Chapter 5

Five

Ezra

I t's surreal to hold Josh Miller's hand.

I didn't even do it. He did. He helped me up off the tile floor, and then he never let my hand go. He led us back downstairs into an empty room in the basement.

"Chapter meeting room," he said, and then unlocked a door and led me out into a shadowed corner of the lawn.

I let him lead. It feels good to let his big hand grip mine, let him guide me around the house and to the front. As we approach the kegs, his grip loosens on mine, and he says, "You want me to let go?" It’s the softest whisper.

I tighten my hold on his hand. I catch a glimpse of his face in the house's porch light, finding he looks surprised.

I just found you. I'm not letting go yet.

We walk around the pond's far side, sheltered by the tall pines. Under our shoes, the ground is damp and soggy. Mills is wearing a gray fleece and jeans and a red pair of Chucks. Every time I catch his eye, I find his face a shock of feeling. His eyes are somber, and he’s chewing on his lower lip like he’s in some distress.

I want to kiss it. I'd like to unzip the fleece and reach inside it, run my hands over his ribs. I can tell he's dropped weight since last time I saw him on his Insta stories. His jaw is sharper and his dark hair longer.

I feel shivery, my chest heavy as he leads us toward the cement driveway, then across it. His eyes meet mine, and he steps between the wall of trees first, guiding me through to the other side, a parking lot and a building I think is his place.

I look at Miller, and he's looking at me, his brows furrowed, and then he smooths his face out.

"What?" I whisper.

His mouth opens, his lips moving without words. His eyes widen as he rasps, "Do I seem like a stranger to you?"

"No." The word is too loud, surer than I really feel. "I don't really know you." I shut my eyes and open them again, apologizing with my face and begging him with everything I am to understand this weird shit. "I don’t know you, but…I feel like I can't live without you,” I say, and my voice shakes. “As soon as I found you on social media, I started watching every day. I found your Snapchat. Friended you." My heart pounds as I remember waking up at all hours to watch his stories, pour over his snaps. Tears sting my eyes again, at how pathetic this all is. At how he's looking at me—sad and maybe pitying.

"It's hard to explain," I manage.

"It's okay." His hand re-grips mine.

Miller leads me between parked cars, toward the iron stairs I think will lead up to his second-story unit. I feel sick as I follow.What does he want with me? Will he want me at all? I’m not who he needs me to be.

I stop walking in the gold glow of a streetlamp. Maybe if I show him—

"Miller?” I say. “Look at this."

I pull my sweatshirt and my shirt up, showing him the tattoo just above my pec. His eyes widen and his jaw drops open. There's something strange on his face—something that’s a lot like anger.

"Did you—" draw it, I start to ask him.

He grabs my hand—a little hard this time—and tugs me toward the stairs, then up. He walks three doors down, and when he stops, his eyes find mine. "You knew you were leaving," he says. "It had faded. But before you went to bed that night, you had me re-draw it."

His words drift through my mind like a lazy river, but there's nothing in it. I just...don't remember.

"You don't know what that means, do you?" he asks, his voice gentler now.

I can feel my hand in his tremble. My body tensing and then going hazy. I try to draw my hand away from his, but he holds tight as he unlocks his front door.

Then he turns toward me. He turns my right hand over and starts to massage all around the base of my palm, in between my thumb and pointer finger. The pressure is so focused, the massage so sudden, that my legs go weak, my face too warm.

"It gets sore, right?" he asks, husky. "Muscles tight?"

I don't expect the tears that well in my eyes. Once they start to fall, they won’t stop. "Yes," I whisper.

He nudges his front door open, leads me into a small studio apartment. "Do you still love Icees?"

"Did you give me Icees?"

He smiles, small and smug and wistful with his sad eyes. "I gave you everything I thought you wanted.”

I think again of myself sleeping with my phone against my pecs. I think of that awful, tight-chest feeling. How I wanted him but didn't know. Miller loved me and I didn't know.

And I start sobbing. It's not like at the frat house. I end up on his floor because my legs won't hold me, holding my head because I feel so dizzy I’m afraid I’ll black out. Josh is right behind me, pulling me into his arms, urging my back against his chest. I try to focus on that; he seems like he cares about me. Try to stop the fucking crying. My body trembles—out of control. A humiliating whimper comes from my throat.

"I've got you," he whispers. "I'm good at this. Turn your head and look back at me."

I do, only for a second.

It was real. It was real it was real it was real that shit was motherfucking REAL!

Miller holds me tight. His breath tickles my neck. "Let's move to the couch, my angel.”

I nod, struggling to my feet. "I'm sorry I'm doing this," I manage.I’m not crying anymore, but my whole body’s shaking.

He sits heavy on the couch, holding an arm out. "Don't be sorry, angel."

That endearment makes more tears drip down my cheeks.

"I want to make you feel better."He shifts so he’s got his legs stretched out on the couch in front of him. He waves at himself. "Lie between my legs here. Put your arms around my waist and put your head on my chest."

I do what he says. I wrap an arm around his waist, opening my mouth to ask if it's okay when he whispers, "Yeah. Just like that."

When I get my arms around him, he lets out a long breath. I can feel him relax against the couch's arm. Then he's stroking his hand under my shirt, pulling it up toward my shoulder blades so he can drag his fingertips over my bare back.

His hand lingers on the sore spot. "You got hurt during the game?"

"A little."

I can't move, can barely breathe as he tries to catalogue my back with gentle fingers. He scratches my sides lightly, and I groan and hug his waist a little tighter.

"Like that, don't you?"he murmurs.

"You remember?"

"I remember everything about you." His other hand strokes my hair, fingertips scratching the fade, then going gentle up top where the hair is growing out again from where I cut it in the summer. His hand that's scratching my back stills, and he wraps that arm around me.

I feel like I’m about to cry again, from being held like this. I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me…but I know I’ve never been held like this. Maybe I’ve been held by him, though.

Realizing that makes my eyes throb. I try to get some deep breaths so it doesn’t start a waterfall again.

Miller hugs me tighter, tucks one of his legs over mine. His lips brush my hair. “Ezra.” His cheek presses against my head. I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel like I’m in a dream. His lips brush my temple. Then his cheek rubs against my hair again. “Tell me what happened.” His arm, resting warm on my back, shifts as his fingers move up my nape, stroking into my hair. His hand’s holding the back of my head.

It’s such a strange sensation— bliss . I want to close my eyes and really feel it, try to let it sink in—that he’s hugging me against him…like he loves me. That maybe he still loves me. It would be good to stay in that place a while. But he’s asking, and that means I have to tell him.

“I don’t want to tell you,” I whisper. I hear his heartbeat, try to shut my eyes and feel the way this feels—for just a second. Who knows how he’ll feel about me once he hears my horror story. Who knows how head fucked I’ll be by the time I finish telling it.

“You don’t have to right now,” he says. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything. Just be here with me if you need to.” His voice is so damn soft and husky. I wish I had the nerve to kiss him—even just his cheek .

Instead, I shake my head against his chest. “No. You deserve to hear it.”

I sit up, to put some space between us. I’m sitting between his legs till he sits up, too. Then Josh shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with his back against the couch’s arm, facing me. I draw a knee up to my chest and try to get a few good, solid, deep breaths.

I shift around a few times, ending up sitting cross-legged facing him. It’s hard to look right at him like this, but if we love each other, then he deserves this from me. Honesty. And the whole story.

“I’m nervous to tell it.” I wipe a palm on my pants, press my lips together, look down at the couch’s fibers. “Don’t feel sorry for me.” My voice sounds raspy. I swallow and hold his blue eyes with mine. “I’m okay now. I got out. And I found you.”

“That makes me nervous, Ez. But I want to hear it. I know you, and I already know stuff happened.”

I inhale slowly, forcing myself to keep on looking at him. “Did I ever mention…Riley,” I manage. “Or Paul?” The word sounds choked.

“You used to dream about Paul,” he says softly.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. Then I make myself look up at him, even as my face flushes and blood whooshes in my head. “What about Alton?”

His brows notch, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

I lean over just a little, massaging my temples with my fingertips. I didn’t figure. That letter I wrote him, which I read right after I listened to his voice mails—it said I didn’t want him to know. Fuck that shit, though. Fuck the secrets. If I’m moving forward…if I’m ever going to get well or whatever…I have to tell him.

“Do you have a drink here?” I ask.

He frowns.

“Do you want to pour one? ”

“For you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “For yourself.”

“No, Ez.” He scoots a little closer to me, looking like he wants to touch me, but he doesn’t. “I don’t need a drink to listen to you.”