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It was bullshit what I tried to sell him: that I left the hospital to get his food. I fucking fled the place, then I sat out in the parking lot because I couldn’t go back in.
Only assholes act like this to other people. Only fucking dickheads treat the person they like most in the world this way.
The best thing I could do for Josh Miller is stay on the outskirts of his life. Let him do his thing. Finish up the year and go to college. Let him meet a good guy who can be good back to him. Someone who doesn’t have to lie about his past for evermore because he’s got secrets no one can ever know.
I convince myself that it’s good I had the moment at the hospital. It reminded me of who I am.
When he gives me a small, polite smile a few hours after we get home from the hospital—we’re passing one another, coming and going from the kitchen—all it does is confirm what a good guy he is. He seems chill but sort of sad. Or maybe that’s just bullshit, and I want him to be sad that I’ve gone distant toward him.
I don’t go onto the roof once he’s in bed. Even though the only thing I want is to sit by his window and smoke until my chest aches less. I don’t even let myself sleep until nearly sunup because I know for sure I’ll wake up screaming. Before I even think about shutting my eyes, I lock my door. My dreams are just starting to go sideways as my phone alarm goes off for school. It works out perfect; I didn’t get enough shuteye to wake up screaming.
I make sure I’m downstairs waiting when he comes to get some breakfast. I give him a polite nod and try to act both chill and nice. Then I pull out my physics textbook and ass-plant on the couch till he comes through ready to leave.
I play “Hotel California” for him on the drive to school and say, “See you at lunch” as he gets out of the Jeep. Then I sit in it a few more minutes chewing Bubble Yum.
I don’t let myself think about the night before last in his bed.
It’s better to feel nothing for him. It was better when I was a fucking asshole.
Josh
Ezzie boy’s not sleeping. I’m pretty sure on Tuesday morning when I see his red eyes in the kitchen, but I’m positive on Wednesday when I go down to get breakfast. There are donuts on the kitchen island and the time stamped on the box’s top is 5:52, which means he got one of the first batches of the day. Ezra’s sitting at the table holding a book, looking more zonked than I’ve ever seen him, with one hand clutching the long flop of hair over his forehead as he peers down at the pages.
When he notices me, he looks up, lifting his brows. “Got some donuts.” His lips twitch like maybe he wants to smile, but tiredness drags at his face.
“Sweet. Thanks.”
The box reveals that only one donut is missing; I spot it in front of him on a plate. So, he hasn’t eaten it yet.
I watch as he ruffles his hair, blows a breath out. He seems weary…or maybe grumpy. I decide to try to sort out which one.
“Whatcha reading?”
“The Fountainhead for Ms. Karm. AP English,” he says.
Hearing the low rumble of his voice makes my throat seize up, but I somehow manage to speak normally. “You like it?”
“No,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“No.” He laughs, not looking back up. It’s a dry sound.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Eat your donut, Miller.”
I laugh. “What? You eat yours.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Why’d you get them if you didn’t want to eat a donut?”
“Well, we’re out of eggs and waffles. Your mom told me I should go to the store the other day, and I didn’t.”
“Neither did I.”
“You can’t drive,” he points out.
“I have legs.”
“The store’s a mile away.”
“And?”
Ezra rolls his eyes. “Eat your donut.”
I make a face at him. “You’re not my dad.”
He snorts. “Would your dad tell you to skip breakfast?”
“Why don’t you like it?” I’m talking about the book. Just being annoying, really.
“Why don’t you like donuts, Miller?”
I stuff the donut into my mouth. “You happy?” I ask through the mess of dough and sugar.
“Yep.” He smirks for a second, but he doesn’t look up.
In the car, he turns the radio up and all but ignores me.
“See ya lunch,” he mumbles as he gets out of the Jeep first. He leaves me to lock it. I notice he was in such a hurry, he couldn’t even say “at” lunch. As it happens, I don’t see him at lunch—for the second day in a row.
Bumble has hit his stride with lecturing, so in physics, Ezra and I barely speak; he arrives a half minute after the bell rings and Bumble is still going strong until the last millisecond of class. After school, Marcel walks to the parking lot with us, so he carries most of the conversation. In the Jeep, it’s radio again—this time some bumping rap.
