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At one point, near the end of class, when Bumble is lecturing about mass-energy equivalence, dickface leans his forehead into his palm and shuts his eyes. When he opens them, I tear a sheet of paper from my spiral notebook and scrawl: No practice.
He flips the thing over and writes, Thanks dad
His handwriting is messier than mine. It’s tall and lanky, sort of like him—or like he was before he started bulking up for football.
I write below that: Don’t be a dumbass.
He smirks as he writes back: Such violent language
No practice, I write again.
His eyes slide to mine and he sort of rolls them. He looks perfect enough to be an Instagram influencer as he catches his lip in his teeth. Or what, Do Gooder?
I write: Or I might tell them you’re concussed. I’m going to come out someday. Why not now?
His expression hardens. Maybe now is the best time.
I don’t know why I give a shit, I write back—about him.
He replies, Because you’re a do gooder.
He ignores me for the rest of the class—which is just fine, because I’m ignoring his dumb ass too. I try to block him from my mind as I move through my last two classes and then band practice. I don’t see him on the football practice field as I play soccer. Afterward, I find out he went straight home.
Fourteen
Josh
I bolt upright in my bed, blinking twice before I register—that’s screaming. It’s so loud and intense, I grab a baseball bat I keep beside my dresser before bolting toward Ezra’s bedroom.
By the time I get in there, he’s sobbing.
Oh, fuck!
There’s a second where my heart is throbbing and my feet are glued to the floor. Then he makes this choked sound, and I’m across the room and on his bed in milliseconds. His muffled noises hit me right in the chest. He’s got his face buried in a pillow.
“Hey Ezra? Wake up, man.” Another swell of sound comes from his throat. I shake him lightly. “Hey…it’s Miller.” His whole body jerks on what sounds like a fucking whimper. Shit. I wrap my arms around him from behind and try to flip him. I can tell it wakes him up because his body tenses. I ease him onto his side, and his eyelids lift a little.
“Hey…”
His face twists like he’s still asleep. I shake him again. Motherfucker groans and recoils from me.
“Hey Ezra?” I press my palm to his forehead, and his eyelids crack open.
“Miller?” he moans.
“Yeah.” I sort of cup his face. It’s warm and damp. His eyes are glazed. “Are you okay?”
He puts his hand over mine, pressing hard for just a second. I can feel his fingers shaking.
“Yeah.” He scoots himself away from me and then turns onto his side, so I can only see his back. “You can go now.” His voice is hoarse. It doesn’t sound like Ezra.
I swallow to loosen my own throat. “Is it your head?”
He inhales…blows it out. “It’s okay,” he says softly.
I can’t tell for sure, but I think maybe he’s still shaking. I reach my hand toward him, resting my palm on the bed, and…yeah. He must be fucked up from that dream cause bro is shaking hard enough to quake the fucking mattress.
Damn.
I sit fully up, hesitating for a second before I reach down and grab his duvet. I pull the thing over him—over his waist and shoulders and back, all the way up to his neck, the way my mom tucked me in when I was a kid.
“Don’t be a homophobe now, angel face,” I whisper—trying to pre-empt him, I guess.
There’s a moment of silence. Feels like a lifetime till he replies in a hoarse version of his normal voice. “You with the faggy nicknames.”
“You with the death wish.”
He doesn’t move for what feels like an eternity. I stretch out on my back beside him. He’s on his side, so I can’t see his face. There’s maybe a foot between us. I fold my arms behind my head and look down at myself. I’m wearing only boxer briefs tonight. Christmas ones with little Santas. Not even the right season…
I shut my eyes and breathe deep but quiet. “I don’t like you, okay? You’re not my type.” I scoot a little closer. Then a little closer still, so he can feel me nearly brushing up against him. Fuck. My heart is beating so hard. I inhale quietly and move over just another half inch so my shoulder is touching his back—an anchor. I can feel how fast he’s breathing, and it makes my chest ache like a rubber band someone is twisting.
“You go for the boys with G-strings and nice makeup?”
I smile, closing my eyes again. “I go for people who like me.”
He doesn’t reply, and my chest craters, like I can’t pull in air. I turn over on my side, too—facing away from him. Now we’re touching just above the hips. Just above my ass. I shift myself so that’s angled away from him. Just our upper backs are touching.
