Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

Was he in a regular hospital, or a psychiatric one? Were those all mental health meds? I wish I had photographed them. My stomach feels all tight and heavy, like I swallowed a small, lead weight.

“You’re not eating much,” Mom remarks. She reaches out and touches my forehead. “No fever at least.”

“We had a hot practice,” I offer.

“Maybe that’s what happened to Ezra. The bank clock said it hit 102 today. Do you think he got too hot?”

I shrug. “Maybe. He seemed okay when I saw him.”

God, I’m such a liar.

I hustle back upstairs and find him curled on his side, all the ice packs off him, his nape warm, his mouth moving on silent words. And then he’s moaning. Recoiling from something, and I’m on the bed, he’s in my arms. My lips are on his forehead, and his tired eyes come open.

“Miller?” he rasps.

“Hey there, angel.”

I’m holding him pretty tight. He feels limp and heavy up against me.

“How’s it going?” I kiss his forehead.

“You shouldn’t kiss me,” he groans.

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

“Because why, angel?”

“I can’t even sleep. Or eat.” I pull him closer. “I’m fucked, Miller. Really fucked up.” I feel goosebumps on his arms, and then his body does this little shudder. “Sorry. I’m not cold.” Ezra’s voice sounds so weak. “I feel better.” His eyelids lift slightly open. “Can we go to your room?” He shuts his eyes, frowning like he dreads my answer.

“Yeah, of course. Let me grab the stuff we have in here and move it. Then I’ll come back and help you up.”

He nods once, and I hurry into my room with an armful of ice packs, the thermometer, and his heart-straw drink. I scoop up a pair of sweaty underwear that I left on the floor by my bed and chuck them at the hamper as I head back toward his room.

When I open the door, I’m surprised to find him standing right there, giving me this strained smile, wincing like the bathroom light hurts his head.

“Hey there, angel.”

“Mills.” He smirks. It’s so soft this time—maybe embarrassed. “Sure you don’t mind?” he says in his quiet Ezra voice.

“If you come to my room?” I wrap an arm around his lower back. “Nah, I want you to. Come on into Millerville.”

He looks like he feels like hell, even though he tries to smile again. When we get into my room, I pull the covers down and he lies on his back. I hesitate before pulling the blankets over him.

“Lemme zap you again.”

He shuts his eyes, and I’m relieved to find his forehead is only 98.7 now.

“That’s good.” I stroke my palm over his head, and he covers my hand with his.

“Thanks, Mills.”

“I’ve got you.”

“Should I go talk to my dad first?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s worrying that if he falls asleep in here, Carl might come and knock on his door.

“What about I deliver a message for you this once? Say that you told me you’re going to sleep. That I think you’re just tired.”

“Okay.” He looks younger with his hair brushed off his forehead. I kiss him again there, tuck him in and give him a small smirk.

He smirks back.

“Rest here, Prince Peach. I’ll BRB.”

I’m smiling to myself at the silly nickname as I walk down the stairs, thinking of Ezra with his peach ball cap and that small, sunlit smile the day I passed him on the road back to school. I find Carl on the couch watching sports and play the Ezra stuff off pretty casually. Then, to give myself a reason to be downstairs, I go grab a drink.

When I get back to my room, I find Ez right where I left him, looking tired but maybe content.

“You look good in my bed,” I whisper. Dammit, but I love the sight. I just can’t help myself. Even with this big, new worry on my mind—about what might have happened to him—I still get hit with endorphins.

I hop on the bed beside him, reach into my nightstand for a small, white remote.

“Check this.” I turn on the neon light machine Ritchie and Pipsa gave me last Christmas, and for the shape, I choose hearts. For the color, blue. Small, blue hearts stream across my room, dotting the wall. I punch the key for “fade” and choose teal, so the hearts fade from royal blue to pale teal.

“You know what that is?” I ask him softly.

He shakes his head.

“Dream machine. This way if you dream, you dream of me.” I step into the light and strike what I hope is a funny pose.

He smiles, but it looks strained, which makes my chest ache again.

“You want a cool cloth for your forehead?” I ask.

Ez shakes his head.

“You want some space, or you want me up in your bidness?”

“Whatever you want.” He shuts his eyes.