Page 7 of Break Me Apart
The familiarity of his tone does more damage than the words themselves. This isn’t the careful distance I prepared for. This is him, unguarded in the specific way that always undoes me.
I keep reading.
He misses me, which makes sense. I can hear the way he would say it, dry and understated, then annoyed with himself for saying it.
Then I reach the line, and he doesn’t soften the blow at all.
I love you.
Plain. No apology. No attempt to make it easier for me to swallow. Just the truth, placed carefully at the end of a sentence. He knows exactly how much weight it carries and refuses to pretend otherwise.
Caiden is irritatingly consistent this way.
Outwardly, nothing about me changes. I’m just a man, reading an email in a forgettable café. Inside, something gives way enough to count as breaking. It’s enough that I feel the release of tension, the dangerous slack that comes when something you’ve been holding back finally presses through anyway. It’s the same feeling as loosening a tourniquet. Relief and danger, hand in hand.
When I reach the end of the message, I sit there staring at his name. I open a reply and for a moment, the cursor blinks in the empty space. I consider saying something safe. I could tease him or pretend I’m above all of this.
But I’m not above anything when it comes to him.
I delete an entire sentence and replace it with another. Then I stop editing. If I’m going to do this, I won’t do it halfway.
From:[email protected]
Date:Friday, January 19, 1996, 14:32
Subject: RE:Sneaky Russian
—Caiden
I waited until I knew you’d be back, then waited a little longer, just in case.
I’m relieved to hear you made it back safely.
I’m happy you wrote. I wasn’t sure that you would, but I’m pleased you have proven me wrong on this occasion.
Don’t make a habit of it, though.
What you saw with Mason would rattle anyone with a working sense of self-preservation. Yes, the line is thin and dangerous. You’re not wrong to be shaken by it.
But I’m glad you decided to write regardless.
I miss you too, more than you know.
There may be times when I can’t write back as quickly as I would like. This email isn’t accessible from base; it can be difficult to get out, as you know. I just wanted you to know that in case there’s a delay.
I love you too. I have no idea how this works either, but I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.
Write back soon.
—Ari
(The Sneaky Russian)
When I’m finished, I read it through again, then I send it. The message disappears, the inbox refreshes, and I log out. I close the browser, stand, and leave the terminal exactly as I found it.
Outside, the street noise rushes back in. I welcome it for the distraction. I get back into the car and pull into traffic as if nothing has happened.
