Page 82 of Wrath

He nods slowly, and I wonder if I’ve put him on the spot by asking. I start to tell him, “It’s not—”that important.

But he interrupts me. “I’ll be right back.” He’s already turning away as he says it. I note the socked feet as he goes and wonder with a pounding heart if he’s getting his shoes.

Nine

Josh

Does he want to go with me? Does he feel like he has to?

This isn’t a date, you moron. He’s your stepbrother.

My body doesn’t get the message. Everything feels like it’s buzzing as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, making my neck ache by looking up to watch for him. What if he doesn’t come?

He appears then, wearing his purple and white Denver ball cap and a flat-lipped little smile, plus some white sneaks with his sweatshirt and a black pair of basketball shorts.

I can’t even look at him for a full second before I have to move my eyes away. I realize I’ve got gum in my hand.

“Want some?” I ask as he steps onto the first floor.

There’s a second where his body is so close to mine. He holds his hand out, palm up, and I rip the pack open. When my eyes find his, the left side of his mouth is twitched up a little—like a mini smirk.

“Did you want me to unwrap it?” I bug out my eyes likewtf, and he grins so big his cheeks round out.

As the grin fades, he shifts his weight and says, “Nahh. It’s all good.”

He makes quick work of the wrapper, pops the gum into his mouth, and heads out the front door. This time, instead of leaving me on the porch, he waits till I step out and shuts the door behind me.

Down the steps and in between our cars. He’s walking by me, we’re walking beside each other, and I’m reeling at the nearness of him. The sweatshirt, his thick throat, the cap on his head. Always those eyes. And that mouth. He walks steady but not fast, his arm swinging a little. He blows a bubble with his gum as I smash a piece into my mouth.

“So where’s the cemetery?” he asks as we near the driveway’s end.

“Left here, one block down, another left, and it’s right there on Broad Street.”

We walk in silence. He adjusts his hat a lot. We’re both blowing bubbles sometimes.

“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to.”

He smirks. “Don’t get awkward, Mills. I wanted to come. Nothing like a cemetery.”

“This one’s really old. There’s lots of young people and little kids that all died before modern medicine.”

His eyes widen in horror. “Even better,” he says, sarcastic. “Nothing like a good, solid tragedy.”

“Exactly.”

“Is it segregated by SEC and race?” At first I take that astheSEC—like the South Eastern Conference, in college football—but I realize he probably means socioeconomic class.

“You better believe it.”

“Awesome,” he says.

“Mmhmm. If you follow the dirt and rock path straight back to the spot we’re going to, it’s mostly just these tall evergreentype trees and wrought-iron fences. You can focus on those things and not on the tombstones if you want.”

He gives me that look again—the sarcastic, poker-faced, bug-eyed one. “Well that would just be boring, Miller.”

“Do you usually call me Miller?” I frown.

“Sometimes,” he says.

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