He's also been the gas pumper, the run-into-the-gas-station-for-donuts-er, and the remind me to drink water-er since we left T-town.

  It's Friday—December 21st—and I think Miller wanted to come down to Fairplay yesterday. Instead, he let me talk him into sticking around Tuscaloosa to see The Rise of Skywalker—something we ostensibly can't do down in Fairplay since the damn place doesn't have a theater. We could have driven down after the movie, but I suggested we get Thai food at this place I heard was good. Then I talked him into shower blow jobs. Whoops.

  I fold his hand into mine, bringing our joined fingers up near my hip, so he doesn't have to stretch so far across the Jeep's console while trying to drive.

  "Ragged out roads," I remark. As soon as I say it, I feel like shit, because it seems rude.

  "Oh yeah, baby. Country roads. Got ragged out by them 18-wheelers. Whatcha think they hauling out of here?"

  I look at the tall, skinny pine trees on each side of the road. "Lumber?"

  "Damn straight."

  I smirk at his twang and grammar, and he gives me a grin. An awkward little grin. Like it's forced. Because he can feel my nervousness. Or...whatever this feeling I have is.

  "Guess you didn't know how Alabama country this boy really is, huh? Maybe I should play some Garth Brooks."

  "I don't think you can," I tell him. "His stuff's not on iTunes."

  "How do you know?" He narrows his brows at me.

  I give him a grin of my own now. "Insane asylum ftw, baby. Some girl there was damn obsessed with Garth Brooks. When she got some time on the computer, she would try to play him on iTunes, and when she couldn't, she would ask for YouTube. But you can't do YouTube in the mental hospital."

  Now I feel like shit for that bit, too. Mills is a good sport—so good it's pretty hard to notice how he really feels about things sometimes—but I think when I talk about Sheppard Pratt, he feels uncomfortable. Or sad. Even now, he looks pensive, squinting at the slightly hilly two-lane road ahead of us, and I bet he's trying to decide if he should correct me on the term "insane asylum."

  I figure he won't, and I'm right. He lets me have it.

  "I like Garth, but I'm okay with Ariana. Is that working for you?" he asks.

  "Yeah. It's working."

  We pass a mile marker: 17 more to Fairplay.

  I stare at the road in front of us. At its cracked and faded asphalt. Even the double yellow lines striped down the middle look so faded that they're springtime yellow and not deep gold like the usual. I look at the trees, at the deep green grass that fringes the road's shoulder.

  Forest. That's what it is. It's pine forest. It's dense, which makes it all the more jarring when you'll pass big swatches of chopped down forest. People cashing in on lumber, I guess. Wonder if that even pays well.

  Miller’s fingers squeeze mine, and I try to picture us in my Jeep. Me driving and him in the passenger's side. The feeling of his presence there beside me. The most recent vivid memory I had was of having my head in his lap at the old house with the mossy trees, followed by that weird thing I said about Aristotle. But since then, nothing.

  He would never say this, but I'm pretty sure he hoped that driving down here might jar something in my mind. I was telling him I'm not sure how much Carl would want to hear my tragic tale right before Christmas.

  "Especially coupled with the fact that I don't know him. At all, really."

  And Mills said, "Maybe you will, by then. You never know."

  So, in my mind, at least, that kinda tipped his hand. How nice would Christmas be if I remembered being in our parents' house together? We could sit up on the roof like Mills said we loved to do, or curl up in his bed and talk about...I don't know what the fuck. Our high school days of ball park blow jobs.

  "Whatcha thinking?" he murmurs.

  "Just listening," I say. It sounds slightly curt, so add a strike to the "fucked it up" column.

  "Mkay," he says softly. Soft and easy. Asking for nothing. That's Josh Miller. He's a good guy. Too good for me, with all my baggage. All my...issues?

  I saw Greeley again two days ago, and we did our first session of EDMR—trauma therapy. It felt weird. I hated it. I don't want to go back...but I will. For Miller. Because if I'm going to stay with him—and I am—forever—then I have to be sure I put myself back together right. The arms in arm holes and the feet on the right sides. I have to become a whole fucking person. Not just for him, either. Also for me. I guess.

  Do I deserve to be a whole person?

  I do.

  I know I do.

  Do I feel like I do? Not every day. But I know it with my brain.

  We pass under a bridge. A walking bridge?

  "What is that?" I ask.

  "I think it's just some walking bridge. Part of the state park that's here."

  I didn't know there was a state park. I don't say it. "That's cool," I say instead.

  Then, with no warning, all the pine trees disappear, and there's just...water. On both sides of the road. Water lapping between tall grass. Marshy water. There's a long-legged bird of some kind standing in it. It's a white bird.

  The road tilts up. We're driving onto a bridge. I can see the glass sheet of the lake on both sides. I look out my window, looking at the shoreline. Trees and cliffs. It's pretty. Picturesque. If I tried hard enough, I could remember this view. What am I doing wrong? Hardly anybody after they do ECT loses their memories forever. It's supposed to be more temporary.

  I swallow. Can't swallow. And my eyes are welling up and stinging. My fucking throat aches, too.

  I look out at the bridge. Slats in it. When our tires pass over them, they make a sound.

  Thunk thunk thunk.

  "I know it doesn't look like much,” Josh says, “but it's a tourist destination. At least for fisher people."

  "Fisher people," I rasp, trying to smirk.

  "Well, they're not just men," Mills says.

  "I know," I whisper. I'm trying to hide my freak out behind my shades, but I can't speak at normal volume. Anyway, it's just a matter of time. Before he says something. Because—be honest, Ezra—he already knows that something's wrong.

  I take a deep, slow breath. Then I shut my eyes, and I just fucking tell him. "I can't go."

  "What?" His hand tenses in mine, and I feel him loosen it—just as I feel him take a slow breath of his own. "What do you mean, Ez?"

  "I want to see you at Christmas. But I can't see Carl. I can't tell him that shit. Not right now. Not at the fucking holidays, dude. I know you think he'd wanna know, but no one wants to find out their son that they lost touch with got treated like a POW and almost raped. Scratch that, just almost raped by Paul; the other incidents, I think one would classify as mini rapes, if nothing else. And then, said son was such a wreck that the kid's mother sent him inpatient, and inpatient was so alarmed that they did ECT? You think my dad wants that shit at Christmas, Mills? He doesn't. They want to see you. The one they know. So they can sit around and eat the ham and watch TV and just be normal. No one wants this fucking...trauma."

  "I do," he says. His hand tightens in mine.

  "But you're different.”

  "Why? How am I different?"

  We're on a road, not a bridge, that cuts through the lake. I don't understand. I try to look at it, to think on the mechanics of it. Calm myself down.

  "I don't know," I choke. I swallow hard, and a tear drips. "Because you love me." It sounds like a question.

  "I do love you. But your dad does, too. And my mom—she loves you. She loved doing things for you. She thought you were sharp and funny. When you left, I think she took it hard. Because she loved you too, dude."

  "Yeah, but Josh, you just told me she took it hard. My dad, did he take it hard, too? Did he take well to the fact that I just left? I told him I wanted to be with my mom again. Did he blame you for it? What did he think of the whole fucking thing?"

  "I know what he would think about seeing you, his son, again at Christmas,” Josh says. “He would be elated. He would hug you. He would love you with zero conditions, because that's who your dad is."

  "Good. Then he can have a good Christmas. Maybe the day after Christmas. Something like that. If you really want me to see him, I will. Or Christmas Day. The evening. I don't want to fuck your Christmas up either."

  Josh’s hand squeezes mine, and then he brings our hands to his lap. "Angel, you could never, ever ruin my Christmas. Ever. As long as you're okay, and we're together. Even in the same town. If you want to go to a hotel, I'll take you to one. And I'll sneak away from Mom and Carl every second that I can to see you. Or I'll sneak you in my room at night, to avoid seeing them and talking to them. Anything you want. It's our first Christmas together. Fuck everybody else. I'm mostly pushing you—or trying not to push, but mostly wanting this shit—for you. Because I want you to have Carl. That's all. I'll stop talking about it now."

  I bring our hands up to my mouth and kiss his. "I love you, Mills."

  "Forever?" he whispers.

  "Yep. Like the little tat on my chest."

  "You're not gonna leave again. Right?"

  "Never." Part of me is sad he asked that question. But part of me loves it. I guess it's...something I can do. One of the only things, it feels like. "I'm not gonna leave you ever, Miller. Not for any fucking reason. My mom can fuck herself.” I’ll go to fucking jail for what I did to Paul before I’ll up and leave Mills again.

  We ride in silence past the city limit sign, past a gas station with a run-down Subway attached. Past some side streets and little intersections off this main road with street signs worn and crooked, all the trees covered with kudzu. This whole place looks like it's been neglected for a few years.

  "What do you think about Fairplay?" he asks as we roll over another lake bridge. "Dare I ask you?"

  The bridge ends and the asphalt is fresh. There are no lines on it. The road curves, and big trees tunnel over the road.

  "This part's cool."

  "We’re driving into the historic district," he says. "Mom and Carl live a few streets to our left."

  My throat cinches. "Don't go there now."

  "I won't, Ez. I've gotchu. I even checked hotels in case this happened."

  "Fuck, Mills. Did you really?"

  He smiles, looking slightly smug. "Of course. I know you pretty well. And you seemed clammed up."

  "Clammed up."

  "Pensive. Nervous. It's okay. You wanna go to a hotel for a bit? There's one right near the lake. Beside the causeway. There's a gas station across the street and the outdoor area for the farmer's market. Sorta run down little area around it, but it's not dangerous or anything. Just shabby."

  "I can roll with shabby."

  Miller gives me a smile, and with the smile he tells me it's okay.

  The hotel turns out to be more of a motel—an old Comfort Inn. We go inside, and it's not so bad. Smells like cinnamon and fabric softener.

  I lie on the bed and shut my eyes. "Why don't you go see them,” I say. "Tell them your new boy will be here in a few days. I'll try to work up more of my nerve."

  "No you won't, Ez. Don’t worry about that right now. Just get a nap or watch something on your computer. Hell, read a book." He opens his backpack and pulls out a slim paperback. "I got you this the other day. It looked like something you might like."

  My heart is pounding so hard as I read the title: Crush by Richard Siken. "This is on my list. How did you know?"

  "I didn't," he says, looking embarrassed. "It just made me think of you. Or us…or something."

  I rub my thumb over the book’s cover. I sit on the bed’s edge, spreading my knees so Mills stands in between them.

  “Love you,” he says, kissing my hair. “Read some poems and go to the gas station if you get bored. I’ll be back soon.”

  He goes a few minutes later, leaving me alone in the room. I do what he said, and read some poems and close my eyes, and I sleep. I've got the phone set so his texts wake me. One comes through, and I jolt up, my heart pounding.

  'Hey angel. I love you. Just chilling with them for a bit. I'll come back in maybe two hours, and then when they're going to bed, you can sneak in my window? Can u sleep in my room? That seem ok? If not, I'll stay with you. It's all good, Ez. Missing u. so glad ur here'

  I don't know what to say back. My chest feels tight and sore, but I’m not sure it’s a bad thing. Fucking feelings. I smirk, wondering what Greeley would say.

  I grab my wallet and the room key and head outside. The sky is winter white. The air is cool and damp, but not cold.

  I eye the gas station across the street. For some reason, this whole landscape—the kudzu and the beat up, pot-holed roads, the damp cold and the lake smell—makes me really want a fucking Icee.

  Two

  Ezra

  I get a blue one. Blue raspberry. If you look at Icees every time you stop to get gas, you realize the blue ones are a little bit rare. I’m not sure why. Everybody goes for cherry. Maybe that’s it. But I like the blue.

  I’m sucking it down so fast that I get brain freeze as I cross the little road that leads across the causeway into Georgia. It hurts my throat, but I can’t stop sucking it out of the straw. Across the parking lot and up the motel’s iron stairs…

  I fumble with the card key to the door. My hands are damp and cool. I’ve got the Icee tucked under my arm, the cold of it bleeding through my long-sleeved T-shirt. I push the door open. Step into the room. There’s a painting of the lake above the king-sized bed. I look at the bed—the neatly made bed. I sit on the bed and drink more of the Icee.

  Lyrics move through my brain. Sex After Cigarettes.

  Saw you on the side of the road

  I could see you were walking slow

  Drinking a slurpee

  I get this picture in my mind of the side of the road. The trees hanging over the road. There’s not that much shoulder, and it’s hot. The sun is warm and I feel good. I’m looking at my feet. I’m feeling uptight…wanting something. Good. I feel good, but I want something. I look up and—gut punch—there is Miller. Sunlight on his face. He looks shocked.

  Look at that Do Gooder. Shocked his socks off.

  I look down at his legs as he passes me by. God, he’s got some thicc legs.

  I’m going to see him in physics. I’m going to see him again as he runs around the soccer field. I’m going to be across the way, but he’ll still be mine. He’ll be mine because I want him, even though it’s sick and twisted and I shouldn’t.

  My heart starts to beat too fast. Too hard. I keep sucking on the Icee till my throat won’t swallow. Then I sit the thing down on the carpet and run into the bathroom, and throw it all up in a geyser of blue.

  I remember puking after getting knocked out, after taking a fistful of pills, after the heat exhaustion. I remember waking up to Miller saying my name.

  My chest—all the pain of not dying. I came here to die and Miller dragged me out of the lake. And so, I hated him.

  I grabbed his dick.

  I wanted him to die since he kept me from dying. I wanted to hurt him because every breath hurt so much, and I couldn’t take it.

  I had the pills and I could take them, I could die but I tried and I couldn’t.

  Miller.

  Miller.

  Miller.

  What will he do if I squeeze that big cock? Can I make him mad? What is his dad like? Maybe we can go there on the boat if I ask, and I’ll fuck with him. Fucked with me, though, and my finger and the pain and fear.

  I don’t want to go to the hospital.

  “I can get it out. Hold it sideways, Ezra. If you have to, hold onto your wrist to keep it still. And don’t look.”

  …

  “Is your dad an asshole?”

  “What? No.”

  “You’re a liar, DG.”

  “Did he seem like an asshole?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  …

  “If I pass out…don’t let them take me to…the hospital. Please.”

  Miller, holding into me.

  “Just don’t. Don’t leave me there.”

  “I gotchu, Ez.”

  I’m too hot. I took the Amitriptyline and it was so hot that day. He’s in the shower with me. Ride or die. I hope we ride and I don’t die.

  I can’t think anymore because I’m sobbing like a little fucking kid.

  * * *

  Josh

  I do a funky little knock on the door—letting Ezra know it's me. I guess he’s got his phone on silent or he's sleeping, because I've been trying to get him for the last half hour, and he hasn't texted back or answered.

  It's okay, I tell myself. Maybe he's just distracted with a movie on his laptop or the new poetry book I got him. I stick my card into the slot and push the motel room door open. The first thing I notice is him lying on the bed with his back to the door. Second thing: the lights are on.

  Then he makes a soft sound. I can see his body shake—because he's crying.

  Oh, fuck.

  "Angel?" He's on his side, uncovered and shirtless, hugging a white pillow. "Hey, angel, what happened?"

  Fuck, he's really sobbing. The sounds are soft and quiet, like he's been at it a while.

  I hop up on the bed and climb over him, then stretch out in front of him. "Angel?" I start to wrap my arm around him, already wanting to pull him against me. Before I can, he says, "I remembered."

  WHAT?

  His upper body shudders. “It just...came back. Like a light switch. I’m sorry,” he whimpers.

  I pull him against me. "Fuck, Ez. Don’t be sorry. Why are you sorry?"

  I hug him tight, and his arms latch onto me. I can feel him trying to regulate his breathing. I have the thought I wonder if this changes anything, and right on cue, he hugs me tighter.

  "Always taking care of me," he says in a hoarse, thick voice.

  "I got you, always."

  "I hurt you."

  "You were hurt, too."

 

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