Chapter 7

Seven

Josh

I can't get to sleep until the sun is rising. I don't know why. I keep thinking of him on the other side of our shared bathroom. At one point, I even go into the bathroom, putting my ear up to his door to be sure it sounds like he's okay in his room.

I realized his fingers were probably twitching because he was falling asleep. That's a thing that happens. With that knowledge, I have no reason to believe anything’s going on with him. Or that I need to check up on him. There's no good reason he’s sitting at the forefront of my mind, like a worry stone you slip into your pocket and rub sometimes.

I don't even know him. What I do know is all bad news. And still, as soon as I wake up—the clock says 11:04 AM—I sit up in bed, gripped by this feeling that I might’ve missed something. I pull on a pale blue T-shirt and those plaid pants he remarked on, and then I go downstairs and plant myself at the kitchen table with a bowl of gluten-free, Cheerios-imposter cereal.

Mom and Carl are at church, so I'm alone when he comes down at 11:30. I watch as he steps into the pantry, then emerges and moves toward the garbage can. He stops as his eyes lock onto my face.

Hesitation. Just a second of it. Then he lifts his brows and walks into the dining room. A few minutes later, I hear the front door shut.

What the hell? He left his shades here on the counter. I’ve noticed he wears them every day. Maybe he’s not actually leaving, though.

Henpecker .

I set my bowl in the sink and walk through the dining room and into the family room, moving quietly in case he’s still around. A quick glance outside reveals his Jeep is gone.

So he did forget his shades. Did he hurry out of here to avoid me?

What does it matter?

I don't give a damn about the guy—at least not Ezra in particular. Having another guy my age in the house is throwing me off. That's all it is. Ezra wouldn’t be my type. Too lean. And…hard. I haven't really seen his ass, but I'm sure it's flat since he's so lanky. He's all angles, and if I catch myself perving on him again, looking at his elegant, long-fingered hands or at his fish-lipped, hard-jawed face, or at his fuckboy hair that's shorter on the sides and longer on the top, I'm gonna drive to Huntsville and scratch this itch. Or call Arnie. That’s the backup plan, I tell myself.

Ezra’s just a dick. A homophobic dick. I think of all the reasons as I shower, re-confirming what a massive dick he is. Maybe this whole thing where I can’t stop thinking about him is just bizarre self-flagellation.

It's okay to be gay , I tell myself as I towel my hair off. I smirk in the mirror.

It’s Sunday, and my dad invited me for post-church brunch. That's what his wife calls it, as if we're brunching with the queen or something.

I don't know what to wear for a brunch—they’ve invited me over before on Sunday, but it's been about a year—so I pick out some khaki shorts without cargo pockets and a Polo button-up that's blue and green and white plaid. When I check myself out in the mirror, I think I look preppy, with my long-ish dark brown hair flipped upward slightly in the front. It’s my ocean-wave bang. My cheeks are sunburned from band practice and a few friend-on-friend soccer games.

Hi Dad, it's your sort of bi but really mostly all the way gay son.

He doesn't know. I'm pretty sure he has no clue, and that’s the way I like it. He's court ordered to pay for my college. I think he probably can't get off the hook, but I don't want to risk it.

I grab a fishing pole out of the garage, stick it in the passenger's seat beside me with the tip of it poked out the back window. My dad lives on the lake, with a dock right in his backyard and all. So when there’s nothing else to do, we all can fish. Kaye, my stepmom, can ask me awkward questions they should know the answer to, like where I'm thinking about going to college and that sort of stuff. I'll be faux polite to my half sibs Ritchie and Pipsa, and they'll be just friendly enough so I'll imagine we might get along well if I lived with Dad.

Except I would never live with Dad. Kaye doesn't want me to; she's made it clear in eighty ways—and one of them is that I don't have a bedroom. When I do sleep there, it’s in a loft that hangs over the kitchen, so nights when Dad or Kaye get up to get water or a snack, the fridge light wakes me up.

I tell myself to cut the feels as I drive over. Doesn't matter if I’m not really a member of Dad’s family. I lucked out with Carl and my mom. More than lucked out. I'm more fortunate than lots of people. Carl's Methodist, but a liberal one. He told me before that his best friend from back in high school has a husband, and the two of them have adopted kids. I don't want to come out right now—definitely not with God Hates Fags in the house—but when the time's right, I know I'll still have a seat at our table.

My little pep talk doesn't sink in. I feel shitty as I pull into Dad’s driveway and park behind the closed garage. Shitty like an outsider pretending not to be one. I feel almost worse because I don't think they “want” me to feel excluded. But I still am.

Despite all that, the afternoon is better than I thought it would be. Dad’s had a drink or two, so he’s feeling relaxed. Kaye is more generous with me than she sometimes is. Ritchie and Pipsa want to hang with me, so I take them down to the dock and watch as Ritchie puts worms on our hooks.

Dad is launching into the story of how I threw up in a bucket of crickets the first time I baited my own hook when a red and black ski boat whizzes by and then fishtails, spraying water over the beach before reversing momentum and bobbing stern-first into the green water. Fucking Brennan. Dude’s been my friend since preschool. Never met a stranger.

“WHATCHA DOING, LADIES!”

I’m sticking my hand up in a wave when I spot another ball cap—this one purple, black, and white. The sight of it makes my stomach flip.

I squint under my own Auburn ball cap, and I see Ezra’s face, relaxed and stretched in a grin, sunburn on his cheekbones. Another second—my heart hammers—and I notice Marcel with them.

“Guess there’s no practice today,” I murmur.

“That Brennan?” Dad asks.

“Yeah.”

“Gotten bigger,” he says. “Marcel too.”

“Yeah, Marcel moved to running back this year, or maybe wide receiver. I forget.”

“Running back,” Dad tells me. He keeps track of local football. “Who’s the other one?” he asks .

I’m fumbling for an answer when Brennan shouts, “Whatcha after?” and Ritchie yells “Crappie!”

The boat’s idling closer to us now, like Brennan’s planning to dock. “Aww I got a bunch of shiners,” he says, cupping his mouth for projection. “It’s this new kind. Crappy love ’em.”

“Come on over,” Dad says, waving at the ten or fifteen yards between Bren’s boat and the dock.

“Yesss!” Ritchie starts to jump up and down.

I take a deep breath, gritting my teeth as the boat drifts sideways, bringing Ezra into better view.

Of all the damn things—Ezra at my dad’s house. I try to look normal as Brennan steps onto the dock, looping a rope around one of the posts. Marcel does the same thing at the other end of the boat. Brennan gives Ezra a hand up, and I get a chance to see Ezra beside two other football players. Marcel is the biggest of the three. He’s been huge since kindergarten, and I bet he’s at least six-foot-five now. Brennan and Ezra are about the same height, which means that Ezra must be six-one or six-two. I notice Ezra’s shoulders are actually wider than Brennan’s. His frame seems leaner, but it’s a big frame. Brennan’s is more compact, so he looks beefier—as if he’s well-fed and Ezra isn’t. Which is not true. The dude practically licks his plate at dinner every night.

My eyes latch onto Ezra’s straight nose and dark brows, his hard jawline. He’s looking down, so I see his dark lashes against his skin. Then his gaze flicks up and hits mine like an arrow to a bull’s eye.

Fuck . I look away, realizing Dad is talking to Brennan and Marcel. I can’t track the convo. I’m too busy watching Dad’s eyes slide to Ezra. Just as Dad opens his mouth to ask who the hell this other guy is, Ezra sticks his hand out.

“Ezra Masters,” he says gruffly.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Dad chortles, shaking Ezra’s hand. “The new QB. ”

Ugh.

I ask myself do we have to do this? But we do. Of course we do. I’m forced to listen to Dad regurgitate every single thing he’s heard about Ezra from Coach Nix—one of my dad’s childhood friends—and whoever else spends their time yapping about high school football.

Ezra’s face is near expressionless. I’m feeling jealous of his poker face when I notice his ears are red.

Jeez, my dad is really rambling like some kind of fanboy. Turns out, apparently, some of the Fairplay men in my dad’s circle stopped by to watch Ezra throw a few days back, at the request of showboat Coach Nix. And he can throw it oh so extra far . Seventy-something yards. I guess that actually is pretty far.

Ezra’s ears are getting redder by the second. He looks almost nervous, but he fakes a smile when my dad slaps him on the shoulder.

“Goin’ places,” Dad drawls, and I can’t help a quick eyeroll—which Ezra sees, and his gaze jerks to meet mine.

I give him an “ugh, whatever” look, and Brennan grins. “You two starting to be buddies yet?”

Ezra frowns—it’s just the slightest pinch of his brows—and I widen my eyes as Dad turns to me.

“You don’t know?” Marcel asks my dad. Marcel slaps Ezra’s back. “These two are brothers!”

My gaze is pulled two ways at once as Ezra’s right eye squints and his upper lip curls slightly. Meanwhile, dad is gaping.

“Not by you, old man.” Brennan laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. “He’s the son of Carl.”

Dad’s whole face transforms as if it’s the most shocking thing he’s ever heard in his life. He looks from me to Ezra, his mouth agape.

“Brothers?” he says, grinning. He looks at me. “Well, who would have known? ”

That all kicks off what feels like another hour of bullshit small talk about Ezra, and where he’s from, and how he’s liking Fairplay. Yes, yes. We know he’s from Richmond. He’s played football since he was five years old. Yes, sometimes it’s possible to play at age five. Miracle of miracles! Dad tells Ezra I played peewee, but now I “just” play soccer.

Ezra does a good job playing attentive listener. He’s got a grounded, quiet energy around my dad. As if they’re both adults—or maybe as if Dad’s a fawning adult and Ezra is a football idol being modest.

Finally, the conversation turns to fishing, and I notice Ezra's ears return to normal color. Brennan grabs some poles from his boat, and he and Marcel bait their hooks. I help Ritchie get a shiner on his. Pipsa makes a face at the little fish, and sticks with her original bait, and Dad excuses himself to go make another drink.

"Anybody want a Coke?" he asks as he pads across the long lawn toward the garage.

Marcel says he'll take one.

“No thanks,” I say over my shoulder.

I'm turning back toward the water when I see Ezra with hunched shoulders, squinting slightly as he baits his hook. At the exact second my gaze touches his hands, he loses his grip on the shiner. The hook slides through the tip of his finger, its prongs popping out— oh my God —on the other side. I blink in horror at the spike of metal, quickly covered by a crimson dollop of blood.

"Fuck."

Ritchie and Pipsa gape at my foul mouth as Ezra stares at his hand. The color drains from his face as he holds it away from his body.

"Oh, shit." Brennan notices in that moment, and so does Pipsa. She shrieks, and Ritchie turns her away. "Don't look, Pipsqueak," he says, at the same time Marcel says, "Oh hell! Brennan, Miller…"

Marcel's got a weak stomach. "I'm sorry, my good dude," he says to Ezra, as he turns away and puts a hand over his face.

Ezra’s chest is pumping. His teeth are gritted and his eyes are half shut. I look closer at the hook and see that it's a bigger one, with two prongs. Dammit, Brennan must have handed him one of the poles we used to fish for king mackerel during spring break down at Orange Beach.

It's the middle finger of his left hand. The whole hand is shaking now. He grips his left wrist with his right hand, squeezing.

I hear myself say, "I can get it out. Brennan." I look at Bren. "Get those little scissor pliers, the red ones you’ve got under the console?”

Brennan’s stepping down into his boat to find the tool.I look at Ezra. His pale face is twisted in pain. “We don’t have to get it out here,” I tell him. “Would you rather go to the emergency room and let them do it?”

He shakes his head. "No."

He holds the hand up toward me, giving me a good view of the twin hooks poking out on either side of his nail. The tip of the finger is so dark it’s almost purple. Two rivulets of blood stream down toward his knuckle.

"I can get it out,” I say. “I'm good with small things." I glance at his face, expecting some bullshit crack about small things, but he’s not in that mode. His lips are pressed together, and his chest puffs out on a deep breath.

"You should sit down." There are two chairs on the dock. I put a hand on Ezra's back and nudge him toward one, and he does like I say. Ritchie gives his hand a look and says, "I'm getting Dad!" He and Pipsa dash off as Marcel hands Ezra a large, silver flask. "Chug it, bro."