The Boiling Point | ✔️

22 | control

ASHTON

Standing in the parking lot, I slip into auto-pilot. Into numbness. It's the only way I can deal with what I just did.

To strip myself from the pain I've inflicted on the girl who gave me fleeting happiness, and in return got chewed up and spit out for giving me that.

For giving me part of her light.

I walk over to my dad's truck and get in. He's watching me, dragging on his cigarette, not saying a word. He doesn't have to. I know what he's thinking: that was a home run, boy.

He drives me to the gym for my afternoon shift and gives me strict instructions before he leaves. I mop floors, wipe down equipment and clean windows until my time is up and I can use the punching bag.

I imagine my dad's face on there, and I see flashes of Summer and the way she looked at me in that parking lot, and I block out the stabbing in my ribs and pummel the bag harder. Until I'm dripping sweat and I can't breathe, until my father's skin is swollen and bloody. Until he's begging me to stop, and I only do when red takes over and there's so much rage and hate that I think I'm going to explode.

I collapse against the bag, hanging on with burning lungs.

"Ashton?" Lance's voice floats over. "All good?"

His concern has more to do with whether I'll break his equipment than it does for my state of mind.

"Yeah." I take off the gloves. "Rough day."

❖❖❖

I'm home for less than ten minutes before there's thumping on the door.

"Hey," Nick says when I open. "Your dad home?"

"No, he's at the shop. And I gotta get there soon as well, so..."

"So you have some time. Great." He lets himself in, looking around like my dad might pop up like a jack-in-the-box even though I just told him where he is.

"What's up? You usually tell me if you're coming over."

He shrugs, knuckles cracking. "You were hardly around today. Didn't even hear how it went with Summer."

I go back to making my sandwich so I don't have to look at him. "It went fine. We fucked, it was good, now it's over."

"Over? That's it?" The cracking stops. "But I thought you didn't want to screw it up."

"Yeah, well, I screwed it up. Big shock."

A chair at the table scrapes. "So that's what happened in the parking lot? I walked past her and she looked kinda upset and... your dad picked you up."

He's piecing it together on his own, so I stay quiet and screw the peanut butter lid closed.

"He never picks you up. He didn't even do that in school."

"Trying something new," I mutter, reaching up to put the jar in the cabinet.

"Holy hell, dude." The chair scrapes again, and I see his eyes fixed where my shirt has ridden up.

I pull it down. He slaps my hand away and lifts it. I shove him off, but he's already taken in the dark bruises spanning my stomach and ribcage. We stare at each other in loaded silence. He turns and paces to my room.

"Nick." I drop my butter knife and follow, hearing rummaging ahead of me. "Nick!"

He's in my dresser, ripping out clothes and stuffing them in the gym bag on my bed.