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I breathe deeply. Turn the phone on. While it powers up, I shut my eyes and try to do what Greeley told me to do. Feel my feet on the floor. Feel my back against the car’s seat. Feel the seat under my aching, slightly shaky quads.
I am me, and I feel fucking terrified. And I'm right there.
It's this little meditative chant thing. Greeley says it helps anxiety.
My eyes are aching when I open them, already stinging with the threat of tears as I look at my phone's screen.
I have 117 notifications.
And Josh Miller is my background photo.
"Oh my God!”
Tears start down my face as I put in the new password the store set. That clears all the notifications off his picture.
In the shot, he's on a bed I don't remember. He’s smiling softly. Beautiful. Maybe half asleep. He doesn't have his fucking shirt on.
Oh, fuck. Fuuuuck.
A tear drops onto the screen—onto Josh Miller's face—and then my shaking fingers navigate to missed calls.
Millsy.
Oh God. He's listed in my contacts that way!
I move to voicemail…try to breathe. I shut my eyes for half a second.
I'm so scared. And I'm right here.
Tears keep coming. My throat fucking aches. There's a column of voice messages from Millsy. They’re from last November…and December.
Fuck, oh fuck… I should have done this sooner!
I turn up the volume, choose the oldest one I see, and feel the blood drain from my cheeks as the first note of his voice hits my ears.
“Ez? Hey. Call me. Don’t know where you went, and I’m worried.”
I don't move at all. Can’t even breathe as I click on the next one.
"Ezra? Love you. Where’d you go, man?”
Tears are dripping down my face as I select another. Now his voice is high and choked up. "Ezra? What’s the matter, man? I’m really worried. Please call. I don’t believe you would just go. Without some kind of…I don’t know." His voice cracks, and warmth flushes through my chest. "Did your mom find out?”
I can barely see for my tears, and I’m pretty sure I might throw up, but I have to keep listening.
“Ez? Are you okay? Can I come see you? Can you call me?”
I click on the next one.
"Ezra, please." My throat stings as I hear him trying not to cry. "Please call me, angel. I don’t know what I did wrong, but call me. Please.” It’s half sobbed. "I want to know you’re okay.” His voice thins and breaks. “I need to…”
I punch the next one with a shaking finger.
“Ezra. Hi. I’m sorry for calling you crying.” He sniffles, his voice thickening. “Can you call me? Please? I love you, angel. Hope you’re okay. Infinity…remember? I’ll be here till then, okay?”
I can’t listen for a minute. My hand clutches my chest as what’s under the ink feels like it’s breaking apart.
Through the blur of my tears, I select another “Millsy” voicemail.
"Hey. It's Mills. I haven't called you in a little while. Giving you space and...some shit. I hope you're okay." There's a pause. Tears are falling off my jaw even as I wipe them. "I love you, Ezzie. I'm not gonna stop. Take care of yourself, okay? Promise. Remember how valuable you are. How much I need you to stay safe. Take good care of you for me." His voice goes hoarse there. For a second, it's just silence. "I don’t think I’ll ever be the same without you," he whispers. "I love you for infinity," he chokes.
He's breathing hard, like he's trying to keep from losing it more. "I miss you in physics. Everybody misses you. I want to hold you. I hope you’re sleeping," he says, sounding muffled now. "I hope you don’t hate me. Bye, Ez," he whispers.
My throat gets hot the way it does when we run too hard at practice; I’m gonna throw up. But I play one more. One I wish I never had. It's drunk Miller—slurring.
"Hey Ezzie. I'm on the roof. Remember when you grabbed my dick up here? The stars..." I can't understand whatever he says next. He laughs, sounding raspy. "Mom and Carl aren't here. No one's here." His voice goes to a whisper. I don't understand the first few words. Can only pant as my heart tries to travel to him through the phone.
"Mom said you went into the hospital again," he whispers. "I don't like to think about you there without me. I don't like to think about you anywhere." He exhales slowly. "Was I just fuckin' wrong about it? Tell me something." There's a sound like his scruff scratching the phone. "Honestly, don't. Just take care of yourself. Later," he whispers.
I can't listen to more of these. I look, though, and I realize that there isn't one. It's like a kick to the chest.
I go to my texts. Millsy.
The last one is from August 30.
