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I want to touch him. I want to brush his hair off his forehead and fold my palm around his cheek, and after that, I want to lie beside him on the slanted roof and pull him up against me.
Why?
Because I just...feel like he needs it.
Why?
There's something about him. Something that seems almost fragile.
Or maybe you just want there to be.
Either way, I'm fucked in the head. I let myself be fucked for another half an hour before I shake his shoulder.
"Ezra?" I whisper. His name is foreign fruit—a taste I've never known but want to.
His eyes open, and he frowns as he squints up at the sky.
"Don't move," I whisper, finally allowing my fingers to touch down on his arm. "We're on the roof. I think you fell asleep."
He smiles like that's crazy. Then his eyes find my face and he pushes up on one elbow. He frowns, and everything about him ices over.
"We're still out here?" he asks gruffly.
"You fell asleep."
"Fuck." He doesn't even look my way as he gets on his hands and knees and then he rises, crouching like a werewolf on its hind legs.
When he reaches his window, he grips the sill and glances over at me. He gives me a slow blink, and then I swear, his mouth curves downward in a frown. He says “goodnight” like he’s distracted, in a monotone.
And then he’s gone.
Seven
Josh
I can't get to sleep until the sun is rising. I don't know why. I keep thinking of him on the other side of our shared bathroom. At one point, I even go into the bathroom, putting my ear up to his door to be sure it sounds like he's okay in his room.
I realized his fingers were probably twitching because he was falling asleep. That's a thing that happens. With that knowledge, I have no reason to believe anything’s going on with him. Or that I need to check up on him. There's no good reason he’s sitting at the forefront of my mind, like a worry stone you slip into your pocket and rub sometimes.
I don't even know him. What I do know is all bad news. And still, as soon as I wake up—the clock says 11:04 AM—I sit up in bed, gripped by this feeling that I might’ve missed something. I pull on a pale blue T-shirt and those plaid pants he remarked on, and then I go downstairs and plant myself at the kitchen table with a bowl of gluten-free, Cheerios-imposter cereal.
Mom and Carl are at church, so I'm alone when he comes down at 11:30, in gray basketball shorts and a white T-shirt with a pocket and some script across it. I watch as he steps into the pantry, then emerges and moves toward the garbage can. He stops as his eyes lock onto my face.
Hesitation. Just a second of it. Then he lifts his brows and walks into the dining room. A few minutes later, I hear the front door shut.
What the hell? He left his shades here on the counter. I’ve noticed he wears them every day. Maybe he’s not actually leaving, though.
Henpecker.
I set my bowl in the sink and walk through the dining room and into the family room, moving quietly in case he’s still around. A quick glance outside reveals his Jeep is gone.
So he did forget his shades. Did he hurry out of here to avoid me?
What does it matter?
I don't give a damn about the guy—at least not Ezra in particular. Having another guy my age in the house is throwing me off. That's all it is. Ezra wouldn’t be my type. Too lean. And…hard. I haven't really seen his ass, but I'm sure it's flat since he's so lanky. He's all angles, and if I catch myself perving on him again, looking at his elegant, long-fingered hands or at his fish-lipped, hard-jawed face, or at his fuckboy hair that's shorter on the sides and longer on the top, I'm gonna drive to Huntsville and scratch this itch. Or call Arnie. That’s the backup plan, I tell myself.
Ezra’s just a dick. A homophobic dick. I think of all the reasons as I shower, re-confirming what a massive dick he is. Maybe this whole thing where I can’t stop thinking about him is just bizarre self-flagellation.
It's okay to be gay, I tell myself as I towel my hair off. I smirk in the mirror.
It’s Sunday, and my dad invited me for post-church brunch. That's what his wife calls it, as if we're brunching with the queen or something.
I don't know what to wear for a brunch—they’ve invited me over before on Sunday, but it's been about a year—so I pick out some khaki shorts without cargo pockets and a Polo button-up that's blue and green and white plaid. When I check myself out in the mirror, I think I look preppy, with my long-ish dark brown hair flipped upward slightly in the front. It’s my ocean-wave bang. My cheeks are sunburned from band practice and a few friend-on-friend soccer games.
