6. Not Friends
6
Not Friends
Utensils clattered and clinked against dishware as the four of us ate. I complimented the heavenly cooking profusely until Aunt June blushed like a teenager. It really was delicious, and I moaned and groaned as I stuffed my face until my stomach hung over my jeans like a muffin top.
“So, Silas,” Aunt June broke the comfortable silence as she tucked a stray chunk of graying blonde hair behind her ear, “are you on the team with Ben?”
“Oh no, I’m not one for sports,” I denied quickly before shoving another bite of meatloaf into my mouth.
“Oh? So what were you doing at the school so late?”
I swallowed my bite and took a sip of water before answering. “I was there for rehearsal. I’m the stage production manager for the play, and I was helping the cast run lines.”
“Stage production. That sounds exciting.”
“I guess. I just make sure the set and backgrounds are ready for the show, and I run the sound booth during the performance itself.”
The interrogation continued, Aunt June somehow forming words around her food without appearing unladylike. “Are you planning on college after graduation?”
“Yes, I just submitted a few applications, actually.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Um,” I wiped the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “I applied to UCLA where my brother goes, and Bloomington, but my first choice is NYU.”
“New York? That’s close to MIT, isn’t it, Ben?”
Ben rolled his eyes as I sent him a questioning head cock. “That’s her subtle way of bringing up MIT. She likes to sneak it into conversation at every possible opportunity.”
“I’m allowed to brag about my favorite nephew,” she admonished lightly.
“I’m her only nephew,” he mumbled, and I snorted into my water.
When everyone finished their food, Ben and I cleared the table and carried the dishes to the kitchen. We filled the dishwasher as Aunt June hovered behind us, like she feared we would do it incorrectly. I remembered my mom doing the same thing and when we finished, Aunt June—like my mom—crowded in to shift the dishes. Apparently, there was a right and wrong way to load a dishwasher.
I stacked the excess dishes and large pans on the counter as Ben filled the two sinks, one with soapy water and one clear.
“You wash, I’ll dry?” Ben slung a towel over one shoulder, and I rolled my sleeves to my elbows.
When Aunt June finished ‘correcting’ our dishwasher setup, she poured herself a glass of red wine and leaned against the counter. “So how did you boys meet?”
My hands froze in the warm suds as I formulated a believable answer, but Ben beat me to the punch. “We have Sociology together.”
Yes, we did! Good save, Benjamin.
As if he read my relieved thoughts, his lips pursed into an unhappy line, and I resisted the urge to smooth the wrinkles marring his forehead.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Aunt June’s unsatisfied tone belied her words, but she changed the subject before I could dwell on it. “You said you had a brother in California. Is that your only sibling?”
Ben’s expression pinched in irritation as he put away the baking dish I handed him. I wasn’t sure why his aunt’s game of twenty questions annoyed him. I was the one under investigation, after all.
“Yeah, he’s a junior in college now.” I passed the mashed-potato bowl, jolting when Ben’s fingertips brushed against mine during the hand-off. He pretended not to notice, but his jaw clenched.
“What’s he studying?”
“Business. But like, ethical eco-friendly business. Or something. I don’t really get it. His girlfriend’s studying to be an aura therapist or some hippie shit—I mean, crap,” I corrected quickly. “But don’t judge him for it.”
Aunt June chuckled, both at my slip-up and my clear lack of fondness for Will’s girlfriend. Cora was nice and all, but she was always reading my aura and telling me how depressing it was. Not to mention, I insulted her all the time by accident because, according to my brother, I didn’t know how to talk to girls. It didn’t really set the scene for a blossoming relationship between us.
“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.
I plucked the picture from its cubbyhole and glanced Ben’s way. “You look like her.”
He nodded, his face blank as he avoided my gaze. When neither of us spoke, I returned the picture frame to its place and sauntered back to the pool table, running my fingertips over the wooden edge.
“Are you hurt?” he finally asked, and I rapped my knuckles on the table with a shake of my head.
“Like I said, it’s not the first time he’s thrown his weight around like he’s someone important, and it won’t be the last. It’ll be fine. Just forget about it.”
His scowl darkened, and he kicked at his carpet with his socked toes. “You play?” Ben nodded toward the pool table, and I plucked the plain white ball from the felt surface with a shake of my head.
“No. But I know it involves playing with rods and sinking balls.” I expected my innuendo to embarrass him, but he smirked through his responding flush.
“I’m sure you’re a natural.”
I burst into laughter at his deadpan delivery, and he smiled big enough for his dimple to wave hello. “Did you just make a gay joke?”
“Are you offended?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Then, yes I did.”
“Bravo, Benjamin.” I clapped sarcastically as he snatched two pool cues from the wooden rack beside the bathroom door. “I’m impressed.”
He fitted the balls in the black plastic triangle before offering me the milky-white one. “You wanna break?”
I snatched it from his hand. “I don’t make a habit of breaking balls. They’re much more fun whole.” His good-natured chuckle was rich and smooth, and I allowed the sound to slide over my skin as I lined up my shot.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“Maybe.” His gaze weighed on my shoulders, twisting my gut into nervous knots, and I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
A playful grin teased his mouth, his eyes riveted on mine. “I don’t plan to.”
My stomach clenched. Was he flirting with me? No, no way. He was just fucking around.
“Is this where I prove my ball-handling expertise?” I sassed as I slid the wooden stick between my fingers.
Dark waves crashed in his irises as he leaned against the back of the couch. “Impress me.”
Rolling my eyes, I focused on the triangle of stripes and solids, then rammed my pool stick into the cue ball, sending it cracking into the group. The balls scattered but none dropped, and I shrugged at my failure.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Maybe you just need more practice.”
We both cackled, and I bit my tongue to keep from asking if he was offering assistance. That would be a step too far, I decided, and I shoved the temptation from my mind. I didn’t want to flirt with Ben, and he wasn’t interested either since he was straight and may or may not have a girlfriend.
Ben wiped the floor with me as he shot solid after solid into the pockets while I tried and failed to sink even one stripe. It was the first time I’d ever played, but self-conscious annoyance built in my gut at my pathetic performance.
“You need to aim,” he instructed for the millionth time as I lined up the red-striped fifteen ball for the corner pocket.
“What? Aim? I had no idea!” I mocked before flipping him off.
“Just trying to be helpful,” he said.
“Then maybe stop staring at me. It’s distracting.”
Ben smiled at his pool stick, biting his bottom lip before meeting my challenging stare. “I didn’t realize you had performance anxiety.” My jaw dropped, and he smothered a snicker behind his palm.
“Trust me, honey,” I purred, “performing has never been a problem.”
His cheeks flushed pink at the insinuation, and I refocused on my next shot with an air of triumph.
“Tell that to your cue stick,” he mumbled right as I hit the cue ball, and it careened off course.
“Adams!” I used my pool stick to smack him, but he danced out the way, giggling like a child caught red-handed doing something naughty.
Our banter was borderline flirting, but of course, he didn’t mean it that way. We were just two guys ribbing on each other. Right?
On my next turn, Ben took pity on me and rounded the table to stand at my side. He explained how to view the shot and something about angles, but I was quickly distracted by our closeness. His body radiated heat, and his mix of spring soap, subtle chlorine, and spearmint worked through my veins like a pleasant buzz. My heart sped and my blood warmed, and I inhaled sharply as, for the first time in almost a month, my body responded. If I didn’t get away from him soon, my jeans were going to be embarrassingly, uncomfortably tight.
“Silas?”
I blinked through the charged haze, my eyes dropping to his mouth for a second before I leaned away from him. I could not come on to a straight guy, especially the straight guy who witnessed me getting assaulted. Sure, he was funny and sweet and hot as a chili pepper, but it was a terrible idea all around.
Get it together, Silas, and stop thinking with your dick!
“Did you hear me?”
I nodded, though I couldn’t recall a word he’d said, too distracted by his sexy curls and adorable dimple. “Yeah, I got it.” I cleared my throat when my voice cracked, and I forced my attention away from his mouth to the white cue ball.
“You’re still not holding it right.” He reached around my back to wrap his hand around mine on the pool stick, and I stiffened as he positioned himself partially behind me, his chest brushing against my back.
My arousal cooled to panic, my heart galloping with a confusing mix of desire and fright, and the cue stick clattered to the floor as I shoved away from Ben’s body violently. “Don’t touch me!” I wheezed as hysteria lapped at my chest.
“Shit, I’m sorry!” His hand hovered in the air between us, his blue eyes pained and full of pity, like he knew exactly why I retreated.
I held my panic attack at bay as I straightened my shirt and grimaced in apology. “It’s late. I should go.”
“No, wait—”
But I was already sprinting out the door and up the stairs, shoving my feet into my sneakers before fleeing the house. Ben followed because it was apparently impossible for him to let things be, and humiliation burned through my body like acid.
“Silas, wait.” His fingers grasped the door to my truck as I scrambled inside. “Just stop for a second.”
“I gotta go. Thanks for… everything,” I finished lamely.
“Stay.” I pretended not to hear his softly spoken plea. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Ignoring his comment, I steeled myself to meet his intense gaze with an apathetic one of my own. “I’m fine.” His face colored with disappointment and then irritation, and guilt crept in to take residence with the rest of my confusing emotions. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like we’re friends.”
His head flew back like I’d slapped him, and he released my door. “Right. Not friends. Thanks for the reminder.”
The hurt in his eyes sent pain splintering through my chest, and I lowered my gaze to the collar of his shirt. “Thank your uncle for jumping my car and your aunt for dinner,” I mumbled. I wanted to say more, to explain, but my tongue failed. “I’m sorry.”
My whispered apology barely escaped before I slammed the truck door shut and backed out of Ben’s driveway. I replayed his hurt expression, and something heavy settled in my stomach. I wanted to take it back. I didn’t know why he wanted to be my friend, but the lonely, broken boy I pretended not to be wanted the same thing. But I was a coward.
Against my better judgment, I checked the rear-view mirror as I drove away. Ben stood where I left him, facing my fleeing truck. He didn’t move an inch. He didn’t look away until I was out of sight.