Page 12 of Wrath

My mom says, "I don't know what's gotten into Joshua." There's a stern note in her voice as she says my name. "You are very handsome. The perfect mix of Carl and your mother, who's a very pretty lady."

I shoot my mom a look, and she says solemnly, "She is. In fact, Carl, she was briefly a model. Isn't that right?"

"Sure is."

So now this shit is awkward, and it's my fault.

"Sorry," I offer to Ezra.

"Josh gets teased for being chubby even though he's not," Carl explains.

"It's the cheeks." Ezra's eyes move over my face, and my throat forgets to swallow.

"He's got little boy cheeks. But they're beautiful," my mother puts forth.

"God, can we stop?"

I feel Ezra's eyes on me as I take my plate to the sink and get a bottle of Powerade from the fridge. I twist the top off and nearly jump because he's somehow right beside me. "Mountain Berry Blast," he says in a low voice, like he's announcing it.

"Your drinks are in the door," Carl says.

Ezra steps around me, reaching into the door and coming outwith...Propel. Actually, it's called Propel Zero. "Grape," I mutter, and he arches a brow at me. I notice my mother is wrong: He doesn’t have blond hair. His hair is light brown—short on the sides and longer up top—and the top part has been dyed more blond.

He makes a bug-eyed face at me, and I realize I was staring.

"Does anyone have any plans for tonight?" my mom asks, setting her plate in the trough sink.

"We do," I'm glad to be able to tell her. "I’m going to Mason's in a few, and Ezra’s going with me."

"Be sure you drive or at least lead the way,” Mom tells me. “No offense," she says to Ezra. "It’s just that Mason lives way out there."

Ezra gets ensnared by more of my mom’s small talk, so I take the opportunity to go upstairs and look for my wallet, which I’ve noticed I don’t have. I find it fast, and then don’t want to go back downstairs. I look in the mirror, frowning at my face. It really is such a damn kid face. Baby face. I’m already able to get a light beard, so I’m thinking maybe when I can get it thicker, that’d be the way to go.

I give myself a flat-lipped look and make myself leave my room. Dude probably won't even want to ride with me. I get to the bottom of the stairs and there he is, like a homecoming date with a corsage.

I try not to look at him. My eyes might get stuck.

"You ready?" he asks.

I nod, and he opens the front door for me.

"I'm taking my car,” he says as we move onto the porch.

"Don't trust my driving?"

"Might not stay long."

"If you don't want to stay, I'll take you home." I tip my head back, and he arches a brow.

"Oh, I bet I know.” I laugh. “You want to smoke."

"Nah." He looks down at his feet. I notice his shoulders areshrugged up near his ears, his hands in his pockets. His forearms are thicker than I thought they would be, and they’re dusted with hair. I like forearms, so I force my eyes to move back up to his face.

"Think my music sucks?"

He gives a shake of his head. "I'll just follow you. Go slow."

He starts down the porch steps first, and I see a black Jeep parked in a weird spot, not quite on the driveway. I’m surprised I didn’t notice when I got home; must have been the throbbing headache. It throbs a little bit again now as I focus on the violent song of what sounds like it must be all the summer bugs in Alabama.

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