microscope.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a cut.”

As soon as curly-haired Arnie crouches in front of me, I can smell the booze on his breath .

“What were you doing?” he asks. But with his deep drawl, it sounds more like, “What’ere you doin’?”

“Just out on the boat. Anyway, it’s fine.”

I notice Ezra looking my way, and I stand up, feeling my heart throb a little harder. “I’m just gonna go home.” I rub a hand over my forehead, moving gingerly around the sore spot. “I’m tired and all that good shit.”

“Sure you don’t want me to take a look?” Arnie asks.

His eyes sweep my body, and I swallow. “Nah. It’s fine now. How’s college?” I manage.

“Only been at college for a week.” He winks. “It’s all good, though. Came home to grab some stuff I left.”

I swallow again as I nod. “That’s good.”

I keep my head down as I make my way into the living room, where I scoop my keys up from the bookshelf . I step into the hall and pull my phone out, about to text Ezra when Arnie steps into the space with me.

“Hey,” he starts.

My eyes flicker from the phone’s screen to his wide ones. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say…I miss seeing ya.” He gives a strained smile. “You considering Bama after this year?”

“Maybe.” It comes out a low rasp.

Arnie waves toward the bathroom door—the nearest one on the left. “Why don’t you let me at least clean it up. I’m still doing the EMT thing part-time. Gotten pretty good at it.”

He’s moving into the bathroom, and I feel my feet moving to follow him before they actually are moving, like the act of imagining myself following him made me do it. Then we’re looking at each other, and his mouth is curving up in what looks kind of like hunger, and also, in some other way, like satisfaction.

He steps closer. I feel his warm breath on my mouth at the same moment my hands reach out and close around his elbows. As his head tilts for what will be my first kiss— fuck, I’m about to kiss Arnie —I see movement in the mirror, through the cracked door.

A throat clears outside in the hall, and I feel Arnie’s arm tense under my hand. We pull apart at the same moment, and I lunge for the doorknob—my palm damp, my heart pounding, because somehow, I just fucking know .