“Not even at all.”
Hunter smiles, another unguarded one. “You gonna answer my question or not?”
Folding my arms across my chest, I tell him, “After you answer mine.”
Finally relenting, he says simply, “I got punched in the face. Your turn.”
My face falls. “Oh. Shoot. Well, my answer isn’t even interesting; it’s just a cheap backpack and the threads gave out when I was putting it on my shoulder to leave school one day. Who punched you in the face?”
“Someone who doesn’t like me,” he answers dryly.
“Someone from school?”
Lifting his chin in a casual bid for my attention, he says, “Who’d you say that author was? The one who wrote those books you liked?”
“Suzanne Collins,” I answer off-handedly, my concern growing each time he dodges the question. “Who hit you, Hunter?”
His gaze locks with mine for a moment, but then he drops it and pulls the makeshift ice pack off his face instead of answering me. “How’s it look?”
“Like you got punched in the face,” I state. “Who hit you?”
Slanting a slightly more annoyed look at me, he says, “You asked that already. New question.”
“Not until you answer this one. I don’t like how you’re avoiding it.”
“I don’t like pushy girls,” he counters.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t care. Was it Daryl from school? I know he doesn’t like you.”
“Please,” he says dismissively. “Daryl thinks he’s hot shit, but he’s not. He doesn’t have the balls to punch me in the face.”
“Why doesn’t he like you, anyway?”
“Because he’s stupid,” Hunter answers.
My lips curve up faintly, but my smile is tempered by the concern I’m still nursing over his eye. “So, who punched you?”
“I don’t want to tell you because you’ll overreact,” he informs me.
“How will I overreact?”
“You’ll make a big deal out of it, and it’s not. Shit happens. It happened, now it’s over, it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t seem like you think anything matters,” I tell him. Knowing he won’t share if I don’t, though, I add, “I promise not to overreact.”
That grabs his attention. “You promise not to say anything, period?”
I’m a little less comfortable with that promise, but considering the run-around he has already given me, it seems the only way I’ll get an answer. I’m starting to worry it was someone he lives with, maybe his mom or stepdad. If he leaves without telling me, I’ll worry about it incessantly.
A bit hesitantly, I try to reason with him. “If someone’s hurting you, Hunter, you should tell somebody. They shouldn’t be allowed to do that. They’re not allowed to do that, but if you don’t tell anyone, they can’t be stopped.”
Hunter shakes his head, standing and dropping the bag of frozen corn on the table. “Nope. I’m not a damsel in distress, Riley, I don’t need rescuing.”
I stand, too. “I’m not trying to rescue you, I just don’t want to see you mistreated by the people who are supposed to care for you.”
“You don’t even know who hit me.”
“So tell me,” I challenge, my eyes widening.
He rejects the suggestion immediately. “No. You’re stuck in tattletale mode like we’re little fucking kids.”
I jerk back in surprise. It’s not like I’ve never heard the f-word before, but no one has ever spat it right in my face like that. “That’s not true. I know we’re not little kids. It’s not just little kids who—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “Yes, it is.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then I close it again, unsure how to respond.
“I can take care of myself,” he assures me firmly, holding my gaze. “I don’t need you or anyone else to look after me.”
It goes against my better instincts to relent, but he’s being so stubborn, and I need him to set my mind at ease before he leaves. “Fine. I won’t say anything.”
“Promise?”
I swallow, then force myself to say, “Yeah, I promise.”
He narrows his eyes at me like he’s not sure he can trust me. After a moment, he must decide to, because he says, “It was my stepdad. He and my mom were fighting, I butted in…” He trails off and gestures to his eye.
My stomach drops, but I try to keep cool so he can’t accuse me of overreacting. “Has he done that before?”
“I mean, he’s shoved me around a bit, but he’s never hit me. Like I said, I figure he and my mom are heading for divorce this time.”
“Well, yeah, I would hope so. Is he still living with you, or did she kick him out?”
“She didn’t kick him out yet, but she will,” he assures me. “He was too drunk to drive when it happened.”
That does nothing to ease my discomfort.
I don’t think I should have promised my silence now that I know for sure that’s what happened… but the way he talks, it seems like his mom’s handling it. She has to, right? Protecting him is her job.