Page 17 of Every Broken Thing

“Do you have anyone special? Girlfriend?”

“Uh, nope. Nobody special.” Scrubbing the green-bean pot, I failed to erase the heated color on the back of my neck. Ben fumbled with the pan he was drying, shooting Aunt June a dirty look over his shoulder, and she smiled innocently around the lip of her goblet.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” The thrilled curl to her lips discredited the negativity of her statement as she sipped her wine. “I’m surprised such a handsome young man as yourself hasn’t gotten snatched up yet.”

I muffled a derisive snort, feigning a cough. “Let’s just say there’s not many people at school who are my type.”

Ben rolled his eyes, stuck between amusement at my wording and annoyance toward his aunt’s cross-examination. His jaw flexed at even intervals as he swiped furiously at his phone. I didn’t know why his aunt found my nonexistent love life interesting, but I chalked it up to parental curiosity.

“Oh? And what type is that?”

“Uh…” For some reason, I hesitated.

Before I could answer, Uncle Henry called her to the living room, and I released a relieved breath. The weird interview was over, and Ben and I relaxed as Aunt June vacated the kitchen with a sing-songy, “I’ll be right back,” thrown over her shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled in reply, even though she was already gone and couldn’t hear me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk so politely,” Ben said in an attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

“Fuck you,” I whispered as I ‘accidentally’ splashed him with soapy water.

Laughing, he flipped the towel over his shoulder, the end smacking me in the face, and I glared at his too-virtuous grin. I elbowed him in the stomach as I unplugged the sinks, and in retaliation, he poked me in the side. Unfortunately, he chose my bruised side, and I jumped away from him with a pained hiss.The humor evaporated as his eyes narrowed, and I shook my head, waving away his concern. I rinsed the suds from the sink and dried my hands as I avoided his questioning gaze.

Air unexpectedly drifted over my skin as my shirt lifted to reveal the already-darkening skin from Boyt’s fist, and I shoved Ben away like he burned me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“My God, Silas.” He winced as I straightened my shirt. “Who did that?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at the remaining suds popping in the abandoned sink. “No one. I tripped—”

“Don’t lie.”

I wasn’t an effective liar, but I was rehearsed in deflection. “I know how to take a punch, Ben. I’ve had lots of practice.”

“Who?” His tone cooled as I studied my cuticles, refusing to answer. “Was it him?”

My impassive expression turned glacier in warning. “He wanted to look cool in front of his cronies. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Let it go.”

“But—”

“Let it go, Ben!” My growl was too loud, and we both quieted in hopes we weren’t overheard by the parental figures in the living room.

When nothing but the hum of the television and the low murmur of voices filtered into the kitchen, Ben jerked his head in the direction of the mudroom.

“We’re going to play video games,” he called out to his aunt and uncle, reaching toward me as if to grab my arm but stopping at the last second, like he remembered my aversion to touch. “Come on,” he insisted, gesturing for me to follow him.

“You’re not taking me to your murder basement, are you?” I asked when he started down the stairs.

“Guess you’re about to find out.”

At the bottom of the stairs was a small kitchenette that Ben bypassed, stopping in front of a lone door. Without waiting for permission, I shoved past him and barged into a room smelling like spring soap and spearmint.

The bedroom used to be a rec room, judging from the large TV hanging on the wall in front of a huge couch. A pool table stood behind the couch, billiard balls spread chaotically over the green felt surface. Nestled in the back corner was a double bed and a tall dresser with a fancy laptop resting on top. The barren walls were sterile, but the cubby holes in the wooden headboard housed numerous personal items such as pictures in frames, earphones, notebooks, and the like.

Ben followed me into his room, his ever-watchful eyes trained on me as I perused his personal space. There was no guilt as I invaded his bubble, since he made it his personal mission to meddle in my life. My fists sunk into his green plaid comforter as I ducked my head to study the pictures in his headboard.

A raven-haired girl with subtle Asian features squished her face against Ben’s in a few pictures, and I internally gagged at their euphoric affection. I knew he was too hot to be single. Ben, his girlfriend, and a gorgeous guy with caramel eyes and mocha skin posed for a selfie, and Ben beamed at the camera, his blue eyes shining with happiness. There were several more group photos, all with attractive people smiling, and I rolled my eyes at the injustice. Of course, Ben was friends with only beautiful people. Why not?

The last photo I inspected was of him and his mother standing beside each other, Ben perhaps ten years old. His mother wrapped an arm around his narrow, childlike shoulders. She smiled, but her eyes were sad again.

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