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I take a long sip of the Icee, trying to avoid his eyes. Who is this guy and where is Ezra?
"If you don't, we can stay here." He sounds...like a bro. Which is how I know it’s gotta be an act.
"You don't need to take me,” I say. “Or stay." I look at him out of the corner of my eye, which makes my head hurt.
A strand of hair falls over his forehead as he looks down at my duvet. "Yeah, I know. But I want to." He sits up, crossing his legs, and I notice he's got on sleep pants and a plain white T-shirt. With his lean muscle and tanned skin and his marble sculpture features, he looks amazing, and I hate that I think that.
"You didn’t give me a seizure, you know. Even if you were a dickwad." I rub a hand through my hair and arch a brow at him. "Can't get in my head, angel face."
"I know." But I'm pretty sure he looks contrite.
I turn away from him—he's sitting slightly behind me on the bed—and rub my eyebrows. It feels tight behind there.
I drink more of the Icee. My tongue...I guess I bit the side of it. I inhale slowly, exhale even slower. Still feel that weird, sleeping pill feeling. I sort of remember it from when I was younger.
"I'm going to tell Marcel we're not going,” he says. “And don't worry...nobody knows why."
"How the hell did you get Marcel to bring you an Icee?" I look over my shoulder again.
He winks.
"I want to go,” I tell him, surprising myself.
"You do?"
"Yeah. I like Bren’s fried fish."
"Really?" he asks.
I lie back against the pillows, closing my eyes. "It's good, dude. You never had beer-battered catfish?" I crack open one eye just in time to see him make a face. "Virginia too good for fried fish?" I ask.
"Sounds greasy,” he says.
"Yeah, it is. It's greasy and good. The fish is soft and white on the inside. The batter they fry it in is good shit. Like...I don't know. Beer-spiked cornbread or something."
He gives me a what-the-fuck face. I feel sort of weird lying down while he sits by me, but I’m so tired I don’t care.
"Oh, c'mon,” I say. “You never had cornbread?"
"Nah, dude. Fried food..." He shakes his head.
"Cornbread isn't fried food. It's like a buttery cake without icing."
He wrinkles his nose.
"Tell me you like cake.” I give him the same look he's giving me.
He lifts a shoulder. "It's okay."
"Cake is okay?"
His eyes narrow. "Sometimes the icing is too much."
"Maybe you just haven't had good icing."
"I've had good icing."
I shift onto my side, so I don't have to strain my sore neck to see him. "How can you be so sure?"
"My mom is a food snob,” he says. “Her second husband was a chef in Newport News, for this fancy restaurant."
"And did this fancy restaurant serve cake?"
"Some."
"Let me guess. Cheesecake and some kind of triple layer chocolate death gig?"
He cracks a small smile, like a smirk with one side of his mouth. "Yeah, they had cheesecake and chocolate cake. He brought it home all the time and the cheesecake was okay, but the chocolate stuff was weird. Made you feel like you're going to choke on it."
"Oh, you're gonna choke on it."
He shakes his head and puts a hand over his face. "Trust me. It wasn't good. The cake." He looks almost embarrassed. It makes me grin.
"My grandma makes this killer yellow cake with chocolate icing,” I say. “If you don't like it, you're not even alive. I'll make it sometime soon."
Ezra looks skeptical.
"Yeah, I can make cake,” I say. “Can you?"
"No,” he says.
"Not into the culinary arts?"
"No." He looks annoyed.
"Was your stepdad an asshole?"
He gives me a bug-eyed look, like he's surprised I asked.
"I'll take that as a yes. Is your mom with him now?"
"No,” he says.
"Is she with another guy? Remarried?"
"Affirmative.” He rolls his eyes. “Anything else, Sherlock?"
So many things. I tell him, "No," and sit back up to drink more Icee. He sits beside and slightly behind me, still and quiet for a long moment.
"So you want to go?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'll go. If you don't want to, someone else can pick me up."
"No, it's okay. I want to."
Five
Josh
I call Mom and Carl from the swing under the back porch. I don’t want Ezra to hear me talking, even though I guess he might know everything there is to know about this topic by now. I can tell my mom is worried based on how her voice sounds—the same way it used to when she talked to our dying cat, Hermano.
“I feel fine now,” I assure her.
“That’s good,” she says. “I talked to the on-call last night. Dr. Kelley will make space for you on Monday morning. We won’t be back, but I thought Ezra could drive you.”
