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"You gonna keep on walking or just eye fuck me?"
“Then it’ll be over? I mean, at some point everything will be over. What matters is how much it hurts first.”
Focus, Ezra. Fucking focus. It’s not Alton.
Then tears start to streak down my cheeks, and it hits me, the real gut-punch: I could have come here. I went through all that shit when I could have simply moved in with Dad. I didn't know. I think about this comfy bed below me. I think about where I was. It seems wrong—so fucking wrong—that my dad doesn't even care I’m gay. My whole life could have been different.
I had three sessions of ECT so far. It’s been fine. Just like last time I was here, at the end of last winter. These people think electrocuting my frontal lobe is the holy grail for ‘treatment resistant bipolar depression’. Which- Mills- I don’t have. That’s the headline. I don’t have psychosis either. I don’t think so, anyway.
Mom told me Carl was a dickwad and when he found out I’m gay, he called her up and told her that I had to go. Convenient that he called Mom up after I led his town’s team to an undefeated season. He told her they don’t roll that way in Alabama—no surprise. Seems like it was pretty shitty, so I guess it’s good I don’t remember.
Right now, I’m reading The Color Purple. I have something to report about that: Either I’ve read it before- or I’m a fucking psychic.
“I love you,” I say. “I’ve got you. You’re mine, and I’ve been waiting for you, so I can wrap you up and never let a damn thing ever hurt you again. Not without going through me first. I know you’re bigger, but I need to take care of you,” I whisper.
“Josh Miller,” I tell her. I’m surprised when Ezra’s eyes open. “My husband,” he says, the words only slightly slurred.
At one point, he smirks and slurs, “Are you my husband?” That makes me laugh. “Yeah, angel. I’m whatever you want.”
“It’s okay to be glib. We’re stepbrother fuckers. We’re okay with glib.”

