Wrath: A Sinful Secrets Romance, page 18
I’m stretching out on my bed, lying face-down across the mattress, when I hear the door open.
“Hey…” His voice is softer than the norm. “You want to go out on the boat or something?”
“What?” I snap. Does he read minds now?
“I said would you want to go out in the boat? Get out of here?”
“Why?” My voice sounds morose.
I can feel him step a little closer. “We don’t have to. I thought you liked it. But maybe it’s not comfortable enough for—”
“Dude, just stop.”
I roll over, irritated to find his flawless face still hits me just the same as always. I sit up and try my best to look as unaffected as I can, despite the way my heart pounds.
“I don’t want to go out with you. I don’t want to be in with you. I’m fucking from here, brother. I have friends. If I want to go somewhere, I’ll call one of them.”
I can see him absorb my words. His face turns unhappy, something changing in the eyes and in the set of his mouth.
“Okay then.” He disappears into the hall, shutting my door behind him.
* * *
Ezra
I stand in the hall between our bedrooms, looking down at the stuff by my feet. There’s two bags of Cheetos, two packs of Bubble Yum, another Icee, and some of that sugary powder stuff you eat with the vanilla-flavored dipsticks. Brennan told me he likes that.
I got it when I went out to get the donuts, but I felt weird giving it to him all at once.
I lean my back against the wall. Put my hand over my chest.
I can feel my heartbeat.
I don't like it when it beats fast. Makes me have to breathe in through my nose and blow it out my mouth.
I try it, but I can’t breathe.
I sit on the top step, put my head down on my knees, and when that doesn't work, I lie back on the carpet in front of his door and try to look down at the skylight. I can see the shadows from the clouds over the sun. I watch them until my eyes shut. There's still light, I tell myself. I can see it through my eyelids. Never that dark, Ezra… It’s okay.
My heart slows down, and now I’m tired. Didn’t sleep last night because I knew he’d hear me screaming. Then he wouldn’t get to sleep. And he needs sleep.
I hear DG move on his bed.
I reach my arm out toward his door and brush it with my fingertips.
I’m sorry.
I think of the lake water. What it looked like from under the surface. All that roiling… And I kicked up.
My throat aches as I think of Miller climbing up onto the trestle with me. I can still see his eyes, wide with terror.
I fucked that up. I thought he would leave. When he didn’t and the train got way too close, I panicked and shoved him.
I had worked myself up that day. All day, driving down from Richmond, trying to decide how. And then I got to Fairplay and my dad texted. He said, ‘We can’t wait to see you’ and I just…drove to his house.
I got inside, and they told me about Josh. He and his friends, and where they might be, underneath the trestle bridge or out by some snake island. They told me how high the bridge was, how some trains still used it. And that got me thinking.
When I got there onto the bridge and realized Josh and his friends weren’t there, I realized it was the right time. Finally.
I felt brave as I walked on it. Peaceful, too. I was glad that it was going to be over. I said one last prayer—I remember it being "please find me”—whatever that meant in my head at the time—and then I dove. With my shoes on.
I hit the surface hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs, and I sunk deep. I kicked once or twice, my body moving out of instinct. Then for a second I was in the depths, suspended, looking at the light show of the sunlight on the surface. That's the last thing I remember clearly. I think my body inhaled without my consent, and I got a chest full of lake water.
I don't remember kicking to the surface. I remember hands on me. And how ironic that he calls me angel face, because I thought he was an angel.
Only for a second. Then my body started flipping out from all the water in my lungs. I thought I was dying.
As soon as my head cleared, I realized I had failed, and the first thing I thought was that I wanted to try again. My head still felt dizzy, so I figured another go, and I wouldn't come up. It was so weird. Reckless in a way that felt...invigorating.
"I think you're a twisted fucker. I think you do it for the power feeling."
I smile as I drift closer to sleep—here on the floor.
Fucked up fucker.
Just don't want Mills to get fucked up.
I reach behind me, grabbing the Icee cup. Press the thing to my cheek. The outside of the cup is damp.
Wake up, I tell myself.
I'm so comfortable, though. Knowing he's right there behind the closed door.
I think of his arm over me, when he would climb into my bed. Feeling his hands on my shoulders.
And the few times I was so head-fucked, I latched onto him. I remember how his arms would come around me, his hand cupping my head.
Eight
Josh
I stay in my room for a long time. Stewing, I guess. Feeling everything I wanted, everything I planned on, slipping away. Who would recruit an epileptic to play college soccer? How do I even go to college if I can’t drive? How would I visit home, or go out to a restaurant or the grocery store? What if I can’t leave home at all?
When this shit started, I was seven, and I was med-free for the first three years. But I turned ten and started having more problems, so I was on meds in fourth and fifth grade. My eyes were blurry all the time, and sometimes I’d get dizzy or feel hot and sick. I kept complaining about my vision, so in sixth grade, over Christmas break, I did a trial off the meds, and that went fine. The more time passed without a seizure, the more they thought I had outgrown it. It’s been eight years.
I have a car. I don’t like fishing, but I love to be on the boat. I swim laps sometimes at the community center. In eighth and ninth grades, I was a lifeguard both of those summers. Bet I couldn’t do that now.
I’m in such a shitty headspace. I think of calling someone, but who? I don’t want to be with Brennan. I don’t want to be with anybody.
I feel a prickle of guilt over sending Ezra away, but why the fuck is that? I need to let go of him. Stop pretending that letting him give me hate blow jobs is a special thing. Or meaningful in any damn way.
He's just fucked up. Yeah, I guess he's clearly gay or bi, but so what? The dude’s probably not even capable of caring for others. Whatever is wrong with him, it's not my business. Someone must have hurt him. But I can't pry my way into his brain. He doesn't want me. Doesn't care.
I've been so stupid with him.
Maybe I could walk down to the cemetery. It's close, and at the back of it there's a big brick wall that you can sit on, lookout over the water.
That’s my plan. I need to get out. Get away from him.
I throw on some basketball shorts and an old Habitat for Humanity T-shirt with my black Adidas slides. I grab my Auburn cap at the last second, wanting another layer between myself and the world.
I'll get over this. It’s gonna be fine.
I'll get over it tonight before I get into the car with him tomorrow. I'm thinking about that when I open the door into the hall and see him lying on his back on the floor.
"Ezra?”
When he doesn’t move, my stomach drops so fucking hard. I crouch beside him.
“Hey…”
I see his chest rise, and my heart rate levels back out. Maybe he’s sleeping? Then I notice the Icee beside him. It’s a red one. I look around the hallway, trying to get some context, and when I see what’s behind me, my stomach twists again.
Cheetos and Bubble Yum and Fun Dip.
All the shit I like, except it wouldn’t be for me…would it?
I touch his shoulder. “Ezra?”
His eyes open, peeling wide for a long second. Then he’s sitting up and blinking.
“Did I wake you up?” he asks, hoarse. He angles his body toward me, looking sleepy-eyed and confused.
I can’t help a small smile. “Dude, it’s daytime.”
He blinks, looking around with his dark brows drawn together. “Oh.”
I laugh—despite all good sense. “Did you fall asleep here?”
He cuts his gaze toward the snacks on the floor, then boomerangs it back to the carpet under his hand, which he’s now leaning on. “I guess so. Yeah.”
He gets to his feet and holds onto the bannister, frowning again as he looks me over. There’s a beat where I can tell he wants to ask me where I’m going. Indecision on his face, and then he gives in: “You going out?”
“Just for a walk.” I shrug. “You know…”
“Cause you don’t wanna go with me?”
He looks pensive, even with those tired eyes. My heart pounds a little harder.
“You don’t want to go with me.” My voice is just a little higher than it should be, which makes my face burn.
He presses his lips together.
“Don’t pretend,” I say. “You don’t want to be my friend.”
He swallows, his eyes locked on mine. It takes everything I have not to stare at his lips as his tongue darts over them.
“You never have,” I allege. “All you want to do is fuck with me.” I shrug as my chest and throat and cheeks burn. “It’s all good. Just stay away.”
I’m so red that now my eyes are stinging, like the heat is rising up into them. I move down the stairs as fast as I can, going not out the front door, as logic would dictate, but back into the kitchen.
When I’m there, I realize I feel dizzy and get a glass of water. I’m gulping it down, telling myself not to be embarrassed that I’m weird around someone who’s done all this shit with me—to me—when the dining room door swings open and there he is again.
I haven’t looked at him closely today, but he’s got on a white hoodie, gray sweatpants, and some white socks. He has his hands in the hoodie’s front pocket. He pulls one out, holding a bag of Cheetos.
“I just…got you these,” he says, not looking at me. He sets two bags on the kitchen island, followed by two packs of gum and the Fun Dip. Then his gaze darts to mine. “In case you needed something,” he says hoarsely.
And he’s gone. He’s through the dining room door. Peaced out.
My brain trips. He bought this stuff for me? Does that mean the cherry Icee he was holding was for me, too?
I grab a pack of gum and follow him into the dining room, where I’m surprised to find him with his back pressed to the small swatch of wall to the right of the door.
He’s got his hands over his face, and his shoulders are heaving.
“Ezra? What’s the matter?”
He shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he says, but it’s muffled by his hands. He starts off toward the family room, moving with long strides.
He’s fast, but I swing my arm out, and my fingertips catch his hood.
He whirls toward me, looking stricken.
“Wait,” I say.
His eyes are so wide. He looks different than I’ve ever seen him…but also familiar. It hits me like a fucking space rock: This is how he looks when I wake him from nightmares. He looks freaked out. He looks…miserable.
What’s wrong? It’s on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t ask, because I’m positive that he won’t answer. I can’t handle any more rejection from him right now.
Instead I hear myself say, “You want to walk somewhere with me?”
He blinks, looking glassy-eyed, like I just snapped him out of a daydream. “Me?” He frowns. “I—”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” His chest rises as he inhales. “Where’re you going?”
“Nowhere special. Just down to the cemetery. There’s an overlook there. Like a bluff or whatnot. Just…it’s a place I can walk to.”
He nods slowly, and I wonder if I’ve put him on the spot by asking. I start to tell him, “It’s not—” that important.
But he interrupts me. “I’ll be right back.” He’s already turning away as he says it. I note the socked feet as he goes and wonder with a pounding heart if he’s getting his shoes.
Nine
Josh
Does he want to go with me? Does he feel like he has to?
This isn’t a date, you moron. He’s your stepbrother.
My body doesn’t get the message. Everything feels like it’s buzzing as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, making my neck ache by looking up to watch for him. What if he doesn’t come?
He appears then, wearing his purple and white Denver ball cap and a flat-lipped little smile, plus some white sneaks with his sweatshirt and a black pair of basketball shorts.
I can’t even look at him for a full second before I have to move my eyes away. I realize I’ve got gum in my hand.
“Want some?” I ask as he steps onto the first floor.
There’s a second where his body is so close to mine. He holds his hand out, palm up, and I rip the pack open. When my eyes find his, the left side of his mouth is twitched up a little—like a mini smirk.
“Did you want me to unwrap it?” I bug out my eyes like wtf, and he grins so big his cheeks round out.
As the grin fades, he shifts his weight and says, “Nahh. It’s all good.”
He makes quick work of the wrapper, pops the gum into his mouth, and heads out the front door. This time, instead of leaving me on the porch, he waits till I step out and shuts the door behind me.
Down the steps and in between our cars. He’s walking by me, we’re walking beside each other, and I’m reeling at the nearness of him. The sweatshirt, his thick throat, the cap on his head. Always those eyes. And that mouth. He walks steady but not fast, his arm swinging a little. He blows a bubble with his gum as I smash a piece into my mouth.
“So where’s the cemetery?” he asks as we near the driveway’s end.
“Left here, one block down, another left, and it’s right there on Broad Street.”
We walk in silence. He adjusts his hat a lot. We’re both blowing bubbles sometimes.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to.”
He smirks. “Don’t get awkward, Mills. I wanted to come. Nothing like a cemetery.”
“This one’s really old. There’s lots of young people and little kids that all died before modern medicine.”
His eyes widen in horror. “Even better,” he says, sarcastic. “Nothing like a good, solid tragedy.”
“Exactly.”
“Is it segregated by SEC and race?” At first I take that as the SEC—like the South Eastern Conference, in college football—but I realize he probably means socioeconomic class.
“You better believe it.”
“Awesome,” he says.
“Mmhmm. If you follow the dirt and rock path straight back to the spot we’re going to, it’s mostly just these tall evergreen type trees and wrought-iron fences. You can focus on those things and not on the tombstones if you want.”
He gives me that look again—the sarcastic, poker-faced, bug-eyed one. “That would just be boring, Miller.”
“Do you usually call me Miller?”
“Sometimes,” he says.
“Millsy. Joshie. What’s the other thing you say?”
“DG.” He smirks. “For Do Gooder.”
“Oh, yes. Do Gooder.”
“Miller,” he says softly. “When did you stop being Josh and become Miller with your friends?”
“Maybe when I played peewee?”
“Your dad said you played.”
“Yup.”
“Not your favorite?” he asks.
“Had to stop.”
“Because of…” Ezra waves his hand.
“Yes.” Because of epilepsy. “Soccer is almost as bad, but I was playing quarterback in peewee, so that was worse.”
“Yeah?” His face lights up. “You like to throw?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“We should do it sometime,” he says.
“Burn my palm up.” I shake my head.
“I can throw it easy for you.” He grins.
“Gee thanks.”
He smirks, but this time I can tell he’s teasing.
We walk through the cemetery’s grand, wrought-iron gate.
“Moss,” he says.
“Yeah…” I wave at the trees ahead. “These big, old oaks have lots of moss, especially when they’re near the water.”
“Is the water that way?” He points toward the back of the cemetery.
“Yep. We’re gonna veer left here, though,” I tell him, following a pebbled road that curves out toward the left. Trees hang over it. On its right, there’s a slanted field, and on the left, a bunch of very old graves.
“What’s the sign?” he asks as we approach a historical marker on our right.
“It’s about this being an unmarked grave.” Something dawns on me. “Are cemeteries…you know. Like for you—given your—”
“Are you asking if cemeteries make me want to tuck myself into a coffin?” He’s smirking.
“Sorry if that’s rude or something. Just wondering.”
“Thank you,” he says, sounding husky. I notice he never answers.
We’ve reached the historical marker, and he steps closer to it. I watch his profile as he reads—the way his lips tighten and his brow furrows at what the sign says.
“That’s some shit,” he murmurs, and then walks on, following the pebble road.
“Yeah. It’s all some shit. People can be terrible. And history is super shit. Especially in these parts.”
His mouth twitches and his eyes hold mine for just a second too long. But he doesn’t remark.
“See back there, at what looks like the end of our little road here, where the trees get really thick?” I point.
