Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

He walks everywhere; I swear, there’s no way the guy has a car.

He doesn’t like to get sweaty, and he makes cringey faces like he’s melting when it’s really hot out.

He’s got a good sense of humor. Doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Life at Bama is moving on for me. No matter how I feel about that. I'm starting to know my neighbors on my hall in the athletic dorms. After practice, sometimes I go out for food or shit like that. I’ve made a game of avoiding Marcel after hours, even though we chat and talk on the field sometimes. Checking my phone to see Josh Miller’s updates becomes part of the day.

I've started putting the phone down at the bottom of my bed at night, so I won't roll over and be tempted to check his snap or Insta stories. Sometimes I still do.

There's a bookstore near the Auburn campus that he likes to go to. He gets paperbacks—and sometimes hardbacks—and shows the spines in his snaps. One day he gets The Color Purple. Another day, The Berlin Stories and Less. I buy them, too, next time I'm at work.

I know it's not normal, this. But for a little while, it's okay. I just need something. Something that can make me feel good. It makes me feel good to see him.

Sometimes I think about him when I'm falling asleep. His arms wrapped around me. I can tell he's gay—for sure. I mean, he isn't hiding it at this point. I tell myself that he would like me if he knew me. I tell myself this in a low-key way...without really saying it out loud in my head. It's a feeling I have. All of this just feelings.

Feelings to replace the other ones. Like the one where I enrolled in a short, summer semester of physics and I don't remember any of it, even though I have a list of courses I took at Fairplay High school, and this is one of them. Or the one where I still get the tight, clawing feeling a lot. Especially if I miss one of his snaps.

Josh Miller—he gives me that feeling. Like I need something. A clawing need. A splayed-hands, grasping feeling. Desperation. But watching him is also soothing.

It's too hard to explain. I know he’s my stepbrother. I know we weren't in love or anything. But I think I must have felt something for him. We were friends, I think. I like him. I can tell through the snaps. Sometimes I'm gripped by the feeling that I was supposed to call him or something. But I don't have my old phone. I don't know how to get into that account. Not without asking my mom.

It's okay. I’ve found a way for things to be okay. I'm playing football, and I love it. I do.

I like my dorm. I bought a painting from an art department exhibit. It's kind of wild and I guess abstract, but it's a brick wall, and ivy is crawling all up it. The sky is blue with fluffy white smears of clouds. I hung it by my bed.

And I have tea in here. It's weird—I know—but I got hooked on tea at Amelia’s place, and I just keep on making it.

I have a life here.

I'm not really a stalker or anything. I'm just entertaining myself. Speculating. Or maybe more like observing.

I know we're not real friends. If I were to try to find out if we even got along, I'd have to tell him why I don't know that answer. Assuming we knew each other, he’d be shocked to find I lost my memory.

It's a Thursday, and I have a pretty solid day. My non-physics class is English lit, and we're reading The World and Me. I like it decently well. I'm supposed to go out with Kip and some of the guys for dinner at a Japanese steakhouse. Maybe Marcel, although I hope not.

I go home and shower, check my phone, and nearly swallow my tongue when I see he's in T-town. Miller! He's down at the arboretum. The next snap is of a guy. ArnieRey111.

In the third snap, Arnie has his track shorts pulled up, showing off the bottom of his asscheeks.

My heart beats so hard, I can't get a breath. Then I can, and I feel like I might puke.

He's here.

I get up and tug my shirt off. Watch my chest move in the mirror as I try to get a lungful of air. My throat is too tight. My whole damn body starts to sweat. I sit down and check his snaps again, and there's another one. It's them together. By the bookstore—my bookstore.

I get in the shower, lean against the cool tiles. I shut my eyes and think of jumping off a building. Who would notice? Who would come ID me when they hauled me off to the morgue?