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"Hey...you okay?"
"Are you a dickface?" His voice is a rasp, which makes the tightness in my throat spread down to my chest.
I notice he's holding a Solo cup in one hand. "Is it good to drink tonight?"
He takes a sip. "You should tell me. This is root beer."
I give him a smile. "I’m not drunk driving with such precious cargo."
"Fuck you, Ezra."
"Yeah, yeah. Wish you could." I step closer to him. "You’re tired. I’ve been watching you. You’re really obvious."
"Oh yeah. How is that?" He shuts his eyes and leans the back of his head against the spine of the couch. I feel bad about my lie, and the reality behind it. I wasn't watching him to see if he was okay. I was watching him with Arnie like a jealous boyfriend.
"It's just obvious to me," I tell him quietly. "You were playing pool, but you were sitting down a lot of the time otherwise. Your face is tired. When you smile, it looks tired. You need to go home."
He makes a snort sound, lifting his eyes open. "Is that right, Dad?"
"Daddy's here to take you home, kid."
His eyes hold mine. Even in the dark, I see them boring into me. "Maybe I’ve got someone else who’s gonna take me."
"Arnie?" I ask.
"Maybe."
My chest feels like someone's squeezing it. "Well, is he?"
"Might be."
"He’s a fucker if he hasn't followed you in here." Then a worse thought hits me. "Are you waiting for him?"
"No." He rubs his head. Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dark, I can confirm he looks exhausted.
I hold a hand out for him. “C’mon, Mills. Let’s go.”
"I don’t need your hand." He gets to his feet.
"You want to meet me outside? You need to say bye to anybody? Arnie Warnie?"
He shoots me a fuck-off look. "I’m ready now."
As we say bye to everybody in the living area, I notice Arnie's eyes on DG, who's telling the others he isn't feeling well.
I step outside first, and I feel him behind me half a second later.
As we pass Greene, he says, "You leaving me?"
DG gives him a smile. "Eat my piece for me."
"Can't believe y'all leaving! Yankee ain't had fried catfish."
"Next time," I promise with a soft laugh.
My throat tightens as we walk into the woods again. A cabin in the woods—I should have known I wouldn’t like it.
A sharp whistle turns my head, and I realize Brennan's jogging through the woods behind us. "You bros leaving?"
"Yeah. I've got a stomachache," DG says. "Maybe something I ate."
Brennan frowns. "What about you?" he asks me.
"One car."
He nods, probably assuming one of us is drinking.
Brennan slaps Miller’s left shoulder. I can tell it hurts because his face tightens.
“Bye, dude," Brennan tells him.
“Bye, dude’s bro.” He slaps me on the back, too.
We start walking, silence between us. DG stumbles on a tree limb jutting up out of a pile of leaves. I grab his elbow, but he snatches it back.
"It was a lapse." I hear my own words in my head as I stride out in front of him and pull his car door open.
I don’t let myself watch him get in or shut the door for him. By the time I’ve cranked the car and had a chance to look discreetly at him, he’s slumped into my passenger’s seat. He’s even got his eyes shut. I shouldn't have brought him out here.
"Lay your seat back,” I say. “I'll drive slow. Watch for deer and bears and shit."
“You should,” he says. He reclines his seat and shuts his eyes again.
“Here, I’ve got a jacket," I say, reaching for my black fleece in the backseat. "It’s clean.”
I watch as he rolls it up and leans his head against it. Then I back carefully out of my leafy parking spot and drive slowly toward the county road.
He’s quiet and still for a long time.
I saw an Eagles T-shirt in the hamper recently, so I fire up their iTunes "best of" playlist, hoping that might make him feel good. I can't tell if it works, because the next time I look down at him, he's asleep.
When he twitches, it scares me so much, I put my palm near his lips to be sure he's breathing. My hand hovers over his forehead. I want to touch it. Give his hair a little stroke. To say I'm sorry this shit sucks.
The Do Gooder with his perfect Mayberry life and all his life-long friends, his fucking cello and his soccer cleats, his little preppy car. And he can't even drive now.
I wonder how that feels. To not know what's wrong in your brain. I wonder if his tongue still hurts, and if his shoulder's bruised. Or, even worse, the back of his head. I let my hand linger over his arm. I think of touching it...holding his hand.
