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When this shit started, I was seven, and I was med-free for the first three years. But I turned ten and started having more problems, so I was on meds in fourth and fifth grade. My eyes were blurry all the time, and sometimes I’d get dizzy or feel hot and sick. I kept complaining about my vision, so in sixth grade, over Christmas break, I did a trial off the meds, and that went fine. The more time passed without a seizure, the more they thought I had outgrown it. It’s been eight years.
I have a car. I don’t like fishing, but I love to be on the boat. I swim laps sometimes at the community center. In eighth and ninth grades, I was a lifeguard both of those summers. Bet I couldn’t do that now.
I’m in such a shitty headspace. I think of calling someone, but who? I don’t want to be with Brennan. I don’t want to be with anybody.
I feel a prickle of guilt over sending Ezra away, but why the fuck is that? I need to let go of him. Stop pretending that letting him give me hate blow jobs is a special thing. Or meaningful in any damn way.
He's just fucked up. Yeah, I guess he's clearly gay or bi, but so what? The dude’s probably not even capable of caring for others. Whatever is wrong with him, it's not my business. Someone must have hurt him. But I can't pry my way into his brain. He doesn't want me. Doesn't care.
I've been so stupid with him.
Maybe I could walk down to the cemetery. It's close, and at the back of it there's a big brick wall that you can sit on, lookout over the water.
That’s my plan. I need to get out. Get away from him.
I throw on some basketball shorts and an old Habitat for Humanity T-shirt with my black Adidas slides. I grab my Auburn cap at the last second, wanting another layer between myself and the world.
I'll get over this. It’s gonna be fine.
I'll get over it tonight before I get into the car with him tomorrow. I'm thinking about that when I open the door into the hall and see him lying on his back on the floor.
"Ezra?”
When he doesn’t move, my stomach drops so fucking hard. I crouch beside him.
“Hey…”
I see his chest rise, and my heart rate levels back out. Maybe he’s sleeping? Then I notice the Icee beside him. It’s a red one. I look around the hallway, trying to get some context, and when I see what’s behind me, my stomach twists again.
Cheetos and Bubble Yum and Fun Dip.
All the shit I like, except it wouldn’t be for me…would it?
I touch his shoulder. “Ezra?”
His eyes open, peeling wide for a long second. Then he’s sitting up and blinking.
“Did I wake you up?” he asks, hoarse. He angles his body toward me, looking sleepy-eyed and confused.
I can’t help a small smile. “Dude, it’s daytime.”
He blinks, looking around with his dark brows drawn together. “Oh.”
I laugh—despite all good sense. “Did you fall asleep here?”
He cuts his gaze toward the snacks on the floor, then boomerangs it back to the carpet under his hand, which he’s now leaning on. “I guess so. Yeah.”
He gets to his feet and holds onto the bannister, frowning again as he looks me over. There’s a beat where I can tell he wants to ask me where I’m going. Indecision on his face, and then he gives in: “You going out?”
“Just for a walk.” I shrug. “You know…”
“Cause you don’t wanna go with me?”
He looks pensive, even with those tired eyes. My heart pounds a little harder.
“You don’t want to go with me.” My voice is just a little higher than it should be, which makes my face burn.
He presses his lips together.
“Don’t pretend,” I say. “You don’t want to be my friend.”
He swallows, his eyes locked on mine. It takes everything I have not to stare at his lips as his tongue darts over them.
“You never have,” I allege. “All you want to do is fuck with me.” I shrug as my chest and throat and cheeks burn. “It’s all good. Just stay away.”
I’m so red that now my eyes are stinging, like the heat is rising up into them. I move down the stairs as fast as I can, going not out the front door, as logic would dictate, but back into the kitchen.
When I’m there, I realize I feel dizzy and get a glass of water. I’m gulping it down, telling myself not to be embarrassed that I’m weird around someone who’s done all this shit with me—to me—when the dining room door swings open and there he is again.
I haven’t looked at him closely today, but he’s got on a white hoodie, gray sweatpants, and some white socks. He has his hands in the hoodie’s front pocket. He pulls one out, holding a bag of Cheetos.
