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"Could you change it?” I rasp. “My ex played this all the time."
"Ah," he says, changing the song with a press of a steering wheel button. "The ex."
"The ex,” I admit.
"Who was it?" he asks, as if he'll know Ezra. "Someone from your hometown?"
I give a snort. "My stepbrother."
"Scandal.” His lips make a perfect “o.” “What happened?"
"He left."
"How does he leave?" Dom asks. "He's your stepbrother."
"Went back to his mom's house. Didn't say bye. He isn't even talking to his dad since then."
"Damn. That's harsh, Josh Miller. You know it wasn't your fault. Unless it was." He sticks his tongue out. It’s a bright, pink tongue—just as perfect as the rest of his high-gloss self. "But it was probably homophobia or something personal with him. You know, like internalized homophobia."
I nod.
"Don't believe it?" he asks.
"No." I sigh.
"Aww. I'm sorry. It gets better, though. The older you get. Promise it does. Just try to get the fuck out of Alabama."
"How old are you?" I ask him.
"Twenty-five. Old man."
He plays Ariana Grande the rest of the way to Auburn, checking with me after a song or two to see if it's okay.
I can't read his mood as he drives. He seems chill, though. He's got bracelets on his right wrist—gold and diamonds. He's got little blond hairs on his muscular arm. At one point, he catches me staring.
"Sorry," I mumble, wanting to die, or at least puke.
He smiles down on me. "Made to appreciate, baby."
"Is that your way of saying you're fake? Or God loved you the best?" I try to give him a smile.
"Everything you see online is fake, Josh Miller."
"How do you know my name?"
He opens a compartment in the dashboard. "Left your wallet on a nightstand."
"Fuck."
"It's all good."
He drops me off in the parking lot of my apartment complex, looking like an angel who fell to earth with his glowy gold-blond hair and stunner face and what I'm pretty sure might be mascara. Masculine and...so pretty.
He looks down at me as I sit my seat up. "Give me your number,” he says.
I do, and take his shades off, and his hazel eyes hold mine for a long second. "Texted you. Save the number. If you ever need me."
He looks slightly wicked as he says it, like maybe what I need will be his dick. But his face softens as I look down at myself and ask would he like his clothes back.
"No, babe. Go upstairs and get a nap. It’s only lounge gear."
I nod, feeling my eyes tear a little, which is unfortunate since I don’t have any shades on right now. "Thank you," I manage.
Nobody's made me feel this good in...a while.
"Always." He winks. “Take care of yourself for me, okay?”
Can’t make any promises. So I just say, “I’ll try.”
Nine
Ezra
July 4, 2019
He's at the bar again. This time, in Auburn. Always at the bar and always with the drunk, glazed eyes, and always with his tired, halfhearted smirks, the little duck-faced, not-smile smiles.
It's the usual suspects, wearing dumb shit for the Fourth of July. There's the blond one he tags sometimes—DanielG6. I think that might be his boyfriend. Another guy—FinnyGuy12. And some girl named JennaWinnaBinenna. I like that one okay. I can tell she likes him, that she cares about him. It's in her face.
It's getting late—almost midnight—and I've got practice tomorrow. I went to the football cookout, but I only stayed for an hour and a half because there's no drinking before a practice.
Also because of this. My fucked-up obsession. Watching this guy that I don't even know as he lives his best semi-out gay life in fucking Auburn. My school's rival. This year, the infamous Auburn-Alabama game is happening down in Auburn, so I'll play on his home field. Assuming I get field time. But I already know I will. Bama lost their big star last year to the draft. There's a rising junior, Kip Hollis, who was second-string QB last year, but I'm better than Kip. I really like the guy; he joined the football yoga class, and I found out he’s pretty funny. But...his numbers aren't what mine are.
It's weird, but I think they’re gonna start me. Or maybe start Kip first, but they'll switch to me pretty fast.
Auburn's where my brain is almost all the time now, so I think about that game. Their stadium. I think about their campus, which I’ve looked up online. I can see its red brick crosswalks and the streetlights dappling the sidewalk gold at night, the red and black brick buildings, all the green lawns. I can feel the heat of the grass, heat that seeps up through the warm dirt, like it does on our lawns here.
Mills snaps chipmunks, their cheeks filled with nuts; cars some drunk ass parked all crazy; lots of bar stuff. I learned through his snaps that he doesn't have a car; he's walking everywhere. His calves are getting muscular from all the walking. He takes Pepcid, Advil, and drinks a Bloody Mary, of all fucking things, for his hangovers. There's a slanted lawn by his apartment building, and he lies there on a blanket sometimes just to get some sun. He's in a fucking frat, or will be later? I’m not sure the rules; I think rush hasn’t started. The frat where he’s been hanging out has a nice house with a kudzu-swathed lawn and a pond out front, and in the pond, there's a dock that just floats around. You have to row a boat out or swim to reach it.
