8. A Million Pieces
8
A Million Pieces
I woke up late Sunday morning missing Ben like a limb. We hadn’t really talked much aside from the perfunctory good morning and good night texts. He’d been hanging out with Caitlyn, and he’d mentioned visiting his mother’s grave yesterday, but I hadn’t heard from him since.
Last night had been rough. Sleeping in my room with Esther beside me Friday night had been okay, but trying to sleep alone was worse. I hadn’t made it. Sometime around two in the morning, I’d trudged down the hall and climbed into bed beside Dad, defeated.
But it was the baby steps that mattered. Right?
Using Dad’s en suite, I pissed and scrubbed my face with cold water. I’d left my phone charging in my room, and I felt naked without it. The clock on Dad’s side table read 10:49 A.M. No wonder my brain was groggy and full of cotton.
I shuffled down the hall and into my room. Snatching a mostly clean shirt from my floor, I slid it over my head, then hitched my sagging pajama pants up my hips. My phone lay face up and innocent. I disconnected the cord and woke up the screen.
My notifications had exploded, and I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I unlocked the screen. Missed calls and text messages. All from Ben. What the fuck?
He hadn’t left any voicemails, so I ignored the missed calls and opened up our text chat. I scrolled through his messages, concern morphing into confusion as I skimmed them. The first few texts were random but legible. He’d gone to a party—Patrick’s birthday. But as the time stamps rolled later into the night, his messages had grown more and more unintelligible.
Had he been drinking?
By the time I reached the last message, I was certain he’d been drunk as a skunk. He was talking crazy. About me. His mom. Pat. He talked bad about himself, saying what a fuck-up he was. He kept saying it was his fault. That everything was his fault.
Fear tightened in my chest as I thought of the bottle of Lexapro I’d found in his medicine cabinet. I’d looked it up a few weeks ago; it was an antidepressant.
Ben had struggled with substance abuse after his mother’s death, and if Patrick was to be believed, Ben’s mom had committed suicide. Was depression hereditary? Was suicide? I… I was far too ignorant.
His last message left me cold.
Ben: Im sis sorry. I didntmena to. Iprmise I didn mean it.
Didn’t mean what? Why was he sorry?
I called him. I paced at the end of my bed as my heart raced as the phone rang and rang.
“Pick up, Ben,” I pleaded. “Please, pick up.”
He was fine. He wouldn’t have hurt himself. He wasn’t like that. He… right?
I’d seen every inch of his body, and I’d never noticed evidence of self-harm. Granted, I hadn’t been looking, but he wasn’t suicidal. He was fine. He had to be fine.
When his voicemail sounded in my ear, I hung up and called back. “Answer your phone, Ben,” I said into the phone when his voicemail picked up again. “I swear to God—answer your fucking phone!”
I tried again. And again. But all I heard was his cheery voice telling me to leave a message because he was busy right now. Panic inched up my throat, and I disconnected, pressing the phone to my forehead.
“Please, be okay,” I begged. “You stupid idiot. You better be okay.”
I called again, and instead of Ben’s voicemail, I heard a click. My relief was debilitating, and I couldn’t speak as muffled noises sounded in my ear. I almost sobbed. But then I heard a rich, sultry voice that belonged in a high-end porno, and my relief was dashed on the rocks.
“Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?” Patrick snapped, voice thick with sleep. “Jesus Christ, I’m still too drunk to be awake right now.”
I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I promise I didn’t mean it.
Mother. Fucker.
“Where’s Ben?” I asked robotically.
Patrick groaned like I was the bane of his existence. “You sure you want the answer to that?”
I squeezed my phone until the plastic squeaked. “Where the fuck is Ben?”
“He’s right here.” Sheets rustled, and his voice was quieter as he said, “Wake your drunk ass up, Ben. Indiana Jones is on the phone, and he sounds pissed.”
I thought heartbreak was a metaphor. A simile for emotional angst. But God, I was wrong. It felt like my heart was splintering inside my chest.
“Get off me,” Patrick was grumbling. “Ben! Wake up.”
“Huh?” Ben’s sleepy voice filtered through the phone. “Pat?”
“Hoosier boy… phone.” Patrick must have set the phone down because I only heard bits and pieces as they spoke to each other in low tones.
“What’s…” Ben’s voice was thick as the sounds of movement and shifting fabric filled the speaker. “I need… Pat, stop… my shirt… why did you answer?”
And that was as much pain as I could handle. I hung up and dropped my phone on the bed like it was a grenade about to blow.
My knees gave out beneath me as my heart writhed in agony. Before I was even aware of it, I was curled in the fetal position, moaning into my carpet. This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t have… would he?
Or I was overreacting. I was making assumptions. It could be nothing but a misunderstanding. Every plot of every lame, romantic movie revolved around misunderstandings that would have been easily rectified with a simple conversation. It could literally be nothing.
Fact: Ben was drunk last night.
For all I knew, he crashed somewhere in the general vicinity of Patrick without even knowing it. Hell, maybe they’d slept in the same bed.
Fact: Friends shared beds all the time.
It didn’t mean anything. Platonic sleeping was possible. Esther and I had shared a bed two nights ago and nothing untoward had taken place.
Fact: Ben and Patrick were not just friends; they were exes.
They were long-lost lovers ripped away from each other by circumstance and distance. Ben had been drunk and possibly depressed. We’d had a huge fight right before he left, and it remained unresolved.
Why wouldn’t he turn to someone he trusted? How could he not seek solace with someone he used to care about? And seriously, how could anyone say no to someone as inhumanly gorgeous as Patrick?
But Ben loves you , my na?ve heart cried.
He’s a fucking cheater , my asshole brain snarled.
And my stomach said, Fuck this nonsense.
I barely made it to the toilet in time before I puked up whatever remained of last night’s dinner. Sour bile coated my tongue, and I heaved and choked until tears streamed down my cheeks. Or maybe that was the heartbreak again.
In my room, my phone rang shrilly. It was most likely Ben. Ben, my boyfriend who was currently waking in bed with his ex that he swore he had no feelings for anymore. Ben, the boy I loved more than anything, who was currently crushing my heart in a hydraulic press. Ben, my Ben—except maybe he wasn’t my Ben anymore. Maybe he never had been mine in the first place.
I wasn’t sure how long I lay on the bathroom floor as my brain and heart went to war. Before this weekend, I would have laughed at even the suggestion that Ben could ever betray my trust. But now? He’d lied before. Why not again?
My phone was still ringing. Ben called me over and over and over. When I finally staggered back into my room, I glared down at my screen where Ben and I beamed at the camera, cheeks pressed together. We looked so happy. But so had Ben and Patrick.
After reading a text from Ben that practically ordered me to “answer my goddamn phone,” I turned it off. It was childish. Technically, there was still a possibility that this was a misunderstanding. But I was pissed off and hurt, and acting irrational sounded like a great idea.
Leaving my phone on the bed, I grabbed my outdated iPod and shoved my earbuds into my ears. I blasted loud music and charged downstairs. I tore through the house like a tsunami, and Dad knew me well enough not to interfere. He watched with wide eyes as I gathered cleaning supplies and set to work.
He’d been right; there was something therapeutic about rage-cleaning, and I had an entire house at my disposal. It would be hours before Ben got back to Indiana, so I turned up the volume on my iPod until my ears bled and cleaned like an unhinged person.
I started in my bathroom, covering every inch of tile and porcelain with bleach, even getting on my hands and knees to scrub the grout with a fucking toothbrush. When I nearly passed out from the fumes, I moved on.
I vacuumed the bedrooms and dusted every surface, even the blinds. Then I cleaned Dad’s bathroom with just as much meticulous fervor as I had mine. I found condoms under his sink which was totally gross, but I resigned myself to never, ever bring it up.
Downstairs, I cleaned the windows until I couldn’t even tell the glass was there, then vacuumed. The kitchen gleamed by the time I was through, and I even tackled the basement that housed piles upon piles of old clothes that none of us ever wore. I threw almost all of them in bags to take to Goodwill before doing a load of laundry for myself and my dad.
When there was nothing else to do and the sun still shone outside, I cleaned out my truck, vacuuming every inch, as well as Dad’s SUV.
Around dinner time, Dad tried to get me to eat something, but I told him I wasn’t hungry. I delivered the bags of old clothes to Goodwill before they closed, then drove around aimlessly for almost an hour. I still didn’t have my phone on me, and not wanting to scare Dad too badly, I returned home.
He reamed me out when I got home. “You left your phone. You didn’t say where you were going. You could have been dead! And after everything that’s happened, you can’t expect me to not worry about you. Especially when you’re acting crazy.”
“Sorry,” I said.
His shoulders sagged at my lifeless tone. “Silas—”
“I really don’t wanna talk about it,” I said, pleading, and he sighed.
After showering the bleach and disinfectant from my skin, I joined Dad in the living room. The TV droned from one program to the next, but I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes were on the clock. Ben had landed ages ago. The drive from Chicago was only two hours depending on how fast he drove. For all I knew, he would be here any minute.
The longer I sat there, glaring at the clock, the more nauseous I felt.
At thirteen minutes past ten, headlights flooded our driveway, and a silver Impala screeched to a halt dangerously close to the end of my truck. His door opened, then slammed shut. Heavy footfalls thumped up the porch steps, followed by the hard banging of a fist on the front door.
“Silas, open the door!” Ben yelled, knocking again.
I froze on the couch. I couldn’t open that door. I didn’t want to know the truth. I really didn’t.
“Son.”
I jerked as Dad’s heavy hand landed on my shoulder, and I blinked away tears I didn’t know were collecting as I looked up at him.
“Do you want me to send him away?” he asked.
I didn’t think it was possible for me to love him any more than I already did, but I was wrong. As much as I wanted him to face this for me, I couldn’t let him. So I shook my head.
“Do you want me to stay?” He sent a wary glance toward the door Ben was trying to bludgeon his way through.
Again, I shook my head.
He patted my shoulder, then squeezed. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I choked out.
He petted the hairs at the back of my head in comfort before leaving me to face the music.
Ben continued to shout my name as he abused my front door, but I waited until Dad had disappeared from view before I rose from the couch. I smoothed a hand down my front as I prepared for what was surely going to be the worst conversation of my life.
The moment I stepped toward the door, it burst open, and I yelped. Ben charged in, slamming the door behind him as he held up the spare key we kept hidden under the porch. “If you don’t want me coming in, you shouldn’t have told me where the spare was.” He stalked to the coffee table and slapped the key on the surface hard enough to leave a divot in the wood.
His chest heaved, bloodshot eyes wide and feral. Not for the first time, I was legitimately frightened of him.
“Hey,” I croaked, and he gawked at me.
“Hey?” he spat the word. “Seriously?”
“Are you still drunk?” I asked, but it sounded more like an accusation.
His nostrils flared. “No. I’m hungover as balls, but I’m not drunk.”
“Should you be driv—”
“Shut up, Silas,” he seethed. “You’re going to shut up, and you’re going to listen—”
“Did you fuck him?” I asked, and Ben stepped back as if I’d slapped him.
“What?” His voice broke on that one word.
“Did you,” I spoke each word clearly, “fuck him?”
His pasty skin paled further, making the bags under his eyes look black. Water welled in his eyes, but he blinked the tears away.
“No,” he said in a strangled voice. “No, I would never do that to you.”
The relief I expected didn’t come. “Can I trust that answer?”
This time, his expression crumpled with hurt. “I don’t think I can answer that for you. I’d hope, after everything we’ve been through, that you could trust my word.”
“Before this weekend, I could,” I retorted, and irritation flashed in his eyes.
“I didn’t fuck him, and he didn’t fuck me. Whether you choose to believe it is entirely up to you.” Ben threw his hands into the air, his anger rolling off him in near-visible waves.
“I really don’t think you have any room to be mad right now,” I said, and his jaw dropped.
“You can be such a selfish asshole sometimes.”
I shrugged, and he ground his teeth.
“We wouldn’t be here right now if you had just answered your damn phone. I would have explained—”
“So, explain.” I splayed my hands with another shrug, and he blinked stupidly at me. “Explain, Ben.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he ran a shaky hand through his messy hair. “Yesterday was a bad day, okay? There were a lot of things I shouldn’t have done, and I did them anyway because I was being stupid. But Pat and I didn’t have sex, okay? I didn’t even know I was in his bed until he woke me up.”
“Why were you drinking? You promised Aunt June—”
“It was a really bad day,” he repeated.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why?”
Looking at his hands, he breathed choppily. “I, uh, I went to visit Mom’s grave. I know better than to go alone because it’s always bad when I do, but I was feeling sorry for myself. And then I went to the party even though I knew I shouldn’t have. I drank because I was depressed and lonely, and I tend to make really bad decisions when I’m drunk which led to everything else that happened last night.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. Okay? I was stupid, and I’m sorry.”
“What else happened last night?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
His head jerked up. “What?”
“You said, ‘which led to everything else that happened.’ What else happened?”
His mouth moved, but no words escaped. I narrowed my eyes, and he blanched. He reached for me, but I backed away. He looked crushed.
“I love you, Silas. Do you hear me? I love you.” My God, he was begging, and I didn’t even know why. “Listen, nothing happened, okay? Not really,” he amended with a wince.
I fisted my trembling hands, pressing them to my thighs. “Explain,” I repeated coolly.
Swallowing thickly, he steeled himself. His skin splotched red as sweat pebbled on his upper lip. His gaze shifted between my face and the floor. Like he was ashamed. Like he was guilty.
“We were just talking, you know? I’d had a lot to drink and then…” He didn’t have to say it, but I kept my lips sealed, forcing him to voice the words I already knew. “He kissed me, okay? We kissed.”
Pain lanced through my chest, making my voice crack pathetically as I said, “He kissed you? Or you kissed? Because that kind of makes a difference.”
“He kissed me,” he whispered, avoiding eye contact. “And then we kissed.”
The last tendons holding my pulverized heart together snapped with a violent, yet anticlimactic rip . There was a buzzing in my ears, and my chest felt hollow and achy.
Years passed in seconds, and when the odd hum that hazed my brain finally receded, I heard Ben’s voice murmuring softly through the room. Had he been talking this whole time?
“I kissed him back for a second. Just a second, okay?” The ocean in his eyes was still and lifeless, and a tear hovered on his lashes. “But he wasn’t you, so I stopped it. Because you’re the only person I want.”
“You kissed him back?”
“For, like, a second,” he admitted, like it somehow made it better, and I hated him for his honesty.
I could have forgiven him if it had just been one-sided, if Patrick had made a move and Ben had rebuffed him. But Ben had promised never to lie to me, and for some reason, this was the time he chose to keep his word.
“And that’s it? Just one kiss?”
He hesitated. It was slight. The barest falter. But I saw it, and it tore through me.
“No, no, no. It wasn’t like that. He wanted—but I stopped it before it went farther.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as a sob wrenched from his chest. “It didn’t mean anything. I swear to God, it didn’t mean anything.” He moved fast, cupping my face between his sweaty hands. “I love you.”
He loved me? I almost laughed.
Yes, he loved me. And I loved him. Even now as I stood bleeding before him, my heart lying in tatters around us, I still loved him. But I didn’t think love was enough. Maybe it never had been.
“I’m sorry,” Ben was still talking, fingers digging into the sides of my face. “I know it’s unforgivable, but please, forgive me.”
His forehead met mine, and he didn’t smell at all like Ben. Sour, stale alcohol and sweat clung to his clothes. There was a hint of vomit somewhere, on his breath maybe. It made me sick.
“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “I’ll fix this. Baby, please, let me fix this.”
Carefully, gently, I circled his wrists with my fingers. My gaze was as cold as the ice in my veins as I yanked his hands off me. His face contorted into an expression of total devastation. A tear slid down his cheek, but since I didn’t have a heart anymore, I felt nothing at the sight.
“I think you should go,” I whispered, surprised at how collected my voice sounded when my entire being was imploding.
He shook his head, his hands remaining outstretched toward me as I backed away from him. “No, no, no. Don’t do this.”
“Go home, Ben.”
“Silas,” he said my name so intimately, and I wanted to rip it from his mouth so he could never taste it again. “Don’t throw this away, not after everything we’ve been through. Don’t throw us away over a stupid kiss.”
“Go home,” I said again, tone sharper.
“But—” He reached for me, desperate hands shaking. “But I love you,” he said like it would fix everything.
How I wished it could.
A shuddering breath wracked through me as I fought the tears wanting to spill over. “I want you to leave.”
He shook his head violently. “No. No, I want to talk about this. I—”
“Get out of my house,” I ground out through clenched teeth.
“You’re really doing this?” He was crying openly, but there was anger in his eyes now. “Over a fucking kiss? You’re gonna throw us away, over one kiss?”
“Get the fuck out of my house, Ben.”
“You asshole,” he sobbed. “How can you throw us away so easily? Like it’s nothing!”
My temper finally snapped, and I charged toward him, fisted my hands in his shirt, and shoved with all my strength. “Get the fuck out!”
Ben fell to the carpet with a grunt, and his expression froze over, eyes turning to ice. Jumping to his feet, he bared his teeth and pushed me back. I stumbled and he followed me, forearm pressed to my chest. My spine met the wall hard enough to shock the air from my lungs, and I cowered away from the blind rage in his eyes.
“Don’t fucking push me,” he seethed, voice terrifyingly empty, eyes nothing but a void.
“Gonna hit me now?” I said, and he blinked, brow furrowing. “Does that make you feel like a man?”
Emotion trickled back into his eyes, but I couldn’t stop the rage-tipped words. I was in pain, and I wanted to make him hurt.
So I leaned in and dug the knife deeper. “I guess you really are your dad.”
And Benjamin Adams cracked right down the middle.
With a horrified sob, he released me, backing away. His chin trembled, a fresh wave of tears trickling down his cheeks. He looked young and lost, and I hated myself. Almost as much as I hated him.
“Now get the fuck out of my house,” I said.
For a moment, he stared at me in shock, like he hadn’t expected this. Like, however unrealistic, he had never once contemplated the possibility of us ending. Maybe he’d believed in fairytales too.
But he wasn’t Prince Charming, and I wasn’t Cinder-Silas. Happy endings didn’t happen for people like us.
His body lurched with strangled sobs like he was dying, but he couldn’t be dying because I was the one that was dying.
“Silas, please,” he whimpered. “Don’t… I can’t… please.”
When I did nothing but stare at him blankly, he stumbled back toward the door. My knees gave out, and I slid down the wall, hiding my face in my arms. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I couldn’t watch him break as I did nothing to save him.
He was drowning in my living room as I held the life jacket close to my chest, diverting my gaze while he gasped for air. Or maybe I was the one holding him under. I didn’t know anymore. All I knew was that I couldn’t stand by and watch him sink.
“Si?” he whispered so quietly I almost missed it, but it was the final straw.
“Get out!” I shouted, and he sobbed painfully.
The door opened. Then shut. And I shattered into a million pieces.