Page 215 of Wrath

“He was gay, Miller, I’m pretty sure.” He’s rubbing my back.My cheek’s pressed against his chest, and although it makes me kind of nervous, I like it. I try to keep my voice steady and clear.

“I think he was an alum of the program, and that his parents started it.” I shut my eyes and fill my lungs and focus on the warm weight of his arms around me. “Anyway, I gained the weight back. Feeding tube out. All the IVs out, and Paul—he knew me by then. I had asked before if he’d been fucking Riley; I let him know that Riley mattered. So he brings her in, and he says we can both leave if I’ll fuck her, right? Both her and me.” Josh hugs me tighter, like he knows this part is one of the worst for me to think about.

“And you would think I might have done it, right? Someone was going to, after all. She wasn’t resisting. Even if she had…”

I draw my shoulders in, and Miller wraps himself more tightly around me.

“Anyway.” My voice is rough as fuck. “I didn’t do it. Paul sent everybody out. I was still weak, and…Paul Tasered me and turned me over.” My chest shakes on a silent sob. I manage to keep from getting worse, but now I’m shaking. Miller’s rubbing me down.

“I’ve got you, angel.” His cheek’s pressed against the top of my head. Fuck, it feels so good for him to hold me. Thinking that makes more tears come. How happy I feel, even telling him this.

“He pulled my pants down, and he tried to get his dick into me.” Miller holds me so tight. “I was fighting. We were on the floor, and I was losing my mind…and somehow I got his throat. And when I squeezed…”

“You’re okay, angel.” His hand cradles my head.

“Somehow,” I whisper. “He had a stroke.”

I wipe my face with a hand. “I thought I killed him. But I didn’t. Then I got strapped down to the bed, and the staff called my mom. And she took me back home from Alton.”

His hand, softer on my back now, stroking. I like it.

“When I got home to Richmond, I was fucked in the head. Somy mom sent me off to this psych place called Sheppard Pratt. She told me to pull it together, but don’t tell anyone. Or they’d find out…about what I did to Paul.”

I rub my face, take a few deep breaths. “I was there for a long time, at SP. Like around six months. And they diagnosed a million things wrong with me. Not PTSD. They had no idea. I wasn’t getting better, of course. Picked up smoking, though. And then they thought they would try ECT. You know…electroconvulsive therapy. So they did that. It was fine, and then I went to my mom’s. I told her I wanted to move down with Dad. But it wasn’t because I wanted to,” I rasp out. “I was going to hang myself. I had it all in my Jeep.”

“Angel…”

I lean back a little, so his grip loosens on me. His hand’s still on my shoulder, but he’s no longer holding me. I look down at the couch again, feeling worse now. My throat feels tight and sore, and I just want to scream at how unfair it all is. That I don’t remember.

“I don’t remember what happened after that point.” My voice sounds terse. “But since I wrote a love letter to you, and the letter said I’d link back up with you as soon as I did ECT again, I’m guessing we met and…things happened. According to what Mom said, Carl told her I was gay. The only way I know this is through a letter I wrote you and didn’t mail, but I think Carl was just telling her, thinking she didn’t know. And Mom lost her shit. She called me and threatened me. She said I better do something about it, go inpatient again, or she’d tell the cops I hurt Paul. And that I went crazy. Something she always believed, I think.” I blow a breath out, drag another one in. I rub my forehead. “Guess it’s easier to think that than to think that I was catatonic at her house because they really hurt me.”

Josh rubs my shoulder.

“So that’s what happened,” I rasp. “Last Thanksgiving, Mom said I had to come home, and go back to Sheppard Pratt. Domore ECT, and get back on my meds. And I thought if I told you…” I shake my head, wishing I remembered any of this. “From the letter, it looks like I thought that if I told you that, you’d take it hard. So I just ghosted, with a plan to get in touch in a few weeks. I did a few sessions okay. And every time, I wrote your name on my arm. ‘Miller.’ I knew forgetting was a possible side effect. But since it didn’t happen before, I guess I wasn’t worried.

“I don’t know. But I woke up one time with no memory of ever going to Fairplay. And I had your name on my arm.” I feel him inhale. I’m too chicken shit to look up at him. “Took me months to figure out I had a stepbro surnamed Miller. Got to Bama, started stalking you like crazy. I would feel this clawing, anxious thing when I would watch you.” I have to stop and swallow just remembering that feeling. “I think I missed you,” I rasp, “but I just didn’t know.”

I lift my head, and find tears running down his cheeks. He wipes at them, and I want to get up and run—just so I don’t have to be this person anymore.

“I don’t know how it was before,” I rasp, “but I’m fucked up. As you can see. I might not be who you were thinking. Or what you would want in college.” I swallow. “I can tell from your stuff that you’ve been having fun. And I can’t do that with the football…you know.”

A few tears fall, and I wipe at them. My throat is so tight. “I’m not flowers and sunshine and that shit. It seems like I didn’t tell you this story before. Anyway.” I wrap my arms around myself, feeling kind of dizzy. “I guess I just…thought I could go right back to you. After the ECT. I thought I could do it again. But it wiped me out from a few weeks before I left for Fairplay. I might get the memories back, or might not. I remember a few little things, but that’s it.”

Tears are dripping out of my eyes non-stop. I wipe them, breathing deep so I won’t break down. “I feel sorry that I put youthrough not knowing. That I figured it would all work out. And never mailed that letter.” I rub my eyes again and look at Miller through the blur of my tears. “I’m kind of sorry that you got involved with me.” My voice cracks. “Because on Snapchat, you seemed sad and all.” I start to lose my shit there—with Josh looking at me with his wet, hurt eyes. “I didn’t mean to mess you up, too.”

Josh

He keeps his emotions mostly under control as he tells me a story so horrific that it almost seems made up—I fuckingwantit to be fake—and then he starts to lose it when he says he’s sorry he hurt me. It’s quiet at first. He puts his face in his hands, and I scoot closer, desperate to hold him again.

When I touch his arm, he tenses and looks up and he says, “Sorry,” and I notice that his eyes are strange. They look dazed…like, unfocused.

I realize he’s breathing pretty fast. It reminds me of the thing he used to do after he first woke from a nightmare, where he’d kind of zone out.

“Hey, Ez.” I touch his shoulder lightly. “Let’s go to my room, okay? That hit pretty hard for me, and I just wanna hold you again. If it’s okay.”

He nods once, and I can tell that he’s not tracking. Fuck. I take his hand—his clammy, shaking hand—and lead him to my bed, and he just stands there, so I lie down and beckon him onto the mattress with me. He moves almost stiffly onto his back, but I can’t let that fly.

I whisper, “We like to lie on our sides, facing one another. Is that okay? Or do you want me behind you, big spoon?”

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