Page 92 of Wrath

He laughs. “Yep. The worst best ever.”

I’m grinning as I walk around the car. “Probably not going to end up all kittens and glitter if the book is any indication.”

“Ohh yeah, there’s a book, isn’t there?” he asks.

“Margaret Atwood, baby.”

“Hell, I guess I need to read it.”

“You a reader?” I ask as I crank the Jeep.

“Yeah, but more like Michael Crichton…Stephen King.”

“I think you’d be a fan of Margaret,” I tell him as I pull out of the driveway and point us toward the causeway that leads across the lake to Georgia.

“I’ll have to try her.”

“Or watch the show.”

He looks down at the hole in his knee, tugs at a thread. “Does this mean you like sci-fi or horror movies or…”

“Anything with energy,” I hear myself say. “Fight Club,The Sopranos…shit like…I don’t know—No Country for Old Men.Interstellar. You ever see that bullshitMe Before You?”

He screws his face up, scrunching his brows as he triesto place it.

“Probably not,” I offer. “I didn’t get to pick it when I watched it. It was shit, though.”

“Why was it shit?”

I see him note that we’re headed toward the bridge that leads to the Georgia side of the lake; I looked up pizza places before leaving the house, and there’s one in Cillin, a little town that’s on the other side of the lake. It looks rural as hell, and it’s drive-through only, which is perfect.

“Well the main reason is that one character just fucking quit,” I tell Mills. “And for no good reason.” I feel my cheeks flush as I say it—recognizing my hypocrisy, but now it’s too late to shut my damn mouth. “Dude got injured, I don’t know, like in an accident of some kind. This is before he meets the girl he falls for. She’s hired to help him do things he needs to do. He’s paralyzed. And basically, he wants to die. He says his life doesn’t compare to his old one where he was—I don’t fucking know—a skier or some shit like that. He doesn’t want to live his life disabled, so he does assisted suicide. And the girl goes along!”

I’m relieved when he laughs. “Really? Is it likeRomeo and Juliet?”

“Not at all. It fuckingwishes.”

He throws his head back laughing. “Who knew Mr. Masters got so worked up over un-romantic movies?”

“That’s the problem, though. It’s posing as romantic, but it isn’t.”

Miller presses his lips flat in contemplation as I drive onto the causeway. “I guess you’re right. Love should conquer all…at least ideally. If it pitched itself as romantic, and I think I remember now, it did, then that’s kind of false advertising.”

“Exactly. Pitch it as a tragedy, fine. At least that way people know what miserable shit they’re getting into. This was a guy in a wheelchair with a family and shit—and lots of money, too—just choosing to give up.”

I see the moment that he wonders whether I’m a hypocrite.I’m feeling bold, so I just say it. “Yeah, I get it. Maybe I’m a hypocrite, but I don’t think so. This guy was fine except his body didn’t work the same way anymore.”

His face softens, going thoughtful, and I realize I’ve made a misstep.

“I’m fine, too, obviously.”

“Yeah?” His blue eyes slide to mine and I say, “Yeah. I’m telling you, he booked a damn appointment. Suicide with eyes wide open. And they let him do it, too.”

“You think they shouldn’t have?”

“Fuck yeah, I think they shouldn’t have let him. Family and friends. The fuck. What was wrong with the guy? So he was sick? Like he got hurt? Welcome to the world, mofo. It hurts a lot, and dying slowly seems to be our fucking job here.”

I fix my eyes on the road after that spills out. I should probably shut up for the rest of the night.

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