Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
EZRA
I had a dream you were choking me and my therapist says it says I want you to control me again—in bed or like anywhere, even the grocery store. You want to match-a? Ha HA! Call me. Oh also, I’m back on caffeine again. YOLO.
–Bryce
I reached for my coffee, the annoying sound of rain pelting against my office window competing with the sound of my fingers typing. Instead of looking at my coffee, I glared at the window.
Dumb mistake.
The mug slipped from my hand, scalding liquid splashing across my skin before the ceramic shattered against the floor in my office like it was echoing something deeper. How typical, me reading into every nuance and thinking the universe was actively working against me even by way of my mug.
I hissed, shaking my hand, cursing under my breath. It burned, the pain reminding me of something deeper.
The mess was minor.
The memory it triggered?
Not so much minor as it was a major blip in the bin of past memories I’d rather set on fire than re-live.
It had been raining that night too. Of course it had. Like some overused TV trope—rain as a harbinger of heartbreak. How poetic.
The storm slammed against the windows, drummed against the roof, rattled the whole world like it knew what was coming.
She’d said she’d be late.
Late, not missing.
So I waited. The wine—her favorite cab—was already poured, waiting in two glasses on the coffee table in front of the TV. I’d ordered Korean BBQ, the spicy kind she loved with extra kimchi that made her nose run and eyes water and her laugh get all breathless.
And—because I’m a damn idiot—I’d even tossed rose petals on the ground. Not a full carpet. Just a stupid little heart shape. Like a joke. Like I was mocking every romantic sap I’d ever rolled my eyes at.
I still had my baseball cap on. Still wore my neon glasses. She never cared what I looked like anyway, she said she never wanted me to change for anyone, least of all her.
And it’s not like I was a troll—I just liked being invisible—I didn’t like the attention. Not anymore.
It was easier than being noticed and misnamed. Easier than someone calling you hot and then treating you like an accessory. Easier than being told you were almost something.
So I stayed hidden. Behind books. Behind screens. Behind jokes.
Until that night.
When I almost didn’t.
The key finally turned in the lock making such a loud clicking noise I immediately started sweating.
I panicked—ran into my room, heart pounding, face hot, pretending like I wasn’t about to take a leap.
I grabbed a novel off my nightstand and flopped onto the bed, grin still plastered on my face like a fool in a rom-com.
The door opened. I waited.
“Ummf, sorry,” she giggled. “My roommate probably has someone coming over. Oh my gosh—he’s being so cute! No way! I think he finally found someone!”
The smile slid right off my face.
“Look! Even a heart—and wine—and damn, son, get yours!”
I sat up, ready to tell her that nobody else was walking through that door, that she was it and would always be it, that the person I found had been standing in front of me and beside me and sometimes kicking my ass behind me my entire existence.
I was finally ready. I was going to march out there and say, It’s for you. It’s always been for you.
But I froze. There was another voice. I watched, unable to even blink.
A guy was with her.
Tall. Grinning. Confident in the way only people who’ve never been told they’re too much of something ever are. He leaned in, nuzzling her neck like he’d done it a thousand times.
“Bedroom?” he murmured.
She shoved him, playful. “I said we should study.”
He laughed. I hated it. I hated it so much because it sounded calculated, like he already knew he had her, he knew he was lucky, and he knew he was going to get her and didn’t even deserve her, the bastard. “Let me study you . I’ll get all A’s.”
God, who writes this crap?
She laughed. It was a pity laugh but in guy world it was still a reaction—a positive one of encouragement to move to the next step and with that confirmation, my stomach sank lower.
“Okay, but only for a little bit,” she said. “Try to be quiet—Ezra has company. I’m proud of him for stepping out of his shell.”
Like I was some pet turtle finally showing my face.
The guy snorted. “Ezra? That name sounds familiar…”
A pause.
Then—
“Oh shit. Ezra Park? The dude with all the hair and the weird-ass Eighties glasses?”
He cackled.
And she didn’t correct him.
She didn’t say that guy’s my best friend.
She didn’t say he’s the smartest person I know.
She didn’t say he made me dinner because I was too lazy to make it myself.
She didn’t say he’s the one who holds me when I cry and tells me every tear has meaning.
I didn’t yell. Didn’t storm out. Didn’t say it was for her.
I just… laid back down. I was quiet about it. Pathetically. Dejectedly quiet.
I picked up the nearly forgotten coffee cup and cleaned up the mess, needing something to do to distract myself from remembering, from feeling.
I mentally closed the book that I knew better enough to open.
And stared at the ceiling like it might hold the answers to why I was always two inches from being seen—and never enough to be chosen.
A burning started in my chest and before I could think through my actions, I was unlocking my phone and typing out a text.
I stare at the message. Don’t send it. Don’t?—
Too late. It’s gone.
My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen of my phone, layered with light from her TikTok page still playing on loop. Her voice, her laugh, her chaos—all on display.
Would she even recognize me if I changed?
If I cut the hair, ditched the glasses, changed the walk, the tone, and the posture?
Would she see her best friend showing up to save her?
Or would she only see Ezra Wyatt Park —the guy she defends in public but forgets in private, the one always just offscreen, holding the camera and dying for her smiles?
It’s a stupid idea.
Which is exactly why it might work.
Because I’m not known for being stupid.
I’m known for being calculating.
So why not give her what she wants?
The most viral story of all time.
A perfect ex… curated by the one she’s never truly seen.
Me.
Fuck it.
Clark Kent just decided to go full Superman.
May the comic gods be with me.
I think I’ll regret the text I sent, but I finish the day and go to sleep. Maybe I’ll regret the choice in the morning. I don’t. Instead I hyper fixate on everything. It’s been twenty-four hours since I offered to become someone I’m not.
Or maybe someone I always was—just buried under layers of hair, sarcasm, and a giant assed safety net.
Still no plan. No haircut. No reveal. Just me…
refreshing her page like it might give me permission to be that guy, the other guy, not the one who lays back down on the ground and stares at the ceiling while someone else gets the girl, but the one who jumps up and shouts at the world that he has her.
My phone buzzes.
Harper
Emergency. Need you. Plz bring caffeine and your soul. I have nothing to give you, nothing left. Thy cup is empty. Thy is me. FILL ME UP YO.
That’s followed by seventeen skull emojis, a photo of a broken zipper, and what might be a crying selfie or a very aggressive sneeze.
I’m already grabbing my keys and smiling at her innuendo of filling her up. See? I’m the upstanding guy that doesn’t respond with something crass—doesn’t mean however, that my thoughts don’t get dirty really fast, now more than ever, I’m thinking I can do it and better than anyone else can.
She meets me at the door of her apartment a black dress and emotional ruin—-her words.
“The zipper betrayed me,” she said, arms pinned behind her like she’s been arrested by her own outfit and found guilty. “I think it was the boobs. It’s always the boobs.”
I managed a slow blink. “Um hi.” I shook my head at the boobs in question. “Stop constricting them, you’re hurting their feelings.”
“Stop staring at them.”
“Kind of hard not to and I’m not gay, sorry to disappoint, you have boobs, I have eyes, it’s simple math which by the way I’m remarkable at.
It’s probably the seventh, you start in five days which means you’re bloated.
” I cringed at my own words because that’s exactly what a gay best friend or girlfriend would say, I may as well have chopped off my own dick and asked where the Eunuchs stayed watch over the Kingdom.
“I haven’t eaten,” she continued ignoring my comment and spinning on her heel.
She marched back inside, bypassing the tables and heading directly to the handicap bathroom.
“I didn’t sleep. My hair is too shiny, which feels fake.
And if I have to listen to one more audio about manifesting your dream relationship, I’m going to manifest a fist through my phone and choke the next person out who says ‘hi’ too nicely.
I know this is just a practice round to get the video feed right for when everyone votes on my TikTok page, but…
it feels too real and if this is the amount of stress I have for the practice date… ” She took a shuddering breath.
I followed her in, quietly handing her a coffee and a bag of peanut butter cookies, because, again, that time of the month is upon us and I’m not insane, give the woman the peanut butter so I can keep all my man parts in place.
She snatched them out of my hand. “You're my favorite.”
“You say that to your mailman.” I grumbled.
“Yeah but he delivers for Amazon.”
“Good point.”
She stopped in front of the mirror, tugging at the fabric. ”Help?”
“It’s not that bad,” I offered.
“Not that bad?!” She slumped, making the dress tighten more around her boobs. “It looks like I’ve been vacuum-sealed into it by an angry TSA agent!”
She quickly turned on her heel and faced me. “Help me hold it while I put on double-sided tape.”
“Hold what?”
“Here.” She grabbed my hands and put them right on the front where creamy breast touched fabric. My fingers burned while I held it there. “Let me just get the tape.”
I carefully pinched the fabric. “This is a lot of trust.” Of not just the tape but me and my intentions which suddenly went from helpful best friend to guy who wanted to tug the dress down. What the hell was wrong with me? Was I just tired of not proving my point anymore?
“I’m screaming if you see nipple.”
“I would rather die.” The lie was easy, it was my body that was hard.
She bent towards the counter in an effort to grab the tape and that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Harper Avery—the girl who once negotiated a free coffee subscription by convincing a barista she was writing a travel piece on the place—burst into tears.
Real, gut wrenching, I just lost my dog and goldfish in one day—tears.
Mascara ran down her cheeks while her chin wobbled like she was about to let out a screech I’d never unhear.
I completely froze. Hands still on the dress.
“It’s—it is my boobs, you’re right,” she hiccups.
“It’s that time . I think I gained weight too though.
Or maybe I’m just full of water or sin or stress , and this date with bachelor number one from the hell of my past is going to suck and my bra’s stabbing me in the side like it wants me to die for fashion and I don’t want to die, Ezra! ”
She’s so fucking adorable I want to pull her into my arms, take her clothes off only to force her to put on a pair of sweats, and cuddle her on the couch. But I can’t say those things. I can’t do those things, not now, not when she’s in full on panic mode.
I took a deep breath. “I just need you,” I said, voice higher than usual.
“To tell me if you want another cookie or if I’m supposed to remind you how pretty you are or if dumb ass bachelor number one needs to disappear, or take you somewhere else and build you a blanket fort and watch twelve hours of Gilmore Girls —I’m happy to inform him of your each and every need and remind him why he’d have zero chance in hell to fulfill it. ” Did I say that last part out loud?
She snorted mid-sob.
“Wow. Emotional support and humor. You are wife material. Where do I sign up? Oh just kidding you aren’t taking applications, you’re all full.”
If only she knew I had one space reserved—for her.
“Don’t let my spreadsheet hear you. She gets jealous.” I just had to crack a joke.
Slowly she lifted up on her toes and hugged me, my hands once trapped, fell between us until I gripped her by the waist and held her close.
She smelled like tanning lotion and coconut.
She ducked her face into the warmth of my neck.
My lips parted. I had to tell her. Maybe it was better this way, Clark Kent didn’t have to be Superman, right?
“I just need this to work,” she mumbles into my chest. “Just one thing. One plan. One win.”
I nodded, deflated, I needed to remember I wasn’t the hero. With my arms around her though I sure as hell felt like it for a minute.
She had no idea I already said yes.
No idea I’m planning on becoming the lie she built because I couldn’t watch her fall apart without doing something .
No idea that standing here, holding her like this?
I’d burn the world down for the chance to do it again.
What was that bullshit about Clark Kent?
Bring on Superman.
Bring on Vex.