Page 15 of Every Broken Thing

A hand violently snatched the picture from the fridge, making me jump.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Ben’s voice was empty as he tucked the picture into his back pocket, and something in my chest shriveled at the sight of his retreating form. I wanted to run back to my truck and leave as my stomach filled with lead. I didn’t. I followed Ben, my head full of questions I would never ask, some of which I could probably answer myself.

I understood the drive to remove the evidence of painful things. After my mom left, I tore down all the pictures in the house showing her face. It hurt, seeing her smile when I knew she would never come home. Whether by choice orcircumstance, Ben’s mom wasn’t coming home either. It was a pain I was most familiar with.

As I entered the dining room, my mouth watered at the table full of food, but my attention diverted to the photos on the wall. A wedding shot of Henry and a short blonde woman—Ben’s aunt, I assumed—hung front and center. She resembled Ben’s mother, as if they were twins, but unlike Ben’s mother, her brown eyes brimmed with happiness.

A few more pictures of the duo clustered around the wedding photo, but the rest of the space showcased Ben, like the poster child of proud parents. A chubby toddler with blond hair held a stuffed Simba to the camera in one, and beside it hung a second photo of Ben, his face younger and rounder, smiling shyly for a school portrait. Most of the pictures portrayed Ben cheesing at the camera in different stages of life, but I caught Ben’s mother in a few as well, her brown eyes constantly sad.

I shot Ben a humored eyebrow waggle. “Cute.”

His cheeks flushed bright pink as he muttered, “Shut up.”

Voices sounded from the hallway leading farther into the house, and a moment later, Henry appeared in clean clothes as a tiny woman walked in behind him, swiping at his shirt. Satisfied her husband was clean enough, she stepped around him and leveled her sparkling chocolate eyes on me.

“Ah, you must be Silas.” She beamed at me, and her joyful expression made me feel surprisingly inadequate. I fiddled with my tragus surface piercing but dropped my hand to my side when Ben noticed the nervous habit.

His aunt approached me, and I expected her to shake my hand like Henry had. Instead, she yanked me into a rather exuberant hug. My throat thickened at the maternal embrace, and I fought the urge to pull away from the motherly kindness. And yet, when she did release me, I wished she hadn’t.

“I’m Ben’s aunt. You can call me June or Aunt June, but I don’t want to hear a ma’am or a missus.” I nodded at her stern stare with wide eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically. “I mean, Aunt June.”

She met my correction with another smile and a pat to my cheek, and then I was ushered to the table. “Sit, sit,” she ordered, and like foot soldiers we all sank into chairs, Ben and I side by side across from his aunt and uncle. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

I almost drooled as I piled mashed potatoes, green beans, and meatloaf onto my plate. It smelled scrumptious, and I nearly dove right in face-first. Thankfully, I remembered my table manners and waited until everyone was served before scooping mashed potatoes onto my fork.

“We should say grace,” Ben said with a mischievous wink. “Silas is really religious.”

I choked.

“Oh, of course,” Aunt June agreed readily, smacking Uncle Henry’s arm as he made to take a bite. He scowled as the food on his fork dropped to the table with a wet plop, but he abandoned his now-empty utensil with a gracious nod toward his wife. “Silas, please say grace.”

I gaped like a fish, first at Aunt June and then at Ben’s innocent simper. His eyes danced with amusement. What a little shit!

I’d never prayed over a meal in my life. My one religious experience was going to Catholic Mass with a friend in elementary school. I didn’t know how to pray! Was I supposed to do the weird cross motion or hold Ben’s hand? Bowing heads was a thing, wasn’t it?

One glance at Uncle Henry confirmed he caught the joke, but instead of rescuing me, he took a drink from his water and shared an amused grin with Ben.

“Oh, uh, okay.” Aunt June continued to admire me like I was the cure for cancer, and when I couldn’t decide what to do with my hands, I dropped them to my lap to hide from judgmental eyes. “Um, d-dear baby Jesus?”

Ben’s snort interrupted my humiliating attempt at a prayer, and Uncle Henry’s guffaws soon followed. For the first time in a long time, I blushed. I glared at Ben as Aunt June swiveled her gaze around the table in confusion. Of course, her puzzlement shifted to understanding, and she turned her outrage on Ben.

“Benjamin James Adams!” she shrieked, appalled, and Ben and Uncle Henry laughed harder.

“If that boy’s religious, then I’m a monkey’s uncle!” Uncle Henry roared.

“With Ben as your nephew, I thought you already were,” I said as I took a sip of water to cool the heat in my cheeks.

“Oh, I like this one, Ben!” Uncle Henry said. “Bring him around more often.”

Against all odds, Ben’s face darkened to a comical shade of maroon, but he nudged my shoulder as he took a bite of mashed potatoes. “Who starts a prayer withdear baby Jesus?”

“I’ve never prayed before you ass—butthole,” I amended, not wanting to offend Aunt June with foul language, and Ben ducked as I lobbed a green bean at his head. “I hate you.”

He popped the green bean into his mouth with a cheeky grin. “Worth it.”

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