A Million Shattered Pieces

Chapter Fifteen

"You are worth more than your darkness."

Silence enveloped the room, but I didn't mind. Brock slept peacefully beside me. In his sleep, the constant dread fell away, leaving behind nothing but a young man. I turned onto my side, taking a moment to study him. To look at the face that haunted every thought.

His eyelashes were long, longer than anyone else that I knew. They brushed across his cheeks when his eyes were closed, a shade lighter than his dirty blond hair. Faint acne scars were scattered across his cheeks, so faded that I hadn't noticed them until now. Some baby fat still clung to his face. A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips, and I reached out to brush a tuft of hair from his brow. In the time since September, it had grown a few inches, so that it now curled around his ears as well as at the nape of his neck.

Less than an hour earlier, we had done little more than stare up at the ceiling. The lack of conversation between us had almost been a relief. To not have to pretend around someone else calmed me, made me forget for a moment about the constant weight on my shoulders.

Brock mumbled something, lashes fluttering before he opened his eyes. The sight nearly made me cry. The person who had been around just a little while before our first date stared back. For one fleeting moment, I allowed myself to believe we did not live with darkness in our hearts, with demons occupying our souls.

"Hi," Brock said, a smile spreading across his face, pulling his cheeks so much a small dimple appeared on the right side. If it could even be considered a dimple. It was little more than a slight indent in the skin near his mouth, a little smile line for someone who never spent much time smiling.

A car horn honked from the driveway.

"Hey," I said, suddenly aware of how close we were. Anyone could walk in and disrupt us, jump to their own conclusions about why two teenagers were in a bed together.

A dull ache throbbed in my chest as I sat up, looking to the closed door. Brock's mother would throw a fit if she saw that. I crawled out of the bed, my steps groaning on the wooden floor as I crossed the room. The door flew open seconds before I heard keys dropped on one of the small side tables in the foyer below.

Heels clacked on the floor, Mrs. Ruskin probably searching for Brock.

Finally, she shouted up the stairs. "Brock? Are you home?"

"Yeah, Mom. I'm upstairs." He straightened his crooked sweater, meeting my eyes, still looking half asleep.

The sound of footsteps began to travel up the stairs, and my heart began to race. Sleeping in the same bed meant nothing, and my own mother knew we'd done that before, but it horrified me to think what Brock's mother might think of me.

She said nothing when she saw us, standing in the middle of the room not saying a word.

Instead, Mrs. Ruskin turned back around. "Hello, Claire."

"Hi," I said, heat burning my face. It probably made me look more suspicious than I already felt.

I dared not breathe until she disappeared back down the stairs. It had to be the late afternoon if she had come back home, even if it was the weekend. Both Brock's parents spent most of their time working in the offices downtown. His father owned a life insurance business, which explained their wealth. Mr. Ruskin earned more annually than both my parents combined. But no amount of money could fix their torn family. No amount of spoiling their only son would fix the darkness that steadily consumed him.