Those words from his lips make my cheeks and neck warm, but I keep my face impassive. "You pushed me in! That's why you had to jump in after. You pushed me off a bridge and made me hit my head on a boat!"
He lifts one of his shoulders. "Seems like it came out okay." Then the smirk is back, pulling his full lips into something that's both smile and pout. "Unless you need some help with your head. Want big brother to pull off your wittle hat and put on a Band Aid?"
I scoff. "Big brother? So I guess you were spying on me from the trestle bridge."
"I didn't know you till I pulled your wallet from your pocket, Do Gooder." My head hurts so bad, I’m confused—but I realize he must have done that after pulling me into the boat.
"What were you doing up there anyway?" I ask.
He blinks, apathetic. "Aren't you going to show me my room?"
I want to punch him in his model face. Ask if he's going to be a moody dick the whole time we're sharing a bathroom. But I take a breath and remind myself that he's the one who's new here. I don't know much about why, beyond that he asked Carl if he could come live here. From what my mom said, he's an all-state quarterback from Richmond. Which seems weird considering he clearly smokes and does a bunch of dumb shit. I guess he's got problems.
All the more reason to be nice, my conscience tells me.
"Sure." I open the door to his room. His space is bigger than mine—because it was originally supposed to be a guest room and also my mom's home office. The walls were cream, but now they're pale gray. On the shorter, left wall, there's a full-sized bed with a comforter set that's navy, gray, and white, flanked by two metal-looking nightstands. The longer wall, which he shares with our jack and—er, jack—bathroom, has a big-ass dresser with a mirror, plus a cushy arm chair with a crocheted football pillow on it.
"You crochet, huh?"
When I frown back over my shoulder at him, he's grinning smugly.
"Uh, I know how," I hedge.
His mouth opens, and I can tell by his laugh that he was just kidding. "No shit?"
"I mean, my mom owns a gift shop and clothes store."
"So you're the sweat shop?"
"No. But I know how. It's not that hard to do."
He walks into the room and over to the pillow, giving it a squeeze. "Nice work there, DG."
I inhale slowly through my nose and watch as he sinks into the arm chair. Looking at him makes my mouth dry.
"So this is it." He taps long fingers on the chair's arm. I'm pretty sure his eyebrows tighten when he looks at the bed; maybe he doesn't like the bedspread. Then he's looking at the framed mossy oak photo above it.
"The photo. You do that, too?"
I swallow. I don't know why I can't say “yes.” But I can't. "Someone else,” I say. “I know you're disappointed."
He looks me up and down. "Your mom said you play soccer?"
I nod, and then step back before he makes some dumbass comment about the way I look. He's tall and lanky, but he's still hard—lean but muscular. I'm at least two inches shorter, and I've got muscle, too, but I like cornbread and pie and shit. He’s built like Machine Gun Kelly. I'm like young Ben Affleck.
I realize he's staring at me and blink. "Your dad got you this." I motion to the Bose player atop his dresser. "And an Apple Watch. I think it's in the drawer of your nightstand."
"Thanks for setting me up, DG. When you gonna show me the girls?" He's smirking again.
"When do you want me to?" He fucking would be straight, and one of those can't-keep-it-in-his-pants types.
He shrugs. "I’ve got no plans."
"I thought you were here early for football practice."
"Weekdays." He drums his fingertips against the chair's arm again, looking like a sultan on his throne. I notice he's wearing black basketball shorts and a green T-shirt now; he's had a wardrobe change since the lake. But his hair is nearly dry. I realize, with some shock, that maybe I was knocked out for longer than I realized.
"Uh, there’s something tonight,” I hear myself say. “If you want to go. This thing at Mason's house. He's a guy from our class."
There's also something tomorrow night at my friend Brennan’s house, but I'm not telling him that shit. I assume tonight will be too soon, and he’ll decline the invite.
I'm surprised when he says, "Sure thing."
Three
Ezra
This guy is a do gooder. It's pretty fucking obvious. For one, he's saving strangers from oncoming trains, and drowning. For two, I'm pretty sure he wanted to deck me when I ribbed him for that picture of him in a tux, and then again when I joked that he made the pillow. I squeeze the thing in my hand. Did he make it? I don't give a fuck.