Page 34 of Every Hidden Truth

“Hey, you’re not—Ben, look at me.” I framed his bruised face and forced him to meet my gaze. “You’re not him. You’ll never be him, okay?”

“How do you know?” The ocean in his eyes crashed with turbulent waves. “What if this is what it was like for him? All that rage, and then you blink and there’s a body under you and—”

Careful of his injuries, I guided him into my neck, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he grasped at my back.

“I get so angry,” he confessed, breath hot on my throat. “And it scares me. It scares me, Silas.”

Nothing I could say would fix this, so I settled for hugging him tighter. I cradled his head as he gasped into my neck. I thought maybe he was crying, but when he finally pulled away with a sniff, his eyes were red-rimmed but dry.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he whispered before I could say anything. “I need you to know that I wouldn’t hurt you.”

I cupped his cheek. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He nuzzled into my palm, expression pinching. “Maybe you should be.”

“Shut up,” I said firmly. “You arenotyour dad. Okay? I know that, because I know you. I see you, Ben, and you’re not him. You’re you, and you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The truth cinched my throat closed, and I swallowed thickly. Ben stared at me with an awe that I was wholly undeserving of. And when he leaned in to kiss me, I sighed against his lips.

“How are you real?” he murmured between kisses, and I swallowed the words, hiding them away forever.

As I deepened the kiss, I forgot about his injuries and attempted to climb into his lap. He hissed, and I tasted blood from his split lip.

“Shit,” I said, pulling away and straightening the bag of melting green beans at his side. “Sorry.”

“Making out right now probably isn’t the best choice,” he teased, and I chuckled.

“Pity. I kind of like making out with you.”

And through the pain and turmoil, his cheeks still flushed pink. “Same.”

Curling up beside him, I held his hand in both of mine, tracing the veins and the baby hairs on his knuckles. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you ever go to the cops? About your dad, I mean.”

“Why didn’t you?” he said, not unkindly.

I exhaled roughly. “Touché.”

He stared down at my fingers drawing designs on his hand. “I guess I was used to it for the most part. When Mom was alive, she made excuses for him. She talked about how he never meant it, how he loved us even if he made mistakes. And if that logic didn’t work, she’d blame herself and tell me it was her fault.”

With a shrug, he cleared his throat. “When you hear something enough times, eventually you start to believe it. After she died, the blame shifted to me; it was my fault somehow for setting him off. He used to say, ‘See what you make me do?’”

Eric had said the same that night behind the stage, but I forced the memory away.

“And for a while, I felt like I deserved it,” Ben continued. “You know, for not saving my mom.”

My eyes burned, and I dropped my forehead to his shoulder, squeezing his hand. “You can’t think like that. It wasn’t your fault your mom died or that your dad was an abusive asshole.”

“I know. I tell myself that every day. Most of the time, I believe it.” He buried his face in the top of my head, exhaling hotly against my scalp.

“And on the days you don’t?”

His shoulder rolled in response.

So I answered for him, “On the days you don’t, I’ll remind you.” I kissed the corner of his mouth and felt his cheek crinkle with a smile. I kissed his dimple, and his next exhale was stilted.

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