Wicked Boy (65) (Patreon)

With his yard finally clean of storm debris, Ezra swaps his pajamas for jeans and a shower and, quite trustingly, leaves me with keys to his old car.

"Are you sure?"  I ask him, and he only sends me a side-long glance and a humored smirk,

"You're the one who seems doubtful."

I shake my head.

"... Looks worse for wear, 'cause it is," he shrugs, and I stare at the singular key, warm from his palm, and then the keychain of chipped beads attached to it.  I sit in his shadow and notice that, if at all possible, he stands a little closer than he used to. It doesn't mean we talk any more than we did yesterday — or about the night before.

He taps my forehead with his knuckle.  It feels affectionate.  His eyes don't feel as sharp as they usually do.  And — I can't help but think that this might be fondness.

I blink.

"Should I even drive it, then?"

"Sure." Ezra hums, glancing back at the golden Subaru. His fingers trail absently behind his ear, chasing shower droplets that haven't dried, and I watch, "no cross-country trips, is all I'm sayin'."

He says this, presumably because he has errands, and repeats, that he's seldom home. I don't know if he's simply stating a fact, drawing a line, or appeasing anxiety that hasn't emerged yet. He wavers before he leaves, like he means to say more or do more, but tilts his head — and doesn't.

So I sit on his porch stairs for quite a while after he pulls from the length of his driveway, the backs of my thighs sore from the cement, and stare at the trees.   I wonder what made him hesitate.

The sound of his still-perched radio is a comforting familiarity that I latch onto, long after his car is gone.

I sit there for what feels like an hour, absently picking at the lid of my disposable coffee cup and contemplating if his car insurance covers an additional driver. I also wonder if the fact that we kissed weighs on him, or if he feels light in his chest, or confused — like I do.

I attempt to check my email as a distraction, then realize I have no clients to respond to, just as I haven't for a while now. I also have no calls, or texts, or responsibilities.

I exhale. Then I watch the painted birdhouses that hang from Ezra's trees — a tire swing at the edge of his drive.  I crane my neck to glance at the little colored chalkboard on the porch, the abandoned and dirty squirt guns, and then turn back to the yard in front of me.

I pull his beaded keychain from my pocket.

I run my palms over my knees.

Emptily, I think that Ezra lives a life that leaves traces of who he is and who he was. They might not be easy to piece together, but they exist, and I can see them.  They're tangible.  He has a home that feels like it belongs to someone.  And as they make another announcement about Lexi's lost dog, I think, very desperately —

I want to live, too.

I want traces of myself thrown throughout my home, over my yard, and on my porch.  I want someone to envy and wonder over the evidence of my life.

—

I stand at the edge of Taylor Evan's property, which happens to be quite a lot more than I had initially thought a Huxley resident capable of acquiring.   The man's family came from old money, and then old money turned to old land. The gas station attendant was forthcoming about this little tidbit, as well as Taylor's address — saying that it's common knowledge anyway.

The attendant also advised me that under no circumstances should I mosey about down the length of Mr. Evan's dirt road. This is a well-known fact to his neighbors — that Taylor whimsies himself as a recluse with an unknowable sleep schedule, and hates to be roused by vehicles bouncing about on his unpaved drive.

I wonder what I should do if he's sleeping. Or if he'll question how in the hell I found his address. It's certainly something that would unnerve a Pennbrook resident, but maybe here...

It's —

Normal?

I sigh.

Please be normal.

My car door squeaks unhappily as I shut it, and I flinch, a stray leaf gliding down from the rustling treetop above me. Below it, swaying, is...

Another tire swing.

I clench my teeth instead of smiling, glancing up towards the daylight and shade that play through the foliage, eyes shielded by the cup of my hand.

"... I already told your little friend,"  comes a voice, gruff, rough with age, and no-nonsense at that,  "that I ain't the praying sort.  Couldn't even get on my knees if I wanted to, and if I wanted to, I'd move to Jameson."

"... What?"  I glance towards the trees, stepping closer and then behind them in my search, and when I come up empty-handed, I stand there in an unwelcome, awkward daze.  "I'm not sure I'm following."

"Now, I'm serious." Comes the voice, a second time, "I'm savin' us both the trouble. Look at that piece of junk."  There's another rustle to my side, and I turn, greeted by a column at least four feet high of raspberry bushes and a man who can only be but a foot taller, buried behind them.

"Excuse me?"

He raises a curling finger to point at Ezra's old car.

"Not much incentive, is what I say.  With all the door-to-door business y'all have been up to lately, don't ya' think the big guy upstairs would've given ya' a raise?"

My brows gather, then with a sigh and a step forward, I say,

"I'm not a —"

Who I'm assuming to be Taylor Evans,  harrumphs. Surprisingly, it jolts my retort right from existence.

"Then why are you dressed in your Sunday best?"

I glance down at my clothing.  The older man does, too, his chin lifted and eyes narrowed like he isn't so sure I'm not pulling a new tactic.

"This is just the way that I," I clear my throat, adjusting my glasses with a quick press of my pinky, "I'm not religious. On the radio this morning, they said —"

"Ahh.  I see,"  Mr. Evan bends down, showing me a slightly sunburnt scalp, before grabbing a basket from beneath him.  "do ya' want red, black, or golden?"  He sniffs, his back curved with age.  He reaches in his back pocket for a handkerchief and scrubs it across his face inelegantly.  "Red are tart this year.  No refunds, though. Just throw them in with some honey."

I blink. The clumsiness of this ridiculous mission towards self-reliance circles the gutter.  

I think of saying no. I think of correcting Mr. Evan's once again, but,

"What're you starin' for?"  He crumples up his expression, his mustache heavy and scrunched beneath his nose, then he relaxes with excitement,  "Oh.  Could it be that ya' want to buy honey too?"

I shake my head.  Then I reconsider — and nod, absolutely thrown.

"I'll — Red." I fish for the wallet in my back pocket. My hand doesn't feel all that coordinated. I don't understand quite why, "Red sounds fine."

"Well, then.  Wonderful.  That'll be,"

"Pap." There's a distant, chastising call from behind me, and when I startle, I find myself turning — and eye-to-eye with a young man who shares Taylor Evan's straight nose but has his own almond eyes. He smiles sympathetically at me.

Sorry, he mouths.

"Pap. Are your hearing aids turned on?"

"Well, of course, they are." Mr. Evan snipes, but reaches to touch his ear, regardless. "What sort of question is that?"

His supposed grandson shrugs himself into crossed arms and a wry frown,

"Then why aren't you lettin' this guy finish what he's sayin'?" He huffs, waving a hand at the man's basket of red raspberries, "put those away. Jesus. Goin' on about Mormons, honey, and raspberries, and not for one second did ya' listen."

"I'm Grant." He looks down at my wallet, "I'm gonna assume you're not really here to shop."

"Oh, I suppose," I look back at Mr. Evan, who looks a tie between sheepish for being scolded and pitiful at the loss of sale, "I could use some raspberries. And honey.  I'll buy some."

Mr. Evan perks up at that, shoving his basket of raspberries quickly into my hands. I take it, eyes wide as it hits my chest with more force than I expected,

"See? He wants both."  The older man snaps, reaching for a cane precariously balancing against a raspberry bush, "I'll go get the honey."

"See what?" Grant snorts, visibly unimpressed.  Mr. Evan pauses at that, swinging his cane down onto the ground to take an irritable step away.  "He's lyin', cause you made him feel sorry for you.  Take his money, and you're no better than a crook."

"Sorry for me?"  The old man's shoulders straighten, "a crook?  Is this how my daughter raised you?"

"I'm here about Lexi's dog." I interrupt, discomfort at the budding tension hiding beneath austerity. I straighten out.  The two freeze, attention caught, "a friend told me he hides under Mr. Evan's porch after thunderstorms. I can get him out."

"You know Lexi?" Grant's brows climb upwards.  He grins, teeth slightly crooked, but in a way that makes his smile seem that much more sincere, "Lexi Nash?"

I hesitate, sternness turning into a wrinkle of my nose.  I cross my arms to mimic his.

"I don't know her."

Grant squints,

"So."  He saunters closer, suspicious, thumping Mr. Evan's hand with a whisper for honey.  It must be the incentive he needs to gleefully take off towards his house, removing himself from what seems to be a small-town interrogation.   "Your friend knows Lexi?"

"Yes."  I turn back towards the car, opening the door to put the basket of raspberries in the passenger seat.  "We heard her dog ran away on the radio this morning.  How much for the raspberries and honey?"

Grant doesn't respond.  I shut the door behind myself to find him eying the vehicle's rust and chipping paint.

"You didn't tell me your name."

"Milan."

"Alright, Milan.  What sorta friend doesn't come help and sends a stranger out in their place?"  He chuckles,  "doesn't seem all that polite, this friend of yours."

"Well. I'm not so sure if they're friends, exactly.  Or if he's polite.  He had errands, and I," I eye Grant with the same skepticism that he regards me with, "he said she knows where her dog is at.  That he's usually under your grandfather's porch."

"And you..."

I sigh, weight shifting,

"Yes.  Because he said that Lexi is too lazy to get him herself.  That bothers me.  Thinking about a dog being under a porch all night."

"Lazy?"

Oops.

I immediately purse my lips, but I don't think to retrieve the statement as a slip of the tongue.  Grant snorts loudly at my stubbornness, shaking his head once he recovers from the shock of it.

"... Water gets up under the porch."  Grant nods, shrugging, and the air feels unexpectedly lighter.  "She doesn't like to get dirty, that Lexi.  She's a good owner, but June doesn't come out for her anyway.  We think he blames Lexi for the thunder."

Grant tilts his head toward the house, which Mr. Evans still hasn't made his way to.  A woman sits on their porch steps, fiddling with something I can't make out.

"... Blames her for the thunder?"

I follow.

"Yep."  Grant sighs,  "Besides, even if she could do anythin', Lex broke her ankle a couple of weeks ago."

"... Right." I push my keys into my pocket.  "Well, I can..." I glance back at Ezra's distant beater of a car, nervous. "I can get somewhat dirty."

Grant smiles over his shoulder, considering,

"Somewhat, you say?"

"Well. It isn't my car.  It's my roommate's."  I mull over using the tarp in the backseat.  "So I don't want to cover it in mud."

"Right, it wouldn't be your car, would it?"  Grant nods,  "Not with how you're dressed."

"What about me being dressed?"  I frown, and he only laughs, deep from his stomach, like there's familiarity between us, "I mean, what about the way that I'm dressed?  What's wrong with it?"

"It's nothin'."  The other man waves his hand in dismissal again, like he had at his grandfather's fruits.

I roll my eyes, unseen.

"You said the car is your roommate's.  But I've never seen ya'."  He continues, contemplative,  "so, welcome, neighbor.  Who's car are you borrowin'?"

"Ezra's."

Grant's carefree stroll turns to a stumble.  I reach to right him, but then pull away as he collects himself — fist against his mouth when he clears his throat.

"Ezra — you mean, Ezra Lykaios?"  He peeks back at me, his brows gathered.  I nod, unaffected and unsure how well-received a sex worker might be in a small town.  Judging by Daphne, perhaps, he might not have the best repertoire.  "Well, that's just,"

"If you don't have something kind to say, I would prefer not to hear it,"  I add, coldly, and Grant's eyebrows look as if they could reach his hairline.

"Like he'd say somethin' about Ez."

I stop at the porch stairs.  The older woman who sits there rattles her box of dog treats with a limp wrist, exasperated as she examines the underbelly of the raised porch,

"Gallant little Grant, with his half a brain, is probably just wonderin' the pretty new Goule's rate, is all."

"Lexi."  Grant hisses, his casual demeanor traded for nervousness.  He shakes his head. "She runs the beauty parlor. She hears every..."  he turns back to her, flustered,  "You can't be sayin',"

I cut in, bewildered,

"My rate?"

Lexi rolls her eyes, her makeup near perfect, accentuating how unimpressed she is by her afternoon.  She gives another jiggle to her box of treats, her casted ankle bedazzled and blinding in the sun.

I stare, nose wrinkled — unsure whether to be irritated or confused and,

"... You gonna tell him, babydoll?"  Lexi leans her weight back on her elbows, her rather thick head of hair bouncing.  She then blows a bubble, and when it pops, she smiles around her deflated gum.  "That Ez says you ain't up for grabs?"

—

(Don't worry, no love triangles or second-male-leads here, just integrating Milan and his prettiness into Huxley.  His arc with Lexi is going to be so fun, we’re about to climb into coinciding arcs — learning more about Ezra was, and who Milan will be 🫣)

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