Page 30 of Wrath

His lips stretch into a big, drunk grin. He holds a finger out, his right hand in a gun-like shape. “You’re a liar, DG.”

“Did he seem like an asshole?” I try.

“Maybe,” he says.

I scoff. “Why?” Actually, we shouldn’t go there. I wave at the bed. “Sit down. You’re gonna hold the towelin your lap and I’ll pour a capful of alcohol or maybe peroxide on that thing. I don’t know which one yet. Need to consult Dr. Google.”

“Just throw some alcohol on it. I know it’ll hurt. But then it’ll be over,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Then it’ll be over? I mean, at some point everything will be over. What matters is how much it hurts first.”

He leans back on his good arm, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Disagree.”

How does he disagree, I wonder as I set the first aid kit on the duvet beside him. Does he not mind pain? Or is he saying everything hurts, which is why his focus is on the fact that it will, at some point, all be over? Is the angry angel a nihilist?

I mock myself internally as I line up the rubbing alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and some gauze plus gauze tape. Angry angel. It’s a stupid nickname, but he’ll never know. Besides, he really does look like some kind of angel sent to level cities or some shit. Bonus points that the anacronym is “AA.”

I glance up, finding his eyes on me. He looks serious, those dark brows notched again. There’s a little wrinkle in his forehead.

“What’re you looking at?” I scoff.

“You.” Ezra’s eyes narrow like he’s thinking about something, but he offers nothing more.

I tell myself not to ask, “Whataboutme?” I would be walking right into his bullshit.

Instead I say, “Let’s do this fast. Before the bourbon wears off.”

He turns his hand palm up. As he does, I notice something on the back of it.

“Turn it back over.”

He hesitates a second but he does it, giving me a second look at—

“Chicken pox,” he says.

Right under his middle finger’s bottom knuckle, there’s a bunch of small, circular scars—the smallest ones no biggerthan a fine-print Sharpie’s tip, the biggest ones no larger than a pencil eraser. All the dots are right over one of his veins. His hands have a lot of veins, I notice. They’re all popped out right now, probably because he’s hot from being outside.

“That hand had a lot of them. I don’t know why,” he offers.

He shows me his other hand—his throwing hand. There’s some in the same spot on it.

“Weird.”

He shrugs. He holds his left hand up. “Do it.”

“You wanna lay down, so when it hurts like shit, you can roll around and moan and all that?” I’m just teasing.

He frowns down his nose at me. “I’m not gonna moan, Do Gooder. And it’slie.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. You a grammar geek?”

“No, but I doknowgrammar.”

I snort, but then I’m smirking at how grumpy he looks. He would be a grumpy drunk. “You learn that fancy stuff up at your fancy private school?”

His face hardens. “No.” He inhales deeply, exhales, and says, “Well.” There’s a note of impatience in his voice, and I feel bad for not getting to it sooner. He’s probably nervous.

“By the way, you really canliedown if you want.”

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