Chapter 7

Seven

Josh

H e must be bone tired. First the game, then finding me, and then the strain of telling me what happened to him. He sleeps pretty solid, his big body warm and still against mine, his arm wrapped around my back.

That helps me feel good, but it hurts me, too. He lost his memories of us, but he still wants me…craves me. He knows I’m safe. Look how fast he found me, and he told me everything.

"I don't really know you. But I feel like I can't live without you."

I love that. I need it. If he can’t remember, I can adjust; it’s okay as long as I feel like he loves me. The way he holds me, tucks his cheek against my chest—that’s us. It’s just like before.He feels like my Ezra, smells like Ezra. Every contour of his gorgeous body, the slight scruff on his jaw and cheeks—it’s delicious Ezra. My whole body and my soul reach for him. He is everything that I’ve been needing. Now he’s in my arms. He’s holding onto me, and I’ve got him close.

It fucking hurts, though. It rips me up. To know how bad those people hurt him. He was…tortured. Locked up, starved, shocked. I can’t stand to think about it. Every time I think about him like that— I can’t catch my breath. Feel like I’ll pass out.

I think of him so weak that he can’t walk, and people have to carry him from that closet down to the twisted “clinic.” Then that fucking monster shocking him, taunting him. All the pain of trying to eat. Jesus…so much pain. And his mom came, and she blamed him ?

Fuck, he needed someone back then. I think of him in a psych hospital, everybody telling him he’s sick, and no one there to love him. No one there to know him. I think of Ezra—my fierce, untamed Ezra—being strapped down to a bed and having seizures. How it must have felt for him to be in a hospital after nearly dying in the “clinic” at Alton. Goddamn! It’s no wonder he was so scared of hospitals.

And fucking no one there with him. No one to hold him, kiss him, wake him up from nightmares. No one to see the dazed look in his eyes and realize he needs grounding. God, if I could go back there and rescue him from that hell—

I’d do anything. Just… anything .

I think about him leaving Fairplay. How he asked me to draw on his chest again. I’ve been so haunted by that night—the way he wanted to be held. The way he made me promise not to let go of him. It was because he knew! He was gonna sneak out before morning, drive away and back to his mom. He knew he was headed back to that inpatient place to go through ECT again. Of course he seemed strange that day we went water skiing.Of course he seemed fragile.

Did I let go of him in my sleep that night? If I hadn’t, would he have stayed with me in Fairplay?

I think of him waking up alone in the hospital, and he couldn’t remember what happened. Feeling tired and weird. Losing your memory. How’d he get away from his mom? How’d he ever get to University of Alabama? What a fucking warrior.

He pushed through all that shit to be his superstar football player self, and I fell apart because of…nothing. Getting left and ghosted, that was nothing, nothing, nothing compared to what he went through. I got drunk and wrecked my car and—

It was something , I interrupt myself. This . The two of us hugged up together. It was everything , I correct myself.It might not be like what happened to him, but it wrecked me.

So what did I do? Just drank and tried to numb myself up.

Did I call his mom’s house, seek him out?

No.

Did I drive to Richmond, try to talk to him, fight for us?

No.

Did I even figure out what happened?

No.

His mom is fucking evil, and I let her have him! I think of him on all those meds. I think of his mom telling him he’s bad or wrong because he’s gay. How scared he would have had to’ve felt when he walked back into the hospital. God, he couldn’t even stay at Children’s with me for two hours. Wouldn’t go in when he almost had heat stroke.

But he went to this place again, voluntarily, and let them give him seizures. And then he couldn’t find his way back to me. He was fucking lost. Alone. And I was nowhere! He said it took him months to even learn he had a stepbrother named Miller. When he did, he felt anxious. “I think I missed you, but I didn’t know.”

I realize I’m breathing too hard. I try to breathe in deep and slow, to fill my lungs and calm down, but…I can’t. I keep thinking of him alone. How scared he must have been locked in the closet, and he couldn’t stand up. How scary it must have been to have a feeding tube in his nose. To be too weak to hold a fork.

No wonder he wanted to drown himself. How much pain can someone stand?

I hug him up against me closer, and I stay that way until I can tell I’m going to really cry. I don’t want him waking up to me losing my shit. He shouldn’t have to talk me down from grief over his history.

I slip slowly out of bed, tuck the sheet and fleece blanket around his shoulders, and then pull my duvet over him, to add some cozier weight.

Then I go into the den and sit on the couch with my knees pulled up and drag a pillow to my chest and let myself cry. I can tell within a minute that it’s not going to be “crying.” I move onto sobbing pretty fucking fast, and it’s hard to keep quiet. I just… can’t stop. I keep thinking of him alone, and how I wish I would have been there. Why would this stuff happen to him? Why him? I think about him before being sent to Alton, and I wonder what he was like. If his smiles were softer.

I think about him smiling at me now, and how it still seems soft sometimes. He loves me—he tracked me down and held his heart out in his hand for me—and I didn’t even reach out to him beyond a handful of calls.

So much regret and grief and anger. I cry so much, my stomach starts to hurt. When I get a hold of myself, I peek through the doorway into my room, and he’s still sleeping. It feels criminal to leave him in there unheld, but I can’t get back in the bed with him yet.

I’m so upset. I’m fucking…furious. I just want to break things. Starting what that sick fuck Paul’s face. I think of Ezra when he first moved down to Fairplay. Ezra on the roof, his fingers twitching as he fell asleep. I think of how he would wake up sometimes from a nightmare and latch onto me. How much he needed to be hugged.

Is that Alton place still open? Fucking swear, I’m gonna burn it to the ground. Where did Paul go? Who’s going to punish all those people? My throat aches, but I don’t want to cry more. I want to do something. I want to take it all away. To make it un-happen. I stand by my bed and look down at him. Sleeping Ezra. Pretty Ezra. He looks peaceful tucked in my bed. But my chest is too tight.

I move quietly into the bathroom, splash my face with cold water. I look at the little drawer to the left of the sink. My razor is in there. That’s not all.

I’ll have to stop this shit now. Starting tomorrow. No more liquor, either. It’ll be weird to be sober, but Ezra’s worth it. If he can fight so hard for himself, so can I.

Maybe I should take a Xanax right now. Let it hit me in the early morning hours, and we’ll both sleep.

I open the drawer and peer down at the pile of them. Part of me doesn’t want to take one. I have this desire to be totally present now that he’s here. I blow a breath out, running my fingertips over the pills.

The bathroom door opens, and I jump a mile. Ezra looks as shocked as I do—wide-eyed, with his mussed hair hanging over his brows. He frowns at me. Then he frowns down at the drawer. I can see the moment that he realizes. His eyes widen fractionally more and his face takes on a just-slapped sort of look. His eyes come to mine.

“Josh?” His brows bend in confusion.

“Yes?” My heart is racing; I can feel it pound behind my sore eyes.

His mouth does this…thing. A nervous thing. Another frown at the drawer, and then he looks at me. “Are you okay?”

Of all the things he could have asked. It makes my eyes throb with fresh tears.

I can’t speak, can’t even swallow. He steps toward me. He stops short of hugging me, but we’re chest to chest. His head tilts a little, and he’s looking at my face—really looking.

“I can’t read you as well as you read me.” His voice is low and rough from sleep. His brows bunch up again, and then his finger comes to my eye, brushing lightly underneath.

“Have you been crying, Josh?”

He looks pained at the prospect. I close my eyes, suck a breath in. I put a hand over my face, so if a tear leaks out, he won’t see it.

Then his arms are wrapping around me. He hugs me tight and rests his face against my shoulder. “Hey, Josh Miller. It’s okay.” His hand rubs a circle on my back. I wrap my arms around him, too, because he’s Ezra and he feels so fucking good against me. Then we’re standing in my bathroom locked together. I lean back against the counter, and I feel his lips brush my throat.

“Talk to me. Please.” He hugs tighter. “I can listen, and I’d never judge you. You can trust me.” He leans back a little, looking up at my face. “We both want the rise of Miller.” He gives me this soft and goofy little smile that melts my heart. And makes my eyes ache again.

“What’s got you crying, Millsy?”

I shut my eyes. Shake my head.

“You want me to let go?” His voice is husky.

I shake my head again. He hugs me tighter. Then he shifts his grip on my back, and I’m surprised as he lifts me up, tossing me partway over his shoulder and carrying me to my bed.

He lays me out as carefully as he can. Then he smiles down at me—gently, maybe sadly. “My Miller,” he whispers. “Is that okay?” His face sobers, and he looks worried. “Is this too much? Too soon?”

I shake my head. A choked laugh comes from my throat. “You’re a year late, angel.”

He crawls over me, straddling my hips, and he smooths my hair back off my forehead. “You’re so perfect, Miller.” He strokes my hair. “I don’t like to see you upset. If you’re sad, I wanna make you happy.”

His face is so soft.“What makes Miller happy?”

I blink up at him, tears blurring his face. You do . I don’t say it. I rasp, “What time is it?”

He looks around, and then he stretches to grab his phone from my nightstand. I watch, admiring the view as he looks down at it. “Fuck, it’s 1:14 in the morning. I guess I crashed. Or we did?” His brows rumple.

“Both of us. I got up a little earlier and—” I shake my head, purse my lips.

“What?” He’s leaning over me on both arms, looking so damn perfect that it makes my chest clench.

I shake my head and look away from him. “Just thinking.”

“Do you wanna tell me?”

I can’t help smiling at the way he asks. “I don’t want to.” I laugh. “But I will.”

“Why will you?” He asks it slowly. When I look up, he’s thoughtful.Maybe a little nervous.

“I’ll tell you because you’re Ezra and I’m Josh. Like peanut butter and jelly. Or…I don’t know—popcorn and butter.”

“Go on.” He smirks, and it takes this pressure off my chest to see it.

“Waffles and syrup. Eggs and bacon?”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “Making me hungry.”

“Are you?”

He nods. "I didn’t eat after the game. Wanted to try to find you.”He frowns down at me. “You have a headache?”

“Sort of. Why?”

His hand strokes through my hair again. “Your eyes seem like that.”

“Puffy and tired?”

“I guess so.” His eyes flicker up, away from my face, and then drop back down to meet mine again. “Is this okay?” His shoulders tighten and he rocks back slightly, so he’s on his haunches, still straddling me. “Is this how we were?”

He looks so fucking unsure. So different than Fairplay Ezra.

I push up on my elbows, close my hand around his hard thigh. I look up into his eyes and give him a smile. “This is how we were, Ez. We’ve been a lot closer than this.”

His dark brows lift, and his mouth curls into a surprised smile, and I sit all the way up so I can wrap my arms around his waist.

“Let’s go get some food. You want to?” He leans his head on top of mine, and it feels so good. “There’s a Waffle House that’s open till…I don't know, but it’s later than this. You like waffles, right?”

I look up at him, and he’s giving me a weird smile. “Did you see me eat them?”

“Sure did.” I grin. “Lots of times. This could be fun. What did Ezra do…” I widen my eyes. “Is that too insensitive?”

“Fuck no.” He climbs off me, grabs my hand and pulls me up off the bed. “Let’s go get that food, and we can talk about the shit I don’t remember. And how to be sure the Josh Miller doesn’t get hurt from street Xannies.”

“Fuck. You know what they are?”

He gives me a little smirky smile. “I know what they are.” His face falls. “Did you always take them?”

“Uh, nope. You used to call me DG, for Do Gooder,” I tell him as we walk into the living area. I scoop up my keys and wallet, feeling almost dizzy with another wave of shock that he’s here.

“I think I like that.” He smiles. “You do seem like a good guy.”

As we walk down to my car—a very not new, but new-to-me black Honda Accord—he tells me how much he liked watching my social media.

“I really liked you in the day,” he says, a crooked smile on his lips as he waits for me to unlock the car. “I liked you at night, too, but…” He trails off as he gets into the car, and I quirk a brow up.

“But?” I give him a smirk.

“It was too much drinking,” he says simply. He buckles, and his eyes find mine. “I’m not judging. Now that I know what happened—” He shakes his head. “I’m not judging. I was worried for you.”

I find, as I drive us through the post-game traffic and toward Waffle House, that he knows about the time I went to the bar in Atlanta, and he saw the snap with Arnie from when I went up to Tuscaloosa.

“You seemed okay for a while,” he muses, rubbing his knee. “But right before you quit posting…” Ez shakes his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“I guess I wasn’t coping that well.”

He looks at me, and he doesn’t even have to ask “coping with what.” I can tell he knows, and I can tell it makes him sad to know it.

“I’m so sorry.” His hand reaches for mine. When his fingers slide between mine, I can’t help a tight squeeze.

“Don’t be sorry, Ez. You didn’t have a good time either. Both of us were sort of lost for a while.”

“But now I found you.”

I smile. “If you want me.”

“Why would you ask, Millsy?” He brings our hands to his lap, folding them against his strong quads. “Let me clarify that fully for you. You are all I’ve wanted since I woke up missing memories. It’s been…sick. And not the good kind.” He gives me a pained look and then tries to mask it with a little smile.

“I want to hear about it,” I say.

“We’ll trade stories. After we get full from waffles, let’s go back to your house. I wanna be in bed with you again.” His handsome Ezra face is bare, so I can read the longing on it. “I had these dreams of being in bed with you,” he says in a soft rasp. His hand squeezes mine. “You’d be holding me. And there was a cello beside us.”

My stomach does a quick twist. “Ezra…I don’t think that was a dream.”