Wicked Boy (64) (Patreon)

"That's,"  my heart feels suffocatingly large, my skin incredibly sensitive, and I nearly choke on the word —

"... Romantic?"  Ez murmurs, frighteningly serious, and he feels closer than ever, the firm build of his chest at my shoulder blades.  I lay still, startled and stunned, back to him — resisting the sudden and ridiculous urge to feign sleep,

"If ya' don't like to be romanced,"  When Ezra speaks, his breath raises the hairs at my nape, and it doesn't seem to me to be without intention, "... How do ya' date?"

I consider any brief memory of an ex, simple or complex, if only to distract myself  from this reality — the one where I share my pillow with Ezra, seconds away from embracing the awkwardness of the subject of my past dalliances with men,

"... Have you dated?"  His hand trails down my side before withdrawing, snaring me back to the present.  I shift, and though it's minuscule at best, it puts me back into his arms.  I fidget.

"Yes,"  I say this quickly, breathlessly, and press my cheek into the pillow.  "Of course."

"What sort of person?"

"The same as anyone — all sorts."  I feel absurdly nervous.  The thump of my heart is turning my stomach.  "Nothing serious."

"... All sorts, huh?"  Ezra's voice grows sly, his curiosity smug.  I feel him prop himself up on an elbow behind me, yet again, and when I turn, interest damning, I find myself staring up into an expectant, sidelong glance.  "Barista said you had a type."

"Abram?"

"He said that type was me."

I scowl, apprehensive of the suggestion that I might be tailing after Ezra because he fits my type.  It's cold water, thrown over near hyperventilation.

"Abram takes great pleasure from harassing others."  I emphasize this with a deepening frown,  "... Unless you're secretly a claims specialist, there is nothing in my history with men to make him believe that."

"... So not 'all sorts,' then."  With false bemusement, Ezra's mouth twitches,  "How'd ya' met them?"

"Work.  Work events.  Dinners.  Brunches — for work, of course."  I shrug, fighting back a sigh at the monotony that comes from reliving my lackluster love life,  "... Thrilling to you, I'm sure."

Ezra laughs.

"Doesn't sound thrillin' to you either."

"Precisely."  I roll my eyes.  "That ends the mystery of my type.  Aren't you tired?"

Ezra mimics my shrug, coyness evident in his choice to ignore my question.

"A type has to do with attraction towards somethin' specific, don't it?"

I blink dumbly, unsure of what else to say.  Ezra's brows quirk in the slightest.  I fix my gaze on the dark corner of the opposing wall and squint, peeved.

"... You attracted to the 'business associate' sorta guy?"

"I wouldn't say that — that is even,"  I hesitate,  "No.  I mean.  Where else would I date?  Church?  It just worked out that way."

Ezra chuckles when my eyes dart back to him, incredulous.

"Defensive.  Why're ya' bein' so shy? "  It feels like teasing, but it's not.  It's not, because Ezra wants an answer, not a reaction.  I turn on my side, facing him, "I'm not accusin' you of anything.  Just curious."

"I didn't say,"  I purse my lips.  "It's not that I'm shy.  You're pestering me.  I can tell."

"Me? Pesterin' who?"

I don't think I can carry this conversation into something fruitful.  Not when I can't think of a single man but him.

"Yes.  Go to sleep.  I don't think I — "  I bite the inside of my cheek.  My eyes track up.  "What about you?  How do you date?"

Ezra hums in consideration, so quietly that it's nearly inaudible.

"Nice try, babe.  I haven't dated."  He slips back down against the pillowcase, our noses brushing.  He touches my side again, this time, beneath the blanket.  They rustle.

At this moment, it's deafening.

"You're lying.  And trying to keep me awake."

He snorts,

"I'm not."  His palm slides over the back of mine.  Up my arm.  "And it's my turn."

"It's not a trade."  I shudder as his hand skirts the edge of my shirt, palm on my back, sensitive and hindered by a desire that should've passed with the interruption of Daphne.  I don't think it will.  I don't think — it ever will.

"And since you aren't a business associate," I reach behind me, snagging his fingers, and he gives way as I press them to his chest.  "Hands to yourself.  Stay on your side."

Ezra's eyebrows lift, his surprise evident —

Before he laughs.

—

The Rest Stop's open sign is flipped come morning.  The wind greets us with a gentle reminder of its presence, the smell of breakfast foods, and late summer rain.  Ezra's keys jingle behind me as he locks up the bar, looking ferociously drowsy from a night where he didn't seem to still in his sleep at all.

Because, low and behold, Ezra Lykaios is a bed-hog. He didn't stay on his side.  Not at all.

I found myself the only weight in his way to stop him from his snoozing, hell-bent quest to conquer the entire mattress.  Serving as a wall between him and the floor didn't save me from the wrist he threw over my forehead or the absurdly muscular forearm over my collar.

I could've suffocated.

"Drown the kids and blow out patches with cow paste for booth three!

Flowers are sprouting from the top of a painted boot to the distant left of us, used as a door stopper, and the curtains are drawn back from the windows to reveal that it's a hectic day, with every table in sight filled with a couple or a small family.

"Booth what?"

"Three!"

The sign outside reads, with smudged, damp chalk:

Thursday's Thunder keep you from grocery shopping?

Don't worry.  We got breakfast.

Apparently, that's how you rope in Huxley residents, and judging by the number of trucks out front — power or no power, anyone looking for a pit stop in the storm must have pulled in late last night.

"Jericho, we're runnin' out of booths; see if you can't dry some tables for outside!  And bring these to room twelve!"

"Anyone wanna sit in their truck to eat?  We'll come to you!"

Unlike Pennbrook, it's a different sort of busy.

There aren't any stray cats in sight this morning.  The birds are chattering, singing in between the rustle of damp leaves, but the flowers are wilted, and accumulated mud and puddles litter the edges of the motel's pavement.

The trees look enormous, though.  Especially like this, in the light after rain, haloed and swaying.

"They must be old,"  I say.

I notice that I say a lot of things that I used to only think.

"...The birds?"  Ezra mumbles, too obviously caught off-guard.  From the looks of him, he's hardly present at most, and he shoves his keys into his pocket before he rubs at his eyes.  "How do ya' know if a bird is old?"

I muffle a laugh, inelegant and sudden, turning towards the road to try to stifle a smile that doesn't feel particularly friendly — since it's at his expense.  Ezra looks particularly startled by it as his hands fall away, or perhaps he's rightfully found something frightening about my pajamas and bed-made hairdo.

"...The trees."  I glance at the wide trunks across the street and back at Ezra.  His attention drifts, tired eyes trailing where mine have found rest.  My boxes don't feel as heavy as they did before, even though I can't carry them all, so Ezra heaves the one by the curb into the palms of his hands.

He shrugs, but his contemplation catches. I watch his brows gather, hunting the height of trees. We stand like that, with both our chins up towards the tops of them.  Then he looks at me, and I look back to him, eyes wide when he looks just as bewildered as I am,

"What the hell are we doin', gazin' at trees at six in the morning?  Are we senile or what?"

Everything is green in the sunlight.  His eyes reflect it all.  My stomach flips.

"... Because they're pretty."

"The trees are...." Ezra blinks,  "Aren't you fuckin' chipper at dawn?"  His voice is rough with waking, but there's no bite to his words.  I don't think he's much of a morning person.  But it's nice to see him, rumpled — different, under morning.

He looks oddly — charming.

"Don't know how old they are."  Ezra stretches, his back cracking in dismay.  He looks at me, throwing a thumb toward the chirping across the street.  "Would be interested in the age of those birds, though."

—

Huxley has its own radio station, with two hosts who sound well-past elderly, congratulating a twelve-year-old Rex Perkins on his recent science fair win.  They talk about a fender-bender near the intersection at Norwood, damage from the storm, and Lexi Nash's missing golden retriever (who is afraid of thunder.)

I glance towards the radio perched on Ezra's porch.  He claps his hands together before he turns back to me, freeing his hands of the mud and soap he's scrubbed off of his car.

"Don't look so worried,"  Ezra sighs as he twists the spicket, gathering his hose in firm loops,  "That dog of hers runs up under Taylor Evans' porch every thunderstorm."

I heft up his water bucket in an attempt to help, finding it ridiculously heavy for something so small.  Ezra only smiles,

"Pour that on the lawn, don't let it get to the storm drain."

"Shouldn't you call into the radio and let them know —" I huff as I try to turn the bucket onto the lawn, but it instead falls, the metal handle rattling as it slaps against plastic.  Suds fly up and over his neatly mowed grass,  "Jesus."

"Everybody knows.  Lexi just doesn't want to fish him out, so she calls the damn radio."  Ezra raises a brow in contemplation, unimpressed by the antics of a small-town neighbor.  He bends to snag the now empty pail from my feet, as well as his bottle of phosphate-free soap,  "a Good Samaritan always gets their knees dirty instead."

A second pot of coffee chimes from the open window of his kitchen.

"Well, shouldn't we..."

Ezra stops, looking over his shoulder to shake his head,

"I've been that Good fuckin' Samaritan six times in the last year.  So nope, we will not."

I follow Ezra, his extra boots too big on my feet, leaving me feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as they stick to wet earth.

It's quiet for a bit.  The radio plays an old song, one that resident Etta Mae hasn't heard since a festival in 67, but that the radio host was able to find on an old record that he had repaired a month ago.

"All the blooms are still there."

"Magnolia trees hold up in storms."   Ezra carefully ties his fallen bird feeders back up on the branches of trees around his drive and untangles them from where they've swept up on their side.

His empty to-go coffee from the diner sits on his porch-stairs, next to mine.

I follow after him, reaching down beside his rain boots that are thrown over his sweatpants in a very unfashionable mix — picking up a broken bird house. The wood is split, the right-half of its brightly painted roof lost.

The inside is decorated with tipsy turvy, unskilled lettering,

Eleni Lykaios
7 years old

I swallow every question about the colorful birdhouses that haunt his trees, and instead ask,

"... What if no one helps with that dog?"

Ezra looks back at me, reaching for the broken fixture in my hands.  He turns it over with a frown, eyes roaming over the lawn.  Distracted, he says,

"Then lazy lil' Lexi will have to crawl under there herself."

--

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