Page 34 of Ex- Factor

The Scrabble board was my battlefield, and I was determined to win. My tongue pressed against my teeth, eyes scanning my tiles. Silas sat across from me, looking smug as hell with his goofy self, lounging back like a king waiting for me to fail.

“You cheating,” I said, narrowing my eyes when he dropped EXACTING across the board.

He leaned forward with that cocky smirk. “Nah, just smarter.”

“Smarter my ass.” I flicked a tile at him.

He caught it and laughed, the sound bouncing around the room—warm and alive.

Then his phone started buzzing. Once. Twice. Again. Relentless.

He ignored it.

“You gon’ answer that?” I asked.

“Nope. We playing Scrabble.” He grinned, proud of himself.

The buzzing didn’t stop.

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you can’t answer your phone in front of me?” I wasn’t really serious—just curious about who kept calling.

He rolled his eyes, then finally snatched the phone up and pressed it to his ear.

I watched his face. Watched his jaw go tight. Then, just like that, he hung up.

He didn’t look at me. He reached out and mechanically started placing tiles back on the board, rearranging them into meaningless patterns.

“Silas? What’s wrong?” I asked again, a knot of dread forming in my stomach.

“My parents,” he said, his tone disturbingly casual. Flat. Emotionless. “Car accident on US-19. A semi lost control. They didn’t make it.”

The words landed like physical blows. I recoiled, my hand flying to my mouth.

“Oh my God, Silas. I’m… I’m so sorry.” My mind raced, useless. “What are you going to do? Do you need to go to the hospital? The… the morgue? I can drive you—”

His head snapped up, and the look in his eyes was terrifying. Raw, unfiltered pain sheathed in a layer of pure ice.

“I’m not going to do a goddamn thing,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Stop talking. Change the subject. Right now.”

I flinched. Silas had never talked to me like that. But I saw it—the agony threatening to swallow him whole. He wasn’t pushing me away; he was barely holding himself together. I remembered that feeling when my grandma passed. Being angry at the world. I let it slide.

“Okay,” I said softly, my heart breaking for him. “Okay.”

I reached out and slowly started helping him gather the tiles. Afterward, we sat in a heavy, suffocating silence for what felt like an hour.

Eventually, he stood without a word and walked upstairs. I heard the bathroom door close and the lock click.

He needed space. He needed time.

The only thing I could think to do was something normal. I pulled out my phone and ordered food from the first place that was still open.

Twenty minutes later, a knock at the door.

I hurried to open it—and froze.

Donte stood on my porch holding a brown paper bag. A smirk played on his lips.

“Hey, Eshe. I got your order at my house by mistake.”

I didn’t even get to say anything or grab the bag before I heard the creak of the floorboard behind me.

Silas was on the stairs.

Donte’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, his smirk widening.

Silas brushed past me, a blur of motion, and his fist connected with Donte’s jaw with a sickening crack. The food bag went flying, containers scattering across the porch.

Donte staggered back, shock quickly replaced by fury. He lunged at Silas. Blow for blow, they went at it—raw, ugly, and violent.

Silas wasn’t just fighting Donte. He was exorcising a demon. Pouring all his grief, his shock, his unimaginable pain into every punch.

“Stop! STOP!” My voice broke, but neither of them heard me.

Neighbors’ lights flicked on. Someone yelled that they’d called the police. Nobody came outside. I imagined them peeking from behind curtains or watching through security cameras, witnessing the clusterfuck that was my life.

It felt like seconds before red and blue lights painted the street.

Two officers pulled them apart. Donte was a mess—his nose bleeding, one eye already swelling shut. Silas stood there, chest heaving, his knuckles raw and bloody, eyes still blazing.

“You both are under arrest,” one officer said.

“No, wait—” I started, panic clawing my throat.

“Ma’am, step back,” another officer snapped.

Next thing I knew, they were both in cuffs, being read their rights.

What in the fuck just happened?

I think I stood there for ten whole minutes, just watching the street. I couldn’t piece together how we went from Scrabble to Silas’s parents’ death to him and Donte fighting like wild animals.

A car screeched to a halt at the curb. Sinica came running out, her face a caricature of distress.

“You! This is all your fault! You just can’t leave him alone, can you?”

Something in me snapped.

The grief for Silas. The years of her playing the victim. The sheer audacity of her showing up at my house to blame me.

I crossed the lawn in three strides and slapped her. The sound cracked through the night. It felt good.

“Bitch, are you crazy? You know I want nothing to do with that motherfucker.”

She reeled back like she was about to swing.

Her face twisted. Spit flew as she let loose.

“Homewrecker! Ugly ass! Nothing but trouble—always dragging him down, making everything worse!”

The insults poured out like a dam breaking, her voice cracking with rage. She jabbed a manicured finger in my face, trembling with the effort of hating me.

I stepped forward. “Please, Sinica. Swing—so I can beat your ass for the old and the new.”

She jerked back, spun on her heel, and stormed off. Her heels clacked against the pavement. Her curses lingered in the air like poison.

I stood there, chest heaving.

And in that moment, one thing was clear.

Me and Silas needed to move. And I needed to call him a lawyer.