Page 60 of Ex- Factor
He ignored it.
“You gon’ answer that?” I asked.
“Nope. We playing Scrabble.” He grinned, proud of himself.
The buzzing didn’t stop.
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you can’t answer your phone in front of me?” I wasn’t really serious—just curious about who kept calling.
He rolled his eyes, then finally snatched the phone up and pressed it to his ear.
I watched his face. Watched his jaw go tight. Then, just like that, he hung up.
He didn’t look at me. He reached out and mechanically started placing tiles back on the board, rearranging them into meaningless patterns.
“Silas? What’s wrong?” I asked again, a knot of dread forming in my stomach.
“My parents,” he said, his tone disturbingly casual. Flat. Emotionless. “Car accident on US-19. A semi lost control. They didn’t make it.”
The words landed like physical blows. I recoiled, my hand flying to my mouth.
“Oh my God, Silas. I’m… I’m so sorry.” My mind raced, useless. “What are you going to do? Do you need to go to the hospital? The… the morgue? I can drive you—”
His head snapped up, and the look in his eyes was terrifying. Raw, unfiltered pain sheathed in a layer of pure ice.
“I’m not going to do a goddamn thing,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Stop talking. Change the subject. Right now.”
I flinched. Silas had never talked to me like that. But I saw it—the agony threatening to swallow him whole. He wasn’t pushing me away; he was barely holding himself together. I remembered that feeling when my grandma passed. Being angry at the world. I let it slide.
“Okay,” I said softly, my heart breaking for him. “Okay.”
I reached out and slowly started helping him gather the tiles. Afterward, we sat in a heavy, suffocating silence for what felt like an hour.
Eventually, he stood without a word and walked upstairs. I heard the bathroom door close and the lock click.
He needed space. He needed time.
The only thing I could think to do was something normal. I pulled out my phone and ordered food from the first place that was still open.
Twenty minutes later, a knock at the door.
I hurried to open it—and froze.
Donte stood on my porch holding a brown paper bag. A smirk played on his lips.
“Hey, Eshe. I got your order at my house by mistake.”
I didn’t even get to say anything or grab the bag before I heard the creak of the floorboard behind me.
Silas was on the stairs.
Donte’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, his smirk widening.
Silas brushed past me, a blur of motion, and his fist connected with Donte’s jaw with a sickening crack. The food bag went flying, containers scattering across the porch.
Donte staggered back, shock quickly replaced by fury. He lunged at Silas. Blow for blow, they went at it—raw, ugly, and violent.
Silas wasn’t just fighting Donte. He was exorcising a demon. Pouring all his grief, his shock, his unimaginable pain into every punch.
