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It doesn't matter what he thinks about you, I tell myself sternly.
"God hates fags, yeah?"
I stand up and pull on the cap again before heading downstairs. My legs feel too heavy as I move through the family room and then the dining room, where I’m unhappy to find the formal table empty. That means Mom's got everybody at the smaller breakfast table in the kitchen.
I push through the door into the kitchen, and yep. The round, oak breakfast table, situated by the hexagonal breakfast nook, is piled high with baskets and platters. Mom went all out for Ezra—even with the good cheese rolls she makes from scratch and spinach salad, Carl's sweet potato fries, and that really good asparagus they do in the skillet.
"Damn," I mutter, refusing to look at the man of the hour, who’s over near the table. My mom, standing at the stovetop, whirls around, arching her eyebrows.
"Dang," I correct with a quick grin. "Smells like heaven in here."
Mom fans her face. I notice she's still wearing her apron, and she looks tired but satisfied. Carl steps over to her, kissing her hair.
"Got some long necks from the cooler." He winks, and my mother laughs like she's in high school.
"None for you boys," she says, winking. "We’re fun here, but not that fun.”
Carl and her make heart eyes at each other, and I step over to the bar, where Mom's got cheese dip and tortilla chips. I have one, biding my time before I'll have to look at Ezra.
Then I just do it. As if my eyes and his are magnets. Being eye-locked with him sends a flare of pain through my head. My throat tightens and my heart feels like it's swelling. Like it's infected.
"Ezra," I say. I sound like one of those old guys at church who keep their faces weirdly neutral when they pass you in the halls and just say your name, like they’re endowing some kind of approval.
He lifts his brows. "Hi."
“Hi. Is that what you say in Virginia?"
I can tell I've caught him off guard. His face falters for a second, and he says, "Hey is for horses.”
"What’s the matter with horses," Carl teases, stepping over to the table.
Ezra squares his shoulders, which makes me realize he was slouching before. Also, I notice he's got on a gray T-shirt now. It looks almost threadbare, and on the front, it's got what I think is a faded Guinness beer logo.
Ezra’s lips twitch, and for a long, arrhythmic moment, his lake eyes hold onto my eyes like he's telling me a secret with his mind.
Carl chuckles, the sound awkward. Mom says, "Okay, well, this pan-seared amberjack looks ready. Let me serve you all some. Ezra, do you like fish? I also have chicken."
He takes everything my mother offers. I skip only the mashed potatoes.
"Josh doesn't care for potatoes," my mother says, sitting across from me and arching a brow.
"It's the texture," I hear myself say. I'm speaking to Ezra, I guess, but I'm looking down at my plate. I stuff a sweet potato fry into my mouth.
"So what...potato textured?" Ezra says. I can tell he's smirking. My cheeks warm as I chew.
"Sweet potatoes aren't the same."
"Well, of course," Carl says. He rolls his eyes. "Because they're orange."
I give him a death stare. I feel Ezra smirking from my left. He was right earlier; we are technically seated beside each other.
"What did you think about your room, Ezra?" my mother asks.
"I liked it. Thank you." He swallows some water, and I want to swallow, too—just from looking at his throat. There's something bitable about it. I guess because he’s so good-looking, in a weird way. Like one of those weird runway models wearing pinstriped pants, those too-thick glasses, and a feather boa—maybe more striking than handsome.
"Thank you for the pillow,” Ezra says to my mom. “I noticed the crocheting. Did you make it?"
My heart stops as Mom's eyes flicker to mine. "Actually, Josh did." She gives me her teasing grin. "I had started on it for you, but I got a little busy at work. Sometimes I have to go to the buyer's market in Atlanta for the shop. Anyway, I left it sitting, like a subpar stepmom." She smiles, and my gaze makes a covert boomerang to Ezra’s face; he’s smiling at my mom politely. "Josh picked it up and finished it. Even corrected a part I'd done a little bumpy."
"So you can crochet." He arches a brow at me.
"Told you." My face is burning as I shovel a bite of amberjack into my mouth and cut my eyes at Ezra.
"Joshua," he says, his eyes on my mom. "Is that a Biblical name?"
"Yes. It is. We're Christians...you know. It’s a Biblical name and, in fact, I’ve read that it’s important in Islamic culture, too."
