"Who I bat for isn't your business,” I manage. “Unless you want it to be." I give him a fucked-up smirk of my own. "Is that it, Ezzie? Projecting what you want to be true?"

  He laughs. "In your dreams, Miller. If anybody's a stepbrother fucker, that'd be you. You're the one who comes from small-town Alabama."

  "Don't be a bully, angel. Doesn't suit your pretty face or your weirdo fuckboy name."

  Shit, that was mean. I almost recoil at my own words.

  "That's pretty rich for someone named Josh. Your name's a joke, like literally."

  Everybody calls me Miller. I stare at him, wondering if I'd get in trouble if I decked him on his first night in Fairplay.

  "You should fuck off. This is stupid."

  "You called me angel." He grins, folding his surprisingly muscular arms across his surprisingly bulky-looking chest. "What's that about?"

  "I already said this back at dinner. Your name sounds like an angel, like an asshole angel." And you look like one, too.

  He smiles, and my heart pounds harder.

  "Why are you here?” I ask him. “Hanging out with my friends, wearing someone's borrowed swim trunks..."

  "These are mine." He smiles smugly. "Your mom told me there's a pool here. Had them on under my pants."

  "Fuckin' genius," I drawl.

  "And your friends?” he says. “They're our friends now. We're brothers." He steps to me, putting a palm on my shoulder. "Wanna go home, bro? We could pop some popcorn. Watch a Disney movie? I got time for all the bonding with my new bro."

  "Fuck off." I walk to the living room end of the hall before my temper cools and I turn back toward him. "I'm going home now. You can follow me or don't."

  He chuckles as I move toward the front door.

  Still, I wait for him in my car for almost ten minutes. Feeling obligated. Trying to be nice.

  Nice guys finish last, I tell myself as I drive home without him.

  * * *

  It's two more hours before Ezra rolls back up the driveway. I know from Jenna that he left right after I did. So, I've had an hour and a half to wonder where the hell he went.

  When I came in alone, I had to tell my mom I've got a headache, which will sic her on me for the next few days. But what else could I have said?

  Your stepson's a total dick. He saw me almost get kissed, fucked it up, and now I want to smash his face in for giving me shit about being gay. Oh wait, but you don't know I am. Nobody knows anything about me here. And most of them never will.

  I watch through the front-facing window in my bedroom as he parks behind my car in the circle drive. This window has a nifty little window seat. I don't come over here often because it's blocked by my bench press, but I realize as I watch him step out of his Jeep that it's a nice view. I can see stars over the oak trees in the front yard.

  But stars aren't what draw my gaze. My eyes lock onto Ezra, who's headed toward the front steps with long, leisurely strides. He's wearing a pale shirt and walking not fast but not slow; that's all I can discern from up here.

  I hear the front door open, and I creep over to my bedroom door, listening to the rise and fall of voices from down below. My mom and Carl are both chatting with him. I hear Ezra laugh, and my dick twitches at the husky sound.

  Not that guy, buddy.

  As Ezra's voice raises and my mom laughs like he's a damn comedian, I think of Arnie. How that might have gone were it not for Ezra and his cock block. I could have actually gotten with someone. While I'm still here in Fairplay. That’s something that I never had on my bingo card.

  I’m pretty “in the closet,” and it’s not because I want to be. It’s because Fairplay’s such a small, conservative place. Coming out would be a big deal here, where lots of people still think gays are going to hell. I'll come out to Mom and Carl at some point, and when I get to college, getting D is high on my to-do list. But the idea I could have kissed a guy tonight—

  Suddenly, Ezra's feet are clomping up the stairs, and my face heats up at the thought of him knowing what’s on my mind. I think I hear him pause for just a second outside my door. Then he’s plodding toward his room.

  His room. That's his room now—right beside mine. Fuck, I share a bathroom with the fucker.

  I lie on my bed, my hands behind my head, and stare at the bathroom door. I think of playing some live dealer blackjack online to distract myself, but my head still hurts. I dare take a piss—after locking his door, of course—and brush my teeth, then hit the hay.

  I don't know how much time has passed when I open my eyes, woken by...I hear a sound and push myself up on my elbow. What is it? It sounds like stomping. Or walking. But it’s not coming from the hall; it’s coming from behind the wall my headboard's pressed against.

  So...outside.

  I get up, my heartbeat throbbing in my sore forehead, and walk to the widow seat. My eyes go to the moon, the haze of clouds in front of it. And then there's a cloud…closer. Right on the other side of the window.

  That fucker’s smoking on the roof.

  He's dappled by the moon's light. I can see his shape, though. He's sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on one arm, shirtless, tilting his head back to blow smoke up at the sky.

  I reach for the window, thinking I'll push it up and tell him to—I don’t know what. It doesn’t matter. Mom and Carl's room is right below mine. If I open the window, they might hear; I’m sure he’d find a way to blame me.

  Then Ezra shifts his weight, and I remember something awful: there's a weak spot in that roof. I tried to climb out on it once after we first moved here. Almost fell through it myself.

  I suck a long breath into my lungs…push the window up as carefully as I can. I lean out just a little, hoping I won’t spook him into falling off. Or maybe that I will.

  "Hey…"

  He turns toward me, grinning in what looks like surprise.

  "Look who it is—DG. In the middle of the fuckin' night, too." He takes a drag of his smoke, blows it out. "Wanna join me for some primo nicotino?"

  "What are you doing?" My voice sounds rough from just waking up.

  Ezra gives me a deadpan look. "What's it look like, Einstein?"

  "He wasn't the only genius, you know. At least be creative and try Aristotle or some shit."

  When I hear his smoky laugh, I know I've fucked up. "Okay, DG. You would like to be called Aristotle? That's a little weird, but if you really want me to…"

  "No, fuckwit. I want you to stop waking me up. Leave me alone."

  He grins—and it's the mean one I've seen before. "Poor Joshua. I can leave you alone," he says in a mimicking voice.

  He stubs his cigarette out on the roof's shingles and shoots me a look before rising almost to his feet and slowly walking toward his window.

  Six

  Josh

  The next morning, I hear a truck rev before I open my eyes. When I drag my ass downstairs, already bracing for an encounter with my step-dick, Mom tells me someone picked him up for practice.

  I frown at the oven clock. "Wow. It’s only eight."

  She laughs. "I know, right? Coach wants them playing till midday, and not again until five."

  Makes sense. It gets fucking hot here in the summer. People die and stuff from getting overheated.

  I can feel Mom watching me as I pour cereal and the lactose-free milk she buys for Carl.

  "Well, how was it?" she asks. "How was last night?"

  She sounds bubbly.

  "What did he say?" I ask as I walk over to the breakfast table.

  "He stopped to talk to us as he came in," she says, smiling as I pull out a chair for myself. "He said it went wonderfully. Everyone was nice and welcoming. He said he saw you there, that you offered to lead the way home but he had so much fun, he wanted to stay."

  I nod. "He was having fun."

  Mom ruffles my hair, and she steps over to the sink to water all the flowers in the window sill beside it as she asks about my plans for today.

  "I've got soccer from ten till noon,” I tell her. “Then an hour in the band room."

  "Oh, I forgot that starts today, too. Too bad you boys can't ride together."

  "Yeah," I say, in a tone I hope is neutral.

  "So what do you think? Do you like him?"

  I shovel more cereal into my mouth so I don’t have to look at her. I nod as I chew and swallow. "Yeah, for sure."

  "Yeah?" When I look back up, Mom’s eyes are narrowed.

  "He's cool. Don't know him that well yet, but he seems cool." I cross myself with a fingertip under the table.

  "Good.” She lets out a breath. “Carl is so worried."

  My heart skips a beat. "Why's he worried?"

  She makes a face like there’s a lot more to the story, but instead of telling me anything, she just says, “Oh, I think he’s just…hoping Ezra will do well here.”

  "You think? You don’t know why?” Now that she’s started, I want to hear everything there is. I’m tired of that fucker having a leg up. And anyway, it’s clear that something must have happened back in Richmond. “Must not have gone well back with his mom, because he had been going to a fancy private school, right? And he was the star quarterback, with college scouts and all that?”

  Mom gives a small nod, wiping at a spot where one of the succulents has overflowed its pot.

  “I guess something must have happened. Who moves for their senior year?” I say. “And why? Was it his mom’s divorce? I heard you and Carl talking about that…how she divorced or something.”

  "Well, that's not our business,” Mom says, giving me a tight smile. “We just want him to be happy." She smiles again, this time more genuinely. "Thank you for being so kind to him."

  I trudge back up the stairs, trying not to feel guilty for being...not that. Family problems or not, Ezra is definitely no angel. I’ve done nothing but try with him. Maybe the best thing I can do for now is just avoid the guy.

  * * *

  Ezra

  Never know what to make of guys like DG. Dude’s a goodie two shoes, as my mother’s second husband used to like to say. That guy was old as hell; I think the term “goodie two shoes” is from the fifties or the sixties. Maybe the bad kids only had one shoe? Who the fuck knows. But yeah, Miller seems, outwardly, like a good egg.

  He’s got a temper hidden just under his clean-cut surface, but it seems to mostly only flare up when he’s near me. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but already I feel like I understand who’s who and what’s what in Fairplay. So I know he’s part of the “in” crowd. For one, he’s lived here forever. In a place like this, that matters. Got that local street cred.

  People think he's a nice guy. Not just adults like Coach Nix, but the other students, too. When they hear that I’m his stepbrother, they nod like okay, well that's good. People talk about how he's great at soccer. And he's in the band. So all-a-fucking-merican, this guy.

  What no one talks about is if he's gay.

  Not that I care. It’s not relevant. In fact, none of this shit really matters. It’s all temporary. I’ll be here until I’m not, and while I am here, I’m not looking to make connections.

  One thing I hate about DG is he won't actually be an asshole to me. Not anymore. It’s all shuffling feet and averted gazes when I see him on the stairs or in the kitchen. The other night, our parents forced a movie night and we all watched this Japanese film called Spirited Away. It was all fantastical and shit. The premise of it...let's just say I wasn't a fan. I spent half the time watching DG as he watched it. Seeing him get all wide-eyed, like an animated film is some kind of real adventure. Then when shit went sideways, he'd look genuinely shocked—near devastated, as if he'd never seen a cartoon character suffer before. At one point, his mom laughed and asked if he was okay and he said, "Yeah." But he made a funny face, and she told me, "Josh is a little...sensitive."

  "I am not," he snapped.

  But I guess she's right. He's sensitive, but somehow volatile, too. His feelings are like strings. Just a little pull, and the whole damn marionette moves. It's strangely satisfying.

  That's why I'm out here on the roof at 1:30 in the morning. I plant myself right by his window, reach over to crack the thing open—looks like Aristotle doesn't keep it locked—and light a cigarette.

  Truth is, I don't even want it, but I don't want to sleep yet. I can push myself till around 2 and still get up at 7 ready to play. Any later, and I'm fucked, and I get hit too much, and Coach Nix gets impatient. The other day, after a night I hardly got a wink of sleep, he asked how much I want to start, as if his ass didn't promise to re-organize the team for me, to let me help with strategy and all that shit.

  I kept my head down, though, and took it. That's the way it's gotta be, at least in high school. Probably in college, too. Whatever the coaches say, you do it. They say jump, you ask how high.

  Does it matter that I hate that shit? That taking orders makes my skin crawl?

  I take a long drag on the cigarette and hope it doesn't get out that I'm smoking. High schools draw up all these little contracts, acting like it's punishable—by what, detention?—or like they'll really bench us if we violate the rules. Mine says I won't smoke or drink or use illegal drugs. Wouldn't want to hurt the coaches' trust in me or "disadvantage teammates."

  I blow some smoke into his window, draw my knees up while I wait for sleeping beau to appear.

  If I look down at the roof’s dark shingles, I can zone out for a little while. I've got all kinds of shit in my room. Took some of Dr. Katz’s cocktail before I came out here. That shit stops your dreaming—especially if you take all three of the meds—which is the only reason I haven't flushed them, along with the rest of my stockpile. That and the fish. I heard flushing that shit can send it to the ocean, where it poisons fish. Doesn't seem good.

  Just a few more drags and puffs, and I can hear his footsteps.

  I hear his "What the fuck" like it's a mile away, which is how I know the Lamictal is starting to hit. Haven't used it in a while, but tonight—

  "I know you heard me. What the fuck?" he says, now closer. "Are you blowing this shit into my room?"

  For some reason, it's super funny. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, which sort of blink and wink down at me. I inhale the smoke and let it do its thing. And then I lift my heavy head and blow it toward jackass here.

  "DG," I murmur, correcting myself. I turn my head to see him climbing out the window. "What the fuck yourself?" I ask.

  He's too close, too fast. He looks massive standing over me. His eyebrows draw together, and he sniffs the air. "Are you drunk, Masters?"

  "No." I blow more smoke toward him, and he coughs.

  "That shit is toxic, man,” he bitches. “You can feel the chemicals draining your life force."

  I get a good laugh from that. "Ahh, a pity."

  "Not a lover of life, Masters?"

  "Please don't call me that."

  I feel his eyes on me as I sit up and rest an arm on my raised knee. "Nothing special, DG. Just don't like it."

  "What do you like?"

  "I have a name," I point out.

  "Yeah, but I'm not calling you that. All the football guys say Masters," he starts.

  "Poor Mills. You wanna be a football guy?" I mock him.

  "I can't play." He says it simply.

  The words trickle through my extra slow brain. "Why?" I ask. But he's already speaking at the same time. "Ezra's just...it's unapproachable and...I don't know. Like, cold."

  This guy is all about the laughs. I end up grinning at him, sort of high and really digging how damn cute he is—the slightly curly, dark brown hair with his blue eyes. He's got little dimples, and those freckles I noticed the first day we met.

  "Unapproachable and cold," I say, giving a shake of my head.

  "I mean, it does suit you,” he says, “but Masters is better. Maybe I'll go with NF."

  "NF. What the shit does that mean?"

  "New fucker."

  I smile. "The new fucker. I'll take it."

  "It's down to that or Ezzie. Bet your mom calls you Ezzie."

  I inhale deeply, trying to keep my face neutral as I blow it quietly out. "Nah. She uses my middle name."

  "What is it?" He asks.

  "Who's asking?"

  Mills laughs. "I am."

  "I'm not telling you."

  "What's wrong with me?"

  My gaze moves to his face, where a soft smile tells me he's teasing. "What's not," I toss back.

  "Owww." He grabs his chest like I just stabbed him. "Ezra it is."

  I chuckle at that.

  “I’ve seen your school papers on the counter. So I know your mom calls you Christopher."

  "She does.”

  “Why that over your actual first name?”

  I shrug, which makes the roof tilt. "Who the fuck knows."

  "Sounds more like a kid name,” he says.

  I take a drag of the cigarette. "Maybe that’s why."

  "You get along?" DG asks.

  "Did someone tell you we don't?" My heart pounds a little offbeat.

  "No, I was just wondering. Since you moved and stuff."

  "Just normal shit." It's all I can come up with.

  "So that's a...sort of?" he asks.

  "You always so fucking nosey?"

  "Is this nosey?" Mills asks. He's got both of his knees pulled up like my right one is. He's looking off into the night, over the lawn that rolls out, dark, behind two big trees.

  "You look like a fucking sentry right now,” I say.

  "What?" He smiles, looking puzzled. Then he stretches his long legs out. "No I don't."

  I check out his sleep pants. "Fan of plaid, huh?"

  “My mom likes plaid. She thinks it's masculine or something. I remember she told me that one time. She got me all these plaid night pants from Old Navy or somewhere. Wait, you have some, too. Did you see them?"

  "Not a plaid guy,” I say.

  "Oh. Okay."

  I blow another puff of smoke out, this time away from Miller.

  "When did you start that?" he asks.

  My throat lumps up so I can't talk. I can't even swallow. Slowly, I blow my breath out. Drag another one into my lungs. "Recently," I manage.

 

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