Page 60 of Shattered Hate

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone to grasp the weight of his words. The pack of peanut butter cups lies there like it’s mocking me.

I tear open the orange package, the crinkling sound breaking the silence of the cemetery. Gently, I place a single candy on the cold, granite gravestone before popping another into my mouth. The familiar taste of peanut butter and chocolate brings a rushof memories, taking me back to those lazy afternoons when we sprawled on my bed, sharing secrets and candy.

“Was that a sign, Bex?” I whisper into the stillness, hoping for some kind of answer. “Did you send your brother to find me?”

The dilemma churns within me as I think about Tray. Should I tell the truth of what happened that day?

Should I tell Tray that the kiss meant nothing to either of us?

My heart aches with the weight of unspoken words. Do I confess that, in that fleeting moment, all I wished for was to be kissing him instead?

Chapter twenty-nine

Daxton

After talking with Bex, I felt the urge to take a walk. Usually, visiting him helps clear up the chaos in my mind, but this time, it didn’t work. Instead, I ended up with more unanswered questions, feeling even more unsettled than before.

So here I am, standing in front of my old trailer door. Nothing has changed—absolutely nothing. This realization should make me turn around and leave, but I find myself unable to move. It feels like Bexley somehow led me here, like a twisted sign. I left the graveyard without a second thought, and instead of heading back to my dorm, my feet brought me here. Home.

I glance over at Bexley’s trailer and then take in the bare landscape around the park. Everything here is lifeless, every single thing.

Before I can stop myself, I find myself walking toward Bexley’s trailer. I stand at the door, possibly avoiding seeing my dad, but I just want to check if Bex’s mom is still alive. I start to knock but hesitate—I’ve never knocked before, so why start now?

I open the door, expecting the usual smell, but there’s none. As I step inside, I notice it’s somewhat clean, which is surprising. On the sofa lies an even frailer version of Bex and Bray’s mom. She looks terrible—it’s shocking how drugs can slowly destroy a person from the inside out.

Looking over the kitchen, I’m puzzled by its cleanliness. It was never this tidy, not even when Bex lived here, and he always tried his best to keep it clean.

I walk over to the fridge to see if there’s any food, and I find three containers with ready-made meals. What the heck? Who is doing this?

As I close the fridge door, I hear a groan behind me. I turn to see Bex’s mom stirring, her eyes fluttering open as she frowns.

“Bex, baby, is that you?” A lump forms in my throat. “Bex,” she murmurs, still half asleep.

“Go back to sleep, Mom,” I whisper, watching as she slowly drifts off again. Bex had always shared stories about his mom—she wasn’t always like this. There was a time when she was a good mom, not an addict.

Bex understood the craving for drugs too well; he had days when he would have sacrificed anything to get them. He related to his mom in a way Brayden couldn’t.

I glance at the door, the one I had entered to find my best friend receiving CPR from his twin. Tears roll down my face as I stare at the bedroom door, and every part of me wants to avoid it. I run out of the trailer, feeling an overwhelming sense of suffocation, like someone is physically gripping my throat. Why did I even come here?

I head over to my old trailer. I know I have to go inside; maybe it will keep Marley off my back, but I have no idea how he’ll react or what mood he’ll be in. I haven’t told anyone I’m here.

Taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart, I open the door and step in. Unlike Bex’s trailer, this one reeks, making my eyes water.

What happened here? Beer cans cover the floor, dirt is everywhere, and food is dropped all over.

I glance around the living room, which is a complete mess—spilled drinks, food stains, trash bags overflowing with rotten garbage. The overpowering stench of urine makes me step outside for a moment before continuing. I take a few deep breaths, using the sweater—actually Tray’s, which he lent me at the ice rink—to cover my face as I re-enter.

“Dad,” I call out through the trailer.

No response.

I step over the trash and head to his bedroom door. As I open it, the smell assaults my senses, hitting my eyes before reaching my nose.

Shit, this is bad. This is really bad.

My dad is sprawled out on his bed—bruised face, swollen features, and a stomach bigger than I’ve ever seen. His eyes suddenly widen as they lock onto me.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he says, his voice trembling with fear.

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