Page 6 of Every Broken Thing

“If you’re asking if I make it a habit of getting attacked in bathrooms, then the answer is no,” I finally said, my statement devoid of the intended heat. “First time. Should have gotten a discount.”

There was nothing humorous about the situation, so neither of us laughed. I glared down at my trembling hands as I bit my tongue to keep myself from rambling.

A bottle of Gatorade dropped into my lap, and I shot Ben a confused glance.

“It’ll help with the shaking,” he said in explanation.

Adding yet another thing to the list I already owed him, I swallowed my pride along with the lukewarm liquid, letting the sweetness purge my mouth of any lingering bile. I took another drink before screwing the cap back on and holding the bottle out to him. He took it from my hold, purposefully keeping his fingers from touching mine. Because he probably didn’t want to get punched again.

His bottom lip was split and swelling, and guilt joined the jumble of emotion tumbling through my chest. I needed to get out of here before I did something else I might regret.

“Well, this has been a real treat, but…” I trailed off, using my truck as a handhold to pull myself to standing.

Ben scrambled up after me as he tucked his Gatorade back into his rucksack. “Let me drive you home.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Seeking my car keys, I patted my pockets. When I didn’t find them, I spun in a circle, searching along the ground. Did I drop them?

“I don’t think you should be driving,” Ben said hesitantly.

My annoyance simmered as I shoved my hands into my pockets, bypassing my phone and wallet. Where were my damn keys?

“Trust me, I’m good,” I bit out.

The jingle of metal sounded behind me, and I scowled at my key ring nestled in Ben’s palm. He closed his fingers around it as he squared his shoulders. “Seriously, just let me—”

“Why the fuck are you still here?” I shouted, wrenching my keys out of his grasp. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want your help or your concern, and God knows, I don’t want your pity. And if you’re waiting for me to suck you off as a thank-you, you can go fuck yourself!”

When he didn’t rise to the bait, my hands tightened into fists with the desire to punch him again. I itched for a fight, but he didn’t seem willing to grant me one as he watched me with a calm, cool sadness. His eyes strayed to my clenched fists, but he wasn’t afraid. If anything, his shoulders slumped with sorrow, and I hated it worse than his concern.

“You can hit me again if it’ll make you feel better,” he offered.

I gritted my teeth, utilizing every ounce of self-control I possessed. A fight might ease me for the moment, but I would regret it after.

“Fuck off.” I turned away from him as I unlocked my door and violently yanked it open, internally apologizing to Mabel for taking out my anger on her, the poor truck.

I tossed my backpack onto the bench seat and prepared to climb inside, but I paused as Ben’s whispered words reached my ears. “It wasn’t your fault, Silas.”

The sentiment nearly broke me, and I took the most fleeting glance in his direction as my eyes burned with tears I was unwilling to shed. I’d be damned if I allowed myself to shatter completely in front of him.

After holding his forlorn gaze for a brief moment, I grunted wordlessly and pulled myself into the cab of my truck, leaving his statement hanging.

I quickly started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, my tires screeching as I pressed too hard on the gas pedal. But no matter how fast I peeled out of the lot, I couldn’t shake the heaviness of Ben’s gaze as he watched me flee.

3

Peachy

Friday morning dawned, butI didn’t get out of bed. I knew Dad would get a call to report me skipping school, but I didn’t care. I’d tell him I was sick or something.

Which wouldn’t have been a far stretch from the truth. Every time I remembered the weight of Boyt on my back or his rage-fueled pants in my ear, my stomach rebelled. I spent more than a few hours getting intimately acquainted with the toilet.

As much as I tried not to think about it—abouthim—my brain couldn’t let it go. It didn’t even make any sense. Boyt was straight and homophobic. He had a girlfriend and had spent our entire high school career hating me. He couldn’t have actuallywantedme.

Which meant it hadn’t been about me at all, at least, not inthatway. It had been about control. About power. About humiliating me, teaching me my place. Teaching me… respect.

What a sick fucking joke.

I wondered if he even remembered. He’d been tweaked out on something. He might have woken up sober and wondered how the hell he’d gotten his nose broken.

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