Page 11 of Wrath

"So youcancrochet." 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."

He smiles, but this time it doesn't look as polite.

"What about your name?" my mom asks.

He looks at his dad. When Carl widens his eyes like he doesn’t have a clue, Ezra looks down at his plate. "One of the weirder Bible names,” he murmurs.

"I don't think it's weird," my mom says quickly.

"Sounds like an angel,” I say. “But the Old Testament kind, where you don’t know if they’re holy or a villain that’ll kill you with a death stare.” I pin Ezra with my own smirk as he chews.

"I think it's a beautiful name," my mom says.

For the next...what feels like two hours, I try to keep my head down and clean most of my plate.

"Look at you," my mother says at one point—and I can't tell from her tone if she means me or Ezra. I don't look up.

"You're as good an eater as Josh. Would you like seconds?" I glance up at Ezra's plate, and am surprised to find it empty.

"Josh can always go for seconds,” Mom says.

"Sometimes thirds," Carl teases.

"Goes back to middle school," I mutter.

So my mom tells that story. I was too skinny for the wrestling team, which all my friends were doing, so I had to bulk up.

"He was already eating plenty, but he was all elbows and knees then. So he started eating two or three plates each meal."

I look up to find Ezra's eyes on me. "Looks like he grew out of that."

What the fuck? Is he calling me fat?

"We can't all be built like coked-out rock stars."

Mom says my name as Carl says, "Well damn, son. Not you, Ez." Carl's hand comes behind my neck, squeezing. "Joshua," he says, sounding jovial even though I hear the edge in his drawl. "That's not very nice."

"I was just joking.”

"Joshua thinks I look like a rock star?"

I refuse to look at Ezra, but I can fucking hear the smirk in his voice. "More like a weird model."

"What's that mean?" Ezra’s voice is low and soft.

I run a hand into my hair as I feel my mother's eyes glued to me. "You know. Not like...all-American. Not like Northface," I say lamely. My eyes meet his. "More like Gucci, with the stark cheekbones."

"Well, shit. I guess I’d better get some seconds." Ezra piles a few rolls onto his plate, eyeing me in a way I think he intends to be comical as he chews them.

"Yeah, yeah."

His eyes are so unnerving. They're like laser beams.

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