Page 1 of Break Me Apart
North Yorkshire,England
January 1996
ONE
CAIDEN
On the ride back to base, I dream of him again. We’re lying in bed in his tiny little cabin on the other side of the world, and I’m... happy.
I can feel the brush of his long blond hair against my cheek, his fingers tightening on my waist as he grips and pulls me closer, and the weight of his leg over the top of mine, caging me in, keeping me there with him.
I can smell the subtle hint of his aftershave, combined with the cigarette smoke on his skin.
I can hear the tiny sounds he makes while he sleeps, the crackle of the fire in the background, and the whistle of the wind outside.
I’m still there. I never left.
Then the truck jolts sharply, reminding me that reality is cruel, and I am, in fact, so painfully the opposite of happy.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I left Russia — and him, Ari — behind. I still haven't let myself feel it properly.
I can't.
Not while I'm around the rest of my unit, so instead, I slept.
I opened the poetry book he gave me on the plane, saw the email address, and it sent my head west.
What now? Am I supposed to forget? Am I supposed to fight? I don't have the answer, only more questions. Questions I'm actively avoiding while people are looking.
Instead of focusing on those, I focus on what’s in front of me. The smell in the truck, the crap coming out of Mason's mouth, the weather. Anything that isn’t the twisting and churning feeling in my stomach.
The only thing that’s better in England is the weather, which, truthfully, isn’t saying much. As we pull onto the base, it surprises me how everything looks exactly how I remember it but feels so very different.
There’s the grey concrete, wet tarmac, and buildings that manage to look miserable even on a good day.
The four months away feel more like years. I could have stayed away longer without much trouble. Another four months, probably even more. There’s no puzzle as to why, even if I’m not in the mood to spell it out.
Still, men move around like they’ve got somewhere important to be, or at least they make it look that way. Somewhere nearby, I faintly hear someone already losing his temper with paperwork. It’s good to know some things never change in that way.
It’s home, apparently. Whatever that word means.
I hand over my paperwork, clear the last checkpoint, shoulder my bag, and everything continues as if I never left. The familiarity is there, but it doesn’t do much to help right now.
I don’t go straight to my room; if I do, I'll unpack, sit on the bed, and give myself far too much quiet time. And I’ve had enough of that already.
So, I head for the office instead.
I drop my bag by the desk and start working through the messages that stacked up while we were away. Most of it is predictable. There are updates, requests, and problems that resolved themselves before anyone bothered to wait for an answer. There’s one note from a bloke who could have sorted his own issue if he’d given it five minutes and a tiny amount of brainpower. I consider writing “try harder, fucking arsehole” in the margin and decide against it.
The professional growth shocks even me.
I deal with everything quickly, efficiently, and I keep my mouth shut. By the time I run out of excuses and head back to my room, the base has settled down. Nothing in my room has changed. The bed’s pulled tight enough to bounce a coin, and the desk is exactly how I left it. There’s a pale rectangle on the wall where a picture used to hang, before someone decided it counted as personality — God forbid — and, therefore, had to go.
Later, it’s business as usual. On paper, I’m the same person. In practice, not so much. The rest of the day blurs into reintegration briefings and debriefs stacked back-to-back. People want updates, opinions, and reassurance that nothing slipped while we were gone.
I give them what they’re after.
There’s a rhythm to it I know well. Competence, a bit of dry humour in the right places, and just enough ease to stop anyone looking at me too closely.
