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When we get home, I go to my room and don’t come out except to get in Jenna’s car to go to Sonic.
Thursday is the last morning Ezra and I are alone before my mom and Carl get home. I walk into the kitchen to find Burger King croissants set on the island. Bacon, egg, and cheese. I frown at Ezra, sitting at the table just like yesterday.
“How did you know I like this?” I ask, waving at the croissants.
“ESP,” he says, not looking up from his book.
I unwrap one and take a big bite. So damn good and greasy.
“Whatcha reading?” I ask after I swallow.
“Lord of the Rings.”
“What about The Fountainhead?”
“Trash,” he says.
“Harsh critic.”
“Harsh book.”
Damn, I kind of want to read it now to see what he hates so much.
“You didn’t answer me,” I point out, “about the croissant.”
“Lucky guess,” he says.
There’s an apple on the table by him.
“Wait, are you eating an apple? Or a croissant?”
“Maybe both,” he says, not looking up. His tone is hard, sarcastic.
He’s got on a white T-shirt and navy basketball shorts and some white sneaks. His hair looks damp. I know he’s showered because the tub was wet when I got in it.
I can’t help sneaking a look at his muscular legs under the table.
“Thanks for getting these,” I tell him.
“Sure.”
Thursday is just like the two days before. Bass-heavy music on the ride to school. He gets out first and hurries off to...wherever. I guess Coach Nix's office. He's missing again at lunch. I bite the bullet and ask Brennan, who tells me Ezra’s been leaving school for lunch.
"Gettin' them blue Icees," Bren drawls with a grin.
I feel weird as I walk slowly toward physics. Like there's something small and heavy in the pit of my stomach. Logically, I know he’s put the brakes on things with me, but…I don’t know. I guess I still feel hope.
I find Ez sitting on his bar stool, looking tan as fuck and bulky in that snug white shirt. He's got Lord of the Rings in one hand. My stomach gets the heavy feeling again. Clearly, he just doesn't want to talk to me.
"Bookworm," I say as I sit down.
"Ever read this?" he asks.
"No. Should I?"
"Guess it depends."
He doesn't say more, and a second later, Bumble arrives early. He lectures for the duration of class, and I notice Ezra barely takes notes. Disinterest, or is it that he already knows how to do the work?
He's in my head all during band. I even fuck up my cadence on a song because I hear someone shout, "Masters!" from the football practice field.
I'm in a shit mood as I trudge to soccer. I'm not aware that football practice ended early until I notice lots of people on the sidelines of our field. And one of them is Ezra.
Motherfuck me.
He's wearing a gray sleeveless shirt and black shorts, plus the peach ball cap. He looks like someone oiled him up, his muscles gleaming in the sun. It's hella hot this afternoon.
I'm over-conscious of him watching us play when Brian Beeson passes me the ball and Freddy Haywood tries to kick it out from under me. I keep it away from Freddy, but then Eli Stephens comes in from the other side and tries to steer it back toward Brian. Freddy kicks as Eli kicks, which makes the ball fly up in my face.
Damn thing hits me right in the nose, and I can feel it's gonna bleed before the blood starts pouring.
Fucking perfect.
I hear Coach’s whistle peal. Freddy is all in my business, saying, "Fuck, dude!"
"It's fine." I ball my shirt up from the bottom, folding it over my face so Marcel, whose squeamish ass is right there on the sidelines, doesn't lose his shit from seeing the blood.
"Miller?" Coach's hand is on my shoulder. He's saying something I can't process because at that second, I hear Ezra shout, "What the fuck, Haywood!"
Freddy says something, and Coach says, "Pull the shirt down."
"It's fine," I tell him. "Just bloody."
"Go wash up," Coach says after a second.
I get a few back slaps as I walk off the field, and I hear Eli say, "I’m sorry, man."
"It's all good.”
I keep my face hidden behind the shirt—even though that means my subpar abs are on display. Whatever. Who cares if Ezra sees they're not as cut as his are? Dude clearly doesn't want me anymore. And that's good. Because he's my stepbrother.
Jeezus.
I'm reaching for the handle of the door that leads toward the locker rooms when a tanned arm swings into my field of vision...followed by Ezra right in front of me. "I got it," he says softly. He opens the door, holding it from behind so I can't see him as I step into the air-conditioned hall.
I don't want to turn around to see if he's following me. Football and soccer—really all the guys' sports—share a locker room. So, he could do it if he wanted to.
