Page 43 of A Love Like Christmas Time
He still evades my gaze, his eyes firmly planted on the ground. I give him a few minutes. There’s more cursing under his breath, more angry stomps, until finally, I’ve had enough.
“Caleb.” I remind him of my presence, trying to keep my voice calm. Finally, his head snaps up and his eyes jump to me, filled with a fury unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
“Sit down, Caleb,” I order him and point to his chair. My heart beats into my throat.
With any other man, I’d be nervous. He’s emotional and has no proper control over them, his hand flexing, a vein on his temple pulsating.
But this is Caleb. He couldn’t hurt a fly.
“What do you think—
“Now,” I reiterate, trying to sound strict, while internally I’m panicking. I have no idea what’s going on, or where this emotional outburst is coming from, and quite frankly, I don’t know what to do. “Please.”
His whole body visibly deflates. With an annoyed mumble, he eventually sits back down, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“I have no idea what’s going on. And while I’d love for you to enlighten me, right now I’d appreciate it if you could sit down and breathe for a moment.” I hold his gaze until he ultimately breaks eye contact. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say yes,” he mumbles. I give in to the tingling sensation in my fingertips and reach for him, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“You’re still going to do it.” I lift my eyebrow, daring him to object. He gets up, and I’m about to scold him, when I realize he’s picking up his beanie, hurriedly pulling it over his hair and then further down to cover his eyes.
“Okay.” I let out a deep sigh. “Take a moment. Breathe. I’ve got you, Caleb.”
He doesn’t react. Not a muscle moves, apart from his chest as he greedily sucks in air.
As I walk past him, I give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. At first, his muscles tense under my touch, but then I hear him take a loud, shaky breath.
I’ll give him a few minutes.
On my way to the counter, I collect all the dirty dishes, balancing them on my arms, then set them on the counter. What an unusual perspective back here.
A peek around the corner to his kitchen reveals an open dishwasher. Hopefully he’s not one of those people who need them stacked in a very particular order, because nothing is inside there currently and I live by the chaos in my head.
I place as much as I can inside there, and a quick Google image search helps me find out how this dang thing operates.
When I return to the café, he hasn’t moved an inch. His beanie hides most of his face, one hand pressed hard against it as if to block out the world. His other arm crosses his chest, gripping his bicep tight, fingers buried in the soft flannel of his shirt.
The counter is spotless already, so I make my way back to the seating area and stack all the chairs on his tables, the way I’ve seen him stack them before. He doesn’t move a muscle the whole time.
When I’m done, I end up in front of him, unsure what to say next.
Fuck. I hate seeing him so broken, not knowing what I can do to help.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, taking off his beanie, his voice trembling and tainted with so much pain in it I can’t help but reach for him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper and run my hand through his hair, stepping between his legs. A part of me is waiting for him to tell me to fuck off, to leave him alone, or to lash out at me for seeing him this rattled.
My heart beats into my throat when, instead of pushing me away, he immediately throws his arms around my middle and pulls me closer, burying his face in my shirt.
“Everything will be okay,” I repeat to myself, twirling a curl around my finger, trying to provide comfort.
He’s hugging me so tightly it’s almost awkward to stay standing.
I think we’ve passed the point of being self-conscious. His chair creaks as I shift, then I ease myself onto his lap, his arms tightening around me.
“Don’t,” he whispers when I move, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear. When I finally sit, he clings tighter, face pressed into my shoulder. I pretend not to notice the quiet hitch of his breath — or the damp patch spreading through the fabric there.
His arms squeeze me like he’s trying to fuse me to him, and I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him a little closer. I hug him back just as fiercely, knowing I can’t be the one to let go. Not yet. That will have to be him.
