Wicked Boy (58) (Patreon)

(As per the update schedule:

Next chapter is on the 25th!)

—

There's a distinctive, reflective lull, like the air between Ezra and I has changed course, a cold front running beneath a heatwave.  The weather matches.  It's overly warm, humid even at night, and now there's the soft patter of a gentle shower.

The pavement stinks with dampening city dust.

"Lovely." I mutter, slinging on the raincoat I'd left folded at the top of my box. I watch the droplets mixing with gravel and gray grime, trying their damndest to saturate through the filth. "I guess Pennbrook needed a cleaning."

"Sure,"  Ezra hums, unneeded, with a precursory glance overhead.  His regard lifts up and over the city front parking lot, catching an ugly yellow taxi pulling into the apartment complex's drive before it then drifts down, over my neck, and away.  "It's been a dry-ass summer, huh?"

My negativity shies away for the oddest of moments as I nod, heat a staple in my cheeks, but my nose wrinkles once more with city smells and nature mixing in one conspicuously coppery perfume.

"Well, there should be plenty of rain in Huxley tonight,"  it's stilted.  I twist my watch face to check the time. Everything is suddenly off-center.  It's both of our faults.  We share the blame. Ezra's impulsive actions led to one thing, the reckless intentions I spoke of inside my vacant apartment room led to another, and there's no stepping back.

I don't know what we're aiming for.

Ezra and I know each other just well enough to stand here in our self-made discomfort, talking about the weather — avoiding how well and deep he notices every awkward and terrible angle that my shadow falls into.  But I don't understand the edges of his — I don't know enough to broach the subject of whatever this is between us a second time.

I tell myself that I've passed the discomfort of my feelings into his hands, and that's all I need to do.  Wait.  Wait and see if this is something he finds worth acting on.

Or if it's nothing, and he lets the messier, desiring tangle of me slip through his fingers.

I tell myself that.  But I feel uneasy with the stain of Ezra's lips on my neck, with a visible mark of darkened skin — a claim that Ezra isn't willing to stake in anything but appearance.

One that he won't stop looking at.

I cover the hickey with my palm as the taxi putters to a halt in front of us, leaning over my box of belongings like I can shield it from the rain.  Rain mixed with city. Rain mixed with dusty pavement, gravel, and the exhaust from an old burnt yellow cab.

This is my last night in Pennbrook.

It isn't very sentimental, in the end.

"Yeah?" Ezra interrupts my thoughts, his question moments too late — seconds too far gone for it to feel natural. He continues to hold my other box of belongings, likely to keep his hands steady with purpose, and I wish I had the stamina to do the same.  I curl my fists inside my raincoat pockets instead. "Thought ya' were just feelin' very couture in your lil' grey parka."

"It isn't a parka."  I bite back, dipping my chin inside of its buttoned collar, bunching it up — hiding his mark inside of it. "There's supposed to be a storm in Huxley tonight."  I grasp at straws, welcoming the normalcy of his teasing, and for once — Ezra is grasping just as desperately, right alongside me.  "...There's a high wind warning."

"Mm. Thank you, Mr. Forecaster. Will I be seein' ya' on channel two?" Ezra opens the door for me, his lips twisted with a grin — one that would've felt sharp, would've felt like a bite, only months ago.

"I'll wear the parka so you can spot me easily."

He snorts.

"Well." Ezra sighs. "Good a night as ever to trust a stranger behind the wheel."

"We could walk?" I snip, though his words have no real double-meaning — no edge that says he's looking down at me from someplace higher. "You came here knowing that I don't have a car."

I missed this for months. I missed speaking with someone whose sentences have no dual intention to scathe or to bruise.  I feel abruptly safe beside him.

"Yeah? I thought ya' just liked hailin' cabs to make yourself feel like one of us little folk."

"Little? Huxley's demographics say otherwise. I haven't personally seen anyone smaller than 170cm." I roll my eyes, reaching for the box at my feet, but Ezra shakes his head before he inclines it towards the seat behind the driver.  "Unless you're discreetly wearing substantial shoe lifts."

Ezra returns my eye roll.

"Glad you think I'm real big," He heaves my belongings into the open door.  "Get outta the rain. Tell the driver to take us to the diner; I left my car there. I'll get your box."

It's a stupid thing for him to say. He's the one who isn't dressed for the quickly turning weather. But my chest grows warm with the direction, and I follow it.

—

Ezra sits a seat apart from me, legs spread with exhaustion and jaw crooked with the way he moves it absentmindedly. My two boxes sit between us in the backseat of the taxi for the entirety of the drive.  I watch passing city-lights fade into the obscurity of trees and flatlands, absent of towering buildings and apartment complexes.

And then —

I continue to scroll through therapists and research their abbreviated titles, the silence grating.  I consider taking an offered assessment to keep myself from wondering where Ezra's thoughts have taken him. I try not to watch him from my peripherals, though they catch his nighttime silhouette until we pass the familiarity of Pennbrook's street lights.

"So. What about Pennbrook?"  Ezra's question comes out of the blue, quiet, and I press my thumb onto an unwelcome ad at the top of my screen — a video blasting to life at full volume.  I cringe, quickly exiting, and turn my phone face down on my thigh.

"...What?"

Did I miss something?

The start of a sentence?

Of a question?

There's no way. The drive has been so quiet that the driver has made nervous eye contact with me three times through the rear-view mirror, like I'm some posh, unfashionable hostage to a rebel in a branded jacket.

"Ya' read the forecast for Huxley?"  Ezra sighs, rustles around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of powder-blue gum. It isn't bent or creased, like maybe he makes his way through the container too quickly for wear and tear. He stretches. "What about Pennbrook? ...Gonna storm there?"

He then pops a stick into his mouth lazily, crumpling aluminum between his fingers.  He rolls them there, drops his head against the seat, languidly turning towards me. Our eyes catch. Mine avert to my phone, and I quickly key in the passcode, bringing my browser back up.

"Get a high wind warnin'?"

I frown, bothered by how difficult it is to pretend that I'm not bothered.

Assessment it is.

• What type of therapy are you looking for?

Individual.

I move on to the next, hesitating for the smallest of moments.

• What is your gender identity?

Male.

"I didn't read the forecast for Pennbrook," I say. I don't know why he's concerned about the weather for a place that neither of us will be tonight. I wonder if he has a friend — or a client he's worried about. Maybe they're older, like he said most were. Maybe they have poor vision and shouldn't be on the roads —

"... Was the client you went to see elderly?" Unfortunately, despite the oddity of it all, I do feel a bit bothered by the idea of someone old and lonely enough to purchase an escort's time driving around in a coming storm. "Are you worried about them?"

"What are ya' on about?"

I sigh,

"Are they elderly and on the road alone?"

• How old are you?

25.

"Elderly? Jesus fuckin' Christ." Ezra scoffs, his tone awed and affronted all at once. "I said they were older. Not fuckin' geriatric."

"How am I supposed to know what older implies? You're practically a baby.  Older could be anything."

"Fuck off?" Ezra laughs, low and humored, "I'm older than you."

There's another bout of quietness, though this time, it's much more comfortable.

• Do you have health insurance?

No.

"You worried about my client?" Ezra's voice is thoughtful. "Figured you wouldn't talk about my clients so affectionately... Not jealous?"

"Affectionate?" I raise a brow, continuing on to the next slew of questions. "Hardly. And it's work — I'm not the jealous sort. Unlike some."

"Mm. Got me."

• How do you identify?

Gay.

"Didn't ya' think you'd be there tonight?" Ezra's gum pops. I flinch at the suddenness, my shoulders gathering. He must still be watching me because he's chuckling. "In Pennbrook?"

"What?"

"Comin' to mine was sorta impromptu, wasn't it?"  He hums, a habit, "I mean you were gonna come eventually, but ya' didn't know you would be tonight."

• Would you like to be matched with a therapist specializing in LGBTQ+ issues?

No.

"I suppose so, but I wasn't leaving my apartment." My frown deepens, but the screen at my fingertips, and the newness of it all, keeps me just distracted enough to stay unbothered by wayward thoughts. "Or at least, like you said, I didn't think that I would be. Why would I check the weather?"

"Funny."

"What's funny?" I look up, briefly, too curious for my own good. Ezra lifts his brow with sly interest, his molars sliding over mint, and I can smell it from where I sit.

"Why'd ya' check Huxley if you weren't leavin' the house?"

"You said you have clients on Saturday nights."  My brows gathering, perplexed with the irritation that stems from dancing around confusion.  "I just assumed that you would eventually be on the road."

I trail off then, shyly, realization dawning slowly.  I turn, my eyes averting out the window, then back down to my phone.

• What's your relationship status?

Single.

"Don't you read the news?"  My tone turns snappish with embarrassment.  Ezra chuckles, my gaze slides to his grin — one that's wide and content. My hackles rise. "Shouldn't you know the weather if you're going to be parading all over the city and back?"

Ezra reaches over the boxes, ruffling my damp hair gently. I feel the warmth of his skin, the edge of his rings, and stare back into lidded, clever eyes with surprise.

"Aren't ya' just soft as can be?"

"No."

And then I glare, brief and unconvincing, before shaking my head. His leisure touch withdraws.

• Do you consider yourself to be religious or spiritual?

Neither.

• Have you ever been in therapy before?

No.

Focus.

My face is warm. My heart thumps. We're nothing — we aren't anything but friends.  That's how I should act.  That's how I should feel.

• What led you to this consideration of therapy? Check all that apply.

[] I feel anxious or overwhelmed.

[] I am feeling depressed.

[] I struggle with building or maintaining relationships, platonic and otherwise.

[] My mood is interfering with my school/job performance.

[] I am grieving.

[] I have experienced trauma.

[] I can't find purpose or meaning to life.

[] I want to gain self-confidence.

[] I need to talk through a specific challenge or life event.

[] Therapy was recommended to me through a friend, family, or doctor.

[] I'm just exploring my options.

And then, the butterflies escape me all at once.

"What a treat,"  I mutter, and through grit teeth, check nearly every option available.

--

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