Something snapped in me when I saw it. My fingers gripped the wheel so hard I thought I’d break it.
Asher continued, “I got elbowed during street hockey. Fucker got me good, huh?”
Not a soul in the world would have called his bullshit, but I knew he was lying. You know when you know something deep in your gut? You know it so strongly that it sends an electric shock through your bones and up to your brain, firing off a big, glaring sign in your mind with neon red letters saying, “THIS IS BULLSHIT!”?
That’s what I was experiencing. The avoidance, the forced cheerfulness, and the fidgeting all told me something was up.
I didn’t say a word as I looked at the bruise on his face. He started squirming under my gaze and asked, “Can you take me home, man? It’s been a long night, and I’m pretty beat.”
I started the car and pulled out of the lot. The world outside the car blurred into streaks of light like an abstract painting. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.
Finally, I asked, “What happened to you?”
My eyes were on the road, but I felt the discomfort wafting off him and could see him picking at his cuticles in my peripheral vision. “I told you, man. Just an elbow to the eye during some street hockey. Hey! You said you had news, what did you want to—”
“Asher, why are you lying to me?”
“What?” he replied.
By then, I had stopped at a red light, so I was able to face him directly when I spoke. “You’re lying to me. Why? What happened? Who hurt you?”
Those last three words bounced off Asher and ricocheted back, hitting me like a physical force. Those words. Why were those words so familiar?
A honk from behind pulled me back to Earth. The light was green.
I pressed the gas and the car wove through the backstreets of New Rochelle to the rougher side of town. Asher faced forward, saying nothing. He shouldn’t go home. Whatever was going on was happening at home. I could feel it.
“I want you to come home with me.”
“NO! Theo…” Asher took a deep breath. “Everything is fine. It was a fucking hockey injury. Just leave it alone, okay?”
I pulled up to the front of Asher’s apartment complex, and he bolted out of the car and ran inside.
What just happened?The entire car ride felt like it happened in slow motion and at the speed of light simultaneously.
I started second-guessing my instincts.Maybe he really did get an elbow to the face during hockey. Then why did he bolt out of the car? Maybe he was mad that I had assumed something worse? Made assumptions about his home life? Fuck, I didn’t mean to upset him. Should I text him?
I decided to leave it be.
Maybe I should give him some space and check in later.
I started the car and drove down the winding streets back to the main stretch, fully intending to go home. The interaction played out in my mind: the fidgeting, the hiding, theavoidance.
Why was he hiding it in the first place if it was just a battle wound from hockey? He didn’t want me to see it. Why? We showed off our hockey bruises all the time.
Who hurt you?
Those words gripped my throat and sent me hurtling back in time. Strange memories I’d long since forgotten started flooding my brain.
Who hurt you?
I stumbled into a dark room, a light shining from what I assumed was a closet. I could hear a weird grinding sound. What the fuck was that sound? I stumbled toward the light.
Who hurt you?
There was a boy inside. His back was facing me as clothes whirred around him. He had marks on him. Bruises. They looked odd. Those weren’t hockey bruises—they looked like…
Who hurt you?
