Page 67 of Wrath

"You don't need to take me,” I say. “Or stay." I look at him out of the corner of my eye, which makes my head hurt.

A strand of hair falls over his forehead as he looks down. "Yeah, I know. But I want to." He sits up, crossing his legs, and I notice he's got on sleep pants and a plain white T-shirt. With his lean muscle and tanned skin and his marble sculpture features, he looks amazing, and I hate that I think that.

"You didn’t give me a seizure, you know. Even if you were adickwad." I rub a hand through my hair and arch a brow at him. "Can't get in my head, angel face."

"I know." But I'm pretty sure he looks contrite.

I turn away from him—he's sitting slightly behind me on the bed—and rub my eyebrows. It feels tight behind there.

I drink more of the Icee. My tongue...I guess I bit the side of it. I inhale slowly, exhale even slower. Still feel that weird, sleeping pill feeling. I sort of remember it from when I was younger.

"I'm going to tell Marcel we're not going,” he says. “And don't worry...nobody knows why."

"How the hell did you get Marcel to bring you an Icee?"I look over my shoulder again.

He winks.

"I want to go,” I tell him, surprising myself.

"You do?"

"Yeah. I like Bren’s fried fish."

"Really?" he asks.

I lie back against the pillows, closing my eyes. "It's good, dude. You never had beer-battered catfish?"I crack open one eye just in time to see him make a face."Virginia too good for fried fish?"I ask.

"Sounds greasy,” he says.

"Yeah, it is. It's greasy and good. The fish is soft and white on the inside. The batter they fry it in is good shit. Like...I don't know. Beer-spiked cornbread or something."

He gives me a what-the-fuck face.I feel sort of weird lying down while he sits by me, but I’m so tired I don’t care.

"Oh, c'mon,” I say. “You never hadcornbread?"

"Nah, dude. Fried food..." He shakes his head.

"Cornbread isn't fried food. It's like a buttery cake without icing."

He wrinkles his nose.

"Tell me you likecake.” I give him the same look he's giving me.

He lifts a shoulder. "It's okay."

"Cake is okay?"

His eyes narrow. "Sometimes the icing is too much."

"Maybe you just haven't had good icing."

"I've had good icing."

I shift onto my side, so I don't have to strain my sore neck to see him. "How can you be so sure?"

"My mom is a food snob,” he says. “Her second husband was a chef in Newport News, for this fancy restaurant."

"And did this fancy restaurant serve cake?"

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