Page 182 of Wrath

My stomach lurches with a deja vu sensation. A second later, his hand touches my hair lightly. "Here ya go." He's holding out sunglasses.

"Are they yours?"

"It's not sunny." When I hesitate, he tries to put them on my face and fails, which makes him laugh—that soft, husky sound.

I put them on, still feeling sick. "You're really nice," I murmur.

"Just a normal guy."Another déjà vu moment.Fuck.

"In diamonds," I tease weakly.

"In gotdamn diamonds." He gives me a winky look that seems like it belongs on Instagram. Then we're moving toward the interstate. As soon as we get on I-85 south toward Auburn, he starts Cigarettes After Sex.

Cold sweat pops out on my forehead. Is the universe trying to tell me Ezra is replaceable, or more that I can never get away from him? He's in my algorithm.

"Could you change it?” I rasp. “My ex played this all the time."

"Ah," he says, changing the song with a press of a steering wheel button. "The ex."

"The ex,” I admit.

"Who was it?" he asks, as if he'll know Ezra. "Someone from your hometown?"

I give a snort. "My stepbrother."

"Scandal.” His lips make a perfect “o.” “What happened?"

"He left."

"How does he leave?" Dom asks. "He's your stepbrother."

"Went back to his mom's house. Didn't say bye. He isn't even talking to his dad since then."

"Damn. That's harsh, Josh Miller. You know it wasn't your fault. Unless it was." He sticks his tongue out. It’s a bright, pink tongue—just as perfect as the rest of his high-gloss self. "But it was probably homophobia or something personal with him. You know, like internalized homophobia."

I nod.

"Don't believe it?"he asks.

"No." I sigh.

"Aww. I'm sorry. It gets better, though. The older you get. Promise it does. Just try to get the fuck out of Alabama."

"How old are you?" I ask him.

"Twenty-five. Old man."

He plays Ariana Grande the rest of the way to Auburn, checking with me after a song or two to see if it's okay.

I can't read his mood as he drives. He seems chill, though. He's got bracelets on his right wrist—gold and diamonds. He's got little blond hairs on his muscular arm. At one point, he catches me staring.

"Sorry," I mumble, wanting to die, or at least puke.

He smiles down on me. "Made to appreciate, baby."

"Is that your way of saying you're fake? Or God loved you the best?" I try to give him a smile.

"Everything you see online is fake, Josh Miller."

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