37. Bohdi

Chapter thirty-seven

Bohdi

I find myself frowning at my phone, baffled by Brayden's radio silence. He hasn't answered my calls or texts all day, and it's unnerving. He was supposed to meet with Bexley yesterday to discuss what I mentioned, but there's been no word. I've searched the campus, but neither Brayden, Kal, nor Tray is in sight. Perhaps they're caught up in extra training?

As the minutes tick by, anticipation builds. Class is about to start. Could Brayden have confided in Bexley, only for things to go wrong? My pen taps nervously against the desk, and I fixate on the door, waiting for answers. But as more students file in, Brayden remains noticeably absent.

A sinking feeling settles in my gut. Is he struggling with the weight of saying he loves me? Even though he made it pretty clear, he didn't mean it. My phone jolts to life, Denny's name flashing across the screen. But there's no time. I'll call him later. I silence the phone, tucking it into my desk drawer. A quick check after Denny's call ends reveals nothing from Brayden—no text, no missed call. Silence hangs heavy, a dark weight in the air.

Then Daxton enters, his posture defeated, head bowed lower than I've ever seen. He bypasses his own desk, heading straight for mine. When he looks up, his eyes are a raw, swollen mess, bloodshot and half-closed. I recognize that look—it's etched in my memory, the aftermath of nights spent crying yourself to sleep. Something has shattered.

"Daxton," I choke out, my voice strained. "What's happened? Where's Brayden?" My heart races, and swallowing becomes a struggle. Daxton's trembling lip betrays him. His gaze flits between mine, and then the wall breaks. Sobs rack his body, shoulders convulsing.

"I'm sorry," he manages, voice cracking.

I grip his shoulder, desperation rising. "Where is Brayden?" The room tilts, and everything inside me plummets.

"You. You fucking piece of shit!" A primal roar pierces the air, and suddenly, Daxton is no longer in front of me but sprawled on the floor, a fist having collided with his face. The violence unfolds in a blur. I can't process it immediately.

Trayton jumps over Daxton, raining blows upon him, while Kal remains frozen, a marble statue caught in an out-of-body trance. For a heartbeat, I'm paralyzed too, shock gripping me. Then reality snaps back.

"Trayton!" My voice echoes through the silence as I stride around my desk, seizing him by the back of his sweater. "Explain what the hell is going on!"

The class holds its breath, and nausea churns within me. My mind races through countless scenarios. "Where is Brayden?" I grit, not caring as Daxton lies on the floor beneath my feet, blood all over his face. But he just stares up at Trayton who takes uncontrolled gasps, while gritting his teeth down at Daxton.

"Where's Brayden?" I shout again, my concern overwhelming me. Trayton's eyes remain fixed on Daxton.

"Ask him," Trayton spits, physically directing his disdain at Daxton. "He's the cause. Him and his junky family."

My resolve snaps. "Take yourself to the dean, right this instant!" I bellow in Trayton's face.

"You're as good as dead, Rivers." Trayton's parting glare at Daxton lingers in the room as he exits. I snatch tissues from my desk, offering them to Daxton. He stares blankly, shaking his head. My focus shifts to Kal, desperation etched across my face.

"Please, tell me what's happened?" A solitary tear traces Kal's cheek, and the world tilts. "Is it Brayden?" His eyes assess me, up and down.

"You heard Trayton," Kal replies, voice frail. "Ask him." He retreats, another tear slipping free, and then he turns away. Head bowed, he walks out of the classroom, leaving me grappling with uncertainty.

"Daxton," I murmur, my voice a fragile thread. "I'll take you to the nurse, but please—I need to know—"

"It's Bexley," he whispers, and time fractures. I wait, suspended, as Daxton's trembling subsides. The entire class watches, a collective breath held. His tear-streaked face lifts, anguish etched in every line. "He's gone, sir. Fucking gone, and it's all my fault."

Sobs rack him, legs buckling, and I can't even steady him. My own legs waver, threatening to crumble beneath the weight of his confession. I cling to my desk, the room spinning, distant murmurs a haunting echo.

I don't look back at Daxton. I don't meet my students' eyes. Instead, I stagger toward the door, desperate for air. My lungs constrict, suffocating. Fingers fumble with my tie, buttons loosening as heat engulfs me. Outside the lecture hall, I clutch the wall, knuckles white, and stumble down the corridor. Concerned faces blur past, and when the cool air hits, I gasp—a panicked breath in a world that's shattered once again.

The trailer looms before me, an old, weathered remains that holds years of agony. But today, the pain is a relentless hurricane, tearing at my insides. I sense it even from this distance, an ache that defies walls and doors.

Inside my car, I remain motionless, fixated on that door. The silence envelops me, thick and suffocating. It's as though Brayden's sobs echo through the air, haunting me. The pain seeps out, oozing like a wound that refuses to heal. I scan the surroundings, a park, a community that now wears its own cloak of mourning. A loss it didn't care for, yet one that hangs heavy in the stillness.

Isn't that how it goes? When you're alive, people pass you by, indifferent. But when death claims you, suddenly they mourn as if a piece of themselves is forever fractured.

My car door creaks open, and I step out into the hole of pain. Each heavy footstep stabs at my soul, drawing me inevitably closer. I can't be certain if he's here, but the invisible thread tugs at my core, pulling me toward him, toward his agony. My hand hovers, prepared to knock, but hesitation grips me. Instead, I push the door wide open.

Silence greets me, a suffocating veil. Then the smell—a haze of decay and misery—hits like a physical blow. My eyes scan the room, desperate for Brayden.

There, on the tattered sofa, lies the woman I glimpsed at the door that day I was here, their mother. Her frail form crumples against the torn fabric, arms wrapped around herself. My heart bleeds for her, even as memories flood back of Brayden's whispered confessions, the fractured glimpses into their fractured lives. She's responsible for this wreckage. Had she raised those boys as they deserved, Brayden wouldn't be mourning his brother now.

I turn away from her, leaving her to wallow in her pain. A fraction of what she's earned.

A door to the right catches my attention, slightly ajar. Inside, a mattress rests on the floor, a grimy quilt atop it. A broken cupboard, walls veiled in mold. But it's the room at the end that seizes my breath. The loose doorknob rattles as I put my hand on it and push down. My heart ignites with agony.

There, curled into a ball on the bed, Brayden trembles. Guilt and pain etched into every line of his body; face buried in pain. The room showcases me a life I haven't seen—old posters clinging to the walls, memories held together by frayed tape. Brayden and Bexley's childhood is captured in faded photographs, a photo booth moment frozen in time, their laughter denying their hidden struggles. Life, to them, was bearable as long as they clung to each other.

My throat constricts. A lump lodges there. Brayden clings to the sheets, knuckles white. His sniffles echo through the room.

"Brayden," I rasp, my voice cracking. His head tilts up, and his destroyed face shatters me.

"B—Boh." His voice, a raw whisper, pushes me toward him. He extends a trembling hand as I reach for the bed. "No," he pleads, "please don't—touch."

I hover, lost, my heart echoing his pain. What can I offer? There's nothing, no remedy for this depth of loss, this heartbreak that splits existence in two.

"It still smells of him," he sobs, eyes swollen and desperate. "I can still smell him. It's as if he's still here." I meet his gaze, helpless.

Every word he utters mirrors my own past, the ache, the void. I silently beg the universe for comfort, for something to ease his torment. His pain booms, and my heart fractures over and over. I walk to the end of the bed, hating that I can't touch him, that I can't hold him and his pain. I sit on a stool at the end of the room, staring at him on the bed as he clutches to the quilt like it's his lifeline.

"Tell me about him," I whisper. "I want to know everything about him."

Brayden doesn't hesitate. "He is—was"—he chokes on a sob—"was my other half. Not just a brother, but a mirror reflecting my soul. We shared everything, the good, the bad, the unspoken. When we were kids, we'd lie in this very room, staring at the ceiling, inventing patterns. He'd point at the stars out the window. ‘That one's ours, Bray. Forever.'"

His fingers stroke over the quilt he holds in a tight grip in his hands. "He loved storms," Brayden says, his voice a fragile thread. "When thunder rumbled, he'd drag me outside, rain soaking our clothes. ‘Listen,' he'd say, ‘that's the universe singing.' And we'd stand there, drenched, believing we could hear the heavens."

My lips trembling, I ask, "What did it sound like?"

"Freedom," Brayden whispered. "Like every secret we'd ever shared was twisted into those raindrops. But now . . . " His voice falters. "Now it's just rain."

I listened, my own heart aching. "What was he like?"

Brayden's chuckle is bittersweet. "Fearless. He'd climb trees, scrape his knees, and laugh like it was the only way to breathe. But he had this quiet side too, the one that loved poetry and sunsets. We'd sit by the window, watching the world turn gold, and he'd say, ‘Life's a canvas, Bray. We paint it with our moments.'" He chuckles. "I thought he was just high, but then I began looking at life with him and it was beautiful with him by my side."

"And now?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Brayden's gaze turned inward. "Now, it's like half my canvas is blank. Bexley was the color, the vibrant strokes that made life beautiful. What am I going to do, Boh? Please tell me what I'm meant to do."

His eyes beg me, but there is nothing I can say that will help because the truth is, nothing is going to take this pain away. It never leaves, it just gets easier to carry.

"I don't know, Bray. I don't know how to answer that, but know I'm here and I'm not leaving you. I'm not going anywhere."