Broken

• Chapter 55 •

"Where are the twins?" I ask after taking a gigantic bite of my waffle.

"Dropped them to school while you were sleeping," he says as he washes dishes.

I study him for a while, he doesn't notice me staring. He continues washing and drying dishes, and it's obvious that it's a routine. Curiosity pokes at the folds of my brain. Where are his damn parents? I take a deep breath in and sigh. I can't live in the dark anymore, I need answers.

"Ashton, where are your parents?"

He freezes up for a second, and it feels like an eternity before he finally looks up at me. He then turns back to the dishes, "Not here."

"Ashton."

He rolls his eyes at me, and I've had just enough with this secrecy bullshit. Something's not adding up. Why won't he tell me anything? What if he's a psychopathic serial killer? What if he killed his parents? I know nothing about him. This was a mistake.

I can't trust him.

I angrily get up from the chair to leave and fall face-first onto the floor.

I'm an idiot.

Ashton rushes towards me, muttering a quick what the fuck when I fall. His eyebrows are knitted together, I swat his hand away when he tries to help me up.

"Look, I can't trust you if you don't tell me anything. Thanks for saving my life and taking care of me and everything, but I can't stay here."

He surprisingly remains quiet, so I look up to read his expression. Only he's not staring at my face, he's staring at the bruise on my upper thigh. His eyes flicker with remorse and pain, he shuts them tightly and lets out a shaky breath.

"My mom died when I was twelve," he whispers, and his voice is so faint that if a spoon had dropped I would've missed it.

My heart sinks into my stomach, and I suddenly feel guilty for pushing him to tell me. It's none of my business, and it's obviously far too personal for him to share comfortably. My cheeks flame.

What the hell, Clementine?

"My father's not around. Hasn't been for a while," he mumbles, and I can tell that the words are difficult to release.

I soften my expression and subconsciously reach out to touch his face. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry," I say in shame.

He opens his eyes, and my heart aches heavily.

His eyes have frozen over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their warmth. I want to rekindle his heat, but I don't know how. I didn't realize he had pain inside, but I should've. There's a reason a person is so stone-cold. I know about all about defense mechanisms.

Now its visible on his face and I wish it would go away. I know that's a selfish want, people have a right to their pain, they don't ask for it—it just arrives like the gift you never wanted. And it's my fault. I've pushed him.

I press my lips into a thin line, the guilt is like gasoline in my guts. I'm being immature and stubborn. He didn't ask for this. He didn't ask that a disgusting man would hurt me in front of his house, he didn't ask to save me, he didn't ask to take care of me.

He didn't ask for any of this.

Yet he's taking care of me, and he has saved me. I think back to the man who scurried past us when I called out for help, and I compare him to how Ashton hadn't hesitated to beat that asshole up and help me.

For no other reason than the fact that he is a good human being. And if I can't trust him completely, I should at least trust in that.

Comprehension fills every fiber in me, I collapse as the tension and doubt finally leave my body. A wave of clarity washes over me, I need to stop thinking everyone is out to get me. I need to learn to trust, even if it's hard.

I release a shaky breath and look him in the eyes, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry... For everything. I know you didn't ask for this, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay. I know it's hard for you... I get it. I guess I can answer some questions for you to feel more comfortable," he tells me softly.

I shake my head no, "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm sorry I pushed you, you're just trying to help."

He studies me for the longest time and finally nods in relief, "Thanks."