Page 72 of Shattered Hate

At that moment, Cope’s key slips into the lock, and the door bursts open—not revealing Cope, but Trayton. A single tear escapes. I know right there and then, I’m going to tell him everything: the moment I must admit what a coward I was. His eyes scan my face, growing even paler as they eventually settle on the sketch pad in my hand, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I make no effort to hide my emotion as he steps forwardslowly, carefully taking the pad from my grasp as though it were the most fragile treasure. His eyes move over the image of the lighthouse, a look of confusion briefly crossing his features as he alternates his gaze between the drawing and me—once again, then back to me.He drops the sketchpad onto my bed, his eyes scanning my face. “It’s really you,” he murmurs, his shoulders drooping and his hands hanging limply at his sides. I look down, swallowing hard, with a flush of shame as I nod.

“Quiet Boy,” he whispers again—how strange that my old nickname still fits, and he never realized it was me. “Wh-Why?” he stammers, then lets out a soft laugh as he sinks onto the bed, his gaze drifting back to the open pad and the drawing of the lighthouse. “And you knew it was me all along?” he asks, his eyes meeting mine.

“Yeah,” I reply, my voice barely audible.

He reaches into his sweater pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. “I found a sketchpad at the rink a few months back and found this picture inside. It’s similar to the one at the tattoo shop. I recognized it immediately, and now everything’s clear,” he explains, studying the image of the lake, trees, and the light piercing through—the lighthouse. “No bullshit,” he says, jaw tensing. “Tell me everything. I’m not leaving this room until you explain why you never fucking told me it was you.” I nod, my lip trembling slightly.

“I was so happy the night I met you,” I confess, locking eyes with him even as his frown deepens, as if my words hurt him. “I’d never experienced any joy in my life; it felt like everything was wrapped in darkness. Then you opened that door in the lighthouse, and damn, your smile shone brighter than any beacon for me that night.” I watch as his fists clench. All I want is to interlock my hands with his, but I hold back, gripping my own tightly instead. “For two months, every day you came up there. You were the only good thing in my life.”

“Really? So you left because I was the only good thing for you?” he says, sarcasm oozing from him.

“Remember the night I gave you that coin, and when we left the lighthouse, you kissed my cheek and whispered thank you?” I say this, still recalling the softness of his lips on my cheek and the way my heart pounded within me. Trayton gulps and nods.

“Marley was parked nearby—he had been watching us. I can’t even recall how long, but he was there the whole time.” I wince at the memory of Marley pulling up while I was walking back to the trailer and taking me home. “He told my dad he saw me kissing a boy. My dad beat me so badly that Bex had to drag me to the hospital the next day. I was in so much pain—he broke my ribs.” I laugh bitterly. “Obviously, we were young and clueless about the fallout that would follow. Within hours, child welfare services were at the trailer door.”

“How did you manage not to be taken away from him?” Tray demands, his tone sharp and brimming with anger.

“I was just a trailer park kid, Tray—we often end up slipping through the cracks.” I offer him a tight smile. “My dad started tracking my every move. He told me he’d kill me if I ever came near you again. ‘No son of mine will be a fag,’ he’d roar. And Marley made a point of reminding him that he had a fag for a son—he did it intentionally. From that day on, Marley hated me and even enjoyed it when my dad beat me.” I exhale deeply, wishing I didn’t have to dredge up these painful memories, but if sharing them helps Tray understand even a little of what drove me, I’ll endure the agony. “I went back later, after I’d healed and after my dad finally stopped watching me like a hawk, but you weren’t there.”

Tray’s jaw tightens. “I went back every day for a month,” he whispers. My heart shatters at those words—knowing that he cared enough to care about me being gone, yet all I can picture ishim waiting at the lighthouse, and the pain is almost physical. I press my hand to my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“I hate that you had to go through all this, and I’m sorry you did, Dax,” he says, his eyes meeting mine, tears welling up. “But you had so many chances to tell me, especially when I was with Bray and Bexley.” I nod silently, recalling Brayden’s words at the graveside: “I know for a fact he wouldn’t want you holding onto this.”

“I’m sorry, Bex,” I whisper, and Tray frowns. “I always felt like someone up there resented me.” I gesture upward at the ceiling. “I remember spotting you outside Bray’s trailer a few months later. At first, the panic hit me when I thought Marley might see you, but then excitement surged through me—I took it as a sign that I had truly seen you.” I smile as I recall the moment when my heart fluttered upon catching sight of him through my window. “Then Bex burst into my trailer and barreled into my room. I was so excited to tell him that the boy I had talked about from the lighthouse was outside his trailer. But then he said, ‘That’s the boy, Dax, the one I told you about at the ice rink.’ My heart sank when I heard him say that because he had always spoken so highly of that incredible boy he met at the ice rink.” I tug at my sleeves as I look up at Tray. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “Bex was my only friend; he helped me so much. He was my best friend, and I just couldn’t find the words to tell him I saw you first. So I swallowed my pain and smiled at him, saying that you looked exactly as wonderful as he’d described. Little did he know, I already knew just how amazing you were.” My lip trembles as the emotions spill out. “I thought you might recognize me, which is why I tried to keep a low profile whenever you were around the trailer park.”

“Back then, I would have known that smile,” he says, throwing his head back in laughter. “Remember that day at the rink whenI found you lying on the ice? You had your hood up, and your smile reminded me of the boy on—” he pauses, then corrects himself, “It reminded me of you.” He sighs, his laughter fading. “I didn’t see much of your face; you always hid yourself.”

“Because I didn’t want you to see my cuts and black eyes,” I reply. Tray nods, understanding, as he glances around my room, trying to piece everything together. “There’s more,” I say, meeting Tray’s gaze as he raises an eyebrow slightly. “No bullshit.” I echo his earlier words. “The kiss with Bex,” I admit. Tray fixes me with a hard stare, keeping me frozen in place. “It wasn’t what you think. Bex asked me to kiss him and make sure you saw.” Tray’s eyes widen in confusion, his brows furrowing.

“What?”

“Bex knew he was spiraling with the drugs and didn’t want to pull you into it. He saw the stress it caused Brayden and didn’t want you to suffer the same, so he needed to make you hate him,” I explain softly. Tray shakes his head, looking completely shocked.

“That’s messed up. Why didn’t he just talk to me?” He frowns.

“Would you have let him go if he had?” I ask, knowing Tray well enough to realize he wouldn’t have. He would have done everything possible to help Bexley, only to end up broken, just like Brayden. “Bexley was an addict, Tray. It’s an illness. And he dragged Brayden down with him. He didn’t want to do the same to you.” A tear slips down my cheek. “I wasn’t an addict, but I grew up surrounded by that life. I was already deep in that mess.”

“But you were looking at me.”

“Because I wanted to be kissing you,” I confess. “I craved so much for you to be the one.”

“Your eyes were so intense—I thought you were savoring every moment of my torment. Now it all makes sense.” He drops his head. “I can’t believe you never told me,” he whispers, hiseyes fixed on a spot across the room while his jaw clenches. “I opened up so much when we were up at that lighthouse—I bared everything to you. You have no idea what a lifeline you were for me back then, Dax.”

He frowns at the picture as if replaying all those moments, as though he’s reliving our past.

“I was lonely, confused, and utterly miserable until you came along and lit up my days, making all the chaos a little less overwhelming. You’re the reason I realized I liked boys, the reason I discovered I was gay and not the broken kid I thought I was. You weren’t alone in falling that night—Dax, I fell so completely for you.” He laughs again as I choke on a sob. “I always found it ironic that I fell for someone whose face I only saw in part, yet you had this calm presence. You were quiet, but your entire aura spoke to me. It was like I could feel my own pain mirrored in you, like I finally had someone who understood me.” He studies me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know you went through hell, Dax, and I’m truly sorry for that—I really am. But I wish you had told me.”

I shake my head as tears spill down my face. “I promised Bex, with everything I had, that I wouldn’t reveal anything about that kiss. He was so happy when he met you—I couldn’t take that from him.”

“At the hotel, you asked me what I felt when I thought of that person, and I told you pain.” He pauses and wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. “It was you I thought of. Every time I think of you, it hurts—so fucking much. You were the boy who burst into my world, with that damn adorable smile that made my eleven-year-old stomach flip and those rosy cheeks that stirred butterflies.”

He points to his chest. “So why don’t you ask who hurt me, Dax?”

I shake my head, my sobs catching in my throat.

“Ask me,” he hisses softly.

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