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I can’t read his face as he pulls onto the busy road in front of the hospital. Is he going to offer me some kind of explanation? Seconds pass…and then a minute. I tear into the burger because I’m fucking starving.
“Thanks. For this,” I make myself say.
He makes a grunt-like noise, and then he reaches into a compartment and pulls out…earbuds? I watch as he puts them into his ears.
Okaaay.
I don’t know how much time passes while I wait for him to act normal. To ask me how it went or…fucking anything. He doesn’t speak to me at all as we drive out of Birmingham and toward Fairplay. I can’t even guess what’s his problem.
Did I say something weird when he came back to see me?
Then, as I’m crumpling up my burger’s wrapper, it hits me: too much. I bet coming back to the room to see me before the MRI was too damn much for Mr. Emotion-phobe here. I was high off my ass, wearing a purple hospital gown with kangaroos on it. When I saw him, I bet I did a goofy smile or some such dumb shit.
I take a few deep breaths and tell myself to try to chill out. Maybe he’ll be normal again in a minute. But if not, I’ll analyze this later. When my head is clearer.
Ezra hangs a left onto the road that’ll take us back to Fairplay, his triceps popping out as he turns the wheel.
So what he’s one of God’s most beautiful creations? If it turns out this doesn’t work between us, college will have a ton of hot guys, at least some of them out of the closet. I’m imaging what my ideal type would be—someone who doesn’t look like Ezra—when he pulls his earbuds out of his ears. His eyes swing to mine, and, in a scratchy voice, he asks me, “How’d it go?”
I open my mouth, but I can’t get words to come out. Now you wanna know? I hear it in my head, but I can’t bring myself to say it. To let him know I’m hurt he didn’t ask me sooner.
“Went fine. Just watch and wait or whatever.”
“What did the tests show?”
“Nothing.”
His brows scrunch. His pretty lips press flat and pensive. “Is that a good thing?”
“I guess. Better than showing something bad.”
“Do they think it’s going to happen again?”
I shrug. As long as you don’t push me off a bridge again. “Might be a fluke thing. Never happen again.”
“Did they think it was a fluke?” he presses.
“I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. “She just said check back in later.”
“When?”
I can’t help a laugh at his aggressive—if belated—questions. “Six months.”
He nods slowly.
“If you’re worried about driving me, don’t be. I like cycling sometimes, and I’ve got a bike I can take to school. Or I can walk. It’s…what? I bet it’s less than two miles.”
“A bike?” His face twists, and his jaw drops open. “Are you serious?”
“I know it’s less cool than your Jeep, but—”
“Mills, you’d face-plant.”
“No I wouldn’t.” I laugh again, because he’s being insane. “I’m good on a bike, dude.”
“I’m saying if you had a seizure.”
“If I have a seizure, there’s a lot of places that’ll hurt to fall on. That’s just life.”
His eyes widen. “What about soccer?”
I let out a sigh. “Soccer is fine. When you’re our age, no one’s gonna tell you that you’ve got to quit what you do.”
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not quitting soccer.” I laugh.
“Should you, though? What if you fell down out there and—”
“Get trampled?” I shrug. “What if a meteor falls on our house?”
“The odds aren’t the same.”
“You don’t know what they are.”
I watch as he swallows, going quiet as his eyes fix on the road. He’s still and somber for a long time—maybe around fifteen minutes. As we turn onto Fairplay’s main drag, I stretch my legs, rubbing at my knee, which has a bruise. I don’t know where I got it.
“Maybe you could wear a helmet,” he says as we pass by the antique mall.
“Mmm, maybe.”
We drive by the Burger King, by Dollar General. He turns onto the road that will take us to our street.
“I think you should,” he says.
“Okay, Daddy.” I smirk, shaking my head. It still feels fuzzy as hell. When I get home, I’m gonna crash. Makes me feel fucking lame, but I’m so tired. And I would like to have a break from thinking.
We don’t speak again until he parks. Then I’m out, and to the house’s front door as fast as I can without being obvious—or falling on my face.
I unlock it, step into the foyer, and turn back to see him coming around the Jeep. “Thanks for taking me,” I tell him.
Then I haul ass to my room.
Fifteen
Ezra
Miller ghosts me when we get home.
I don’t blame him.
