Page 75 of Wrath

"You want to meet me outside? You need to say bye to anybody? Arnie Warnie?"

He shoots me a fuck-off look. "I’m ready now."

As we say bye to everybody in the living area, I notice Arnie's eyes on DG, who's telling the others he isn't feeling well.

I step outside first, and I feel him behind me half a second later.

As we pass, Greene says, "You leaving me?"

DG gives him a smile. "Eat my piece for me."

"Can't believe y'all leaving! Yankee ain't had fried catfish."

"Next time," I promise with a soft laugh.

My throat tightens as we walk into the woods again. A cabin in the woods—I should have known I wouldn’t like it.

A sharp whistle turns my head, and I realize Brennan's jogging through the woods behind us. "You bros leaving?"

"Yeah. I've got a stomachache," DG says. "Maybe something I ate."

Brennan frowns. "What about you?" he asks me.

"One car."

He nods, probably assuming one of us is drinking.

Brennan slaps Miller’s left shoulder. I can tell it hurts because his face tightens.

“Bye, dude," Brennan tells him. “Bye, dude’s bro.” He slaps me on the back, too.

We start walking, silence between us. DG stumbles on a tree limb jutting up out of a pile of leaves. I grab his elbow, but he snatches it back.

"It was a lapse."I hear my own words in my head as I stride out in front of him and pull his car door open.

I don’t let myself watch him get in or shut the door for him. By the time I’ve cranked the car and had a chance to look discreetly at him, he’s slumped into my passenger’s seat. He’s even got his eyes shut. Fuck, I shouldn't have brought him out here.

"Lay your seat back,” I say. “I'll drive slow. Watch for deer and bears and shit."

“You should,” he says. He reclines his seat and shuts his eyes again.

“Here, I’ve got a jacket," I say, reaching for my black fleece in the backseat. "It’s clean.”

I watch as he rolls it up and leans his head against it.Then I back carefully out of my leafy parking spot and drive slowly toward the county road.

He’s quiet and still for a long time.

I saw an Eagles T-shirt in the hamper recently, so I fire up their iTunes "best of" playlist, hoping that might make him feelgood. I can't tell if it works, because the next time I look down at him, he's asleep.

When he twitches, it scares me so much, I put my palm near his lips to be sure he's breathing. My hand hovers over his forehead. I want to touch it. Give his hair a little stroke. To say I'm sorry this shit sucks.

The Do Gooder with his perfect Mayberry life and all his life-long friends, his fucking cello and his soccer cleats, his little preppy car. And he can't even drive now.

I wonder how that feels. To not know what's wrong in your brain. I wonder if his tongue still hurts, and if his shoulder's bruised. Or, even worse, the back of his head. I let my hand linger over his arm. I think of touching it...holding his hand.

I want to touch him—somewhere—so bad that I almost do. Never touching him again, never feeling his hands in my hair…it makes my throat close off like I can't breathe.

But I can.

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