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He gives me that look again—the sarcastic, poker-faced, bug-eyed one. “That would just be boring, Miller.”
“Do you usually call me Miller?”
“Sometimes,” he says.
“Millsy. Joshie. What’s the other thing you say?”
“DG.” He smirks. “For Do Gooder.”
“Oh, yes. Do Gooder.”
“Miller,” he says softly. “When did you stop being Josh and become Miller with your friends?”
“Maybe when I played peewee?”
“Your dad said you played.”
“Yup.”
“Not your favorite?” he asks.
“Had to stop.”
“Because of…” Ezra waves his hand.
“Yes.” Because of epilepsy. “Soccer is almost as bad, but I was playing quarterback in peewee, so that was worse.”
“Yeah?” His face lights up. “You like to throw?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“We should do it sometime,” he says.
“Burn my palm up.” I shake my head.
“I can throw it easy for you.” He grins.
“Gee thanks.”
He smirks, but this time I can tell he’s teasing.
We walk through the cemetery’s grand, wrought-iron gate.
“Moss,” he says.
“Yeah…” I wave at the trees ahead. “These big, old oaks have lots of moss, especially when they’re near the water.”
“Is the water that way?” He points toward the back of the cemetery.
“Yep. We’re gonna veer left here, though,” I tell him, following a pebbled road that curves out toward the left. Trees hang over it. On its right, there’s a slanted field, and on the left, a bunch of very old graves.
“What’s the sign?” he asks as we approach a historical marker on our right.
“It’s about this being an unmarked grave.” Something dawns on me. “Are cemeteries…you know. Like for you—given your—”
“Are you asking if cemeteries make me want to tuck myself into a coffin?” He’s smirking.
“Sorry if that’s rude or something. Just wondering.”
“Thank you,” he says, sounding husky. I notice he never answers.
We’ve reached the historical marker, and he steps closer to it. I watch his profile as he reads—the way his lips tighten and his brow furrows at what the sign says.
“That’s some shit,” he murmurs, and then walks on, following the pebble road.
“Yeah. It’s all some shit. People can be terrible. And history is super shit. Especially in these parts.”
His mouth twitches and his eyes hold mine for just a second too long. But he doesn’t remark.
“See back there, at what looks like the end of our little road here, where the trees get really thick?” I point.
He nods, stuffing his hands into the sweatshirt’s pocket.
“There’s a brick wall back there. If you climb up onto one of the crypts—see the really tall one, shaped like a big dick? You can climb from that to the top of the brick wall and look out at the water.” It’s a long way down, I realize suddenly. The view from up there would be so much like the one from the trestle bridge.
Fuck, did he really say he jumped to die? I didn’t let myself go there before right now, and now the thought makes my stomach drop.
His hand brushes mine. “Mills.” He smiles, looking tired and fucking gorgeous with his lake eyes and his lush lips. “It’s okay.”
“You asked me why,” I manage, “but I didn’t ask you. Why you—”
“Don’t.” He lifts his brows and stops walking for half a second.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, and we start walking again.
“I think I see it,” he says, pointing to the brick wall.
“Yeah, and see the dick crypt, right by the really mossy oak with those low branches? I know it’s fucked that we climb on it, but kids here have been doing it forever. When I was little, we were scared of who’s inside it, so we used to bring our favorite rocks or sticks to leave. You know, as an offering.”
We get to the crypt—it’s made of what looks like pearly cement, its crevices stained dark by time—and I climb up. As I’m reaching for the top of the brick wall so I can hoist myself up, Ezra’s hand comes to my ankle. “Hey, man. Are you sure about this?”
“This?” I tap the crypt.
“Sitting up there,” he says. He looks worried.
“It’s all good.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “Come back down.”
I do, and I watch as he climbs up ahead of me. He straddles the wall, which is about a foot wide, and then scoots back a little, giving me a crooked grin as he points at the space in front of him.
“We gonna ride this like a horse?”
“Yeah,” he says. “So you don’t fall off.”
I feel his hand at my back as I settle in front of him. The trees are so thick here, leaves are all around us, so it feels like we’re in a kaleidoscope.
“I forgot how overgrown this is,” I say. “Sorry it’s a little dense.”
“I like it.”
We can see the lake below, with its red mud cliffs.
“I used to think of jumping off when I was a kid.” As soon as I say it, I regret it. What a fucking moron, Miller. But there’s no awkward silence. He says, “Oh yeah?”
