Page 58 of Break Me Apart
A tiny compromise.
I don’t pull away this time, but my pulse races anyway, as if my body thinks it’s in danger. Caiden watches my face. “There,” he says softly. “That’s enough.”
“For now,” I say, swallowing.
“For now,” he repeats.
We leave the café and keep walking.
Amsterdam offers us a thousand places to disappear. Markets. Side streets. Narrow bridges. Little corners whereno one looks twice at anyone. Caiden’s attention shifts between the city and me. We stop at a canal bridge and watch a boat slide under it. The people on the boat laugh loudly as a man kisses another man on the cheek like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Caiden glances at me, and I can feel the questions running through his head. Do you see it? Do you feel it? Do you understand what this could be?
I do. That’s the problem. Because once I let myself believe in it, it becomes something someone can take away.
We walk for another hour, stopping off to buy something greasy wrapped in paper and eat it standing up. Caiden gets sauce on his thumb and licks it off without thinking, and my brain does something unhelpful with the image.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says with his mouth full.
“Like what?” I reply automatically.
He swallows, smirking. “Like you’re deciding whether to eat me or stab someone.”
“Why not both?” I ask, and he laughs, because he understands my humour even when it’s ugly.
We wander into another museum. This one’s smaller and quieter, and I almost start to relax. At the exit, Caiden reaches for my hand again, slower this time. His fingers hover near mine, and I stare at the space between our hands.
Then I reach out and I take it.
For three steps.
For three steps, his fingers lace with mine, the city keeps moving, nobody points, nobody shouts, and nobody cares.
For three steps, it feels like we’re just two men on holiday, and the world doesn’t know anything that would hurt us.
Then a group of tourists comes too close, laughing loudly and bumping into each other. My instinct snaps hard, and I let go.
Caiden’s hand hangs in the air for a second, like he doesn’t understand what happened. Then he drops it to his side as if it were nothing.
He doesn’t look at me, which hurts more than the recoil. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. Sorry is too small. Explaining is too pathetic.
So I do what I always do when I’m close to cracking. “You’re sulking.”
Caiden’s mouth tightens. “I’m not.”
“You are,” I insist. He glances at me then, and the look in his eyes is too controlled. “Stop doing that,” I say, quieter.
“Doing what?” he asks, still calm and controlled.
“Making it easy for me,” I snap because that’s what he’s doing. He’s making it easy by not fighting me, “it makes me feel like a weak coward.”
Caiden stops walking and turns fully to face me. “Ari.” I brace automatically because of how gently he says my name. “You’re not a coward,” he says.
The comment forces a sharp laugh from my throat. “That’s generous.”
“It’s true,” he replies. “You’re terrified, that’s different.”
“You want me to hold your hand—.”
