But dreams aren’t reality. My reality isn’t mine to shape. I’ve learned that the hard way.
It’s just not possible. We aren’t possible.
I’ve never broken free from my family and I don’t think I’ll be able to start now.
I glance down at my phone, pulling up a chat thread from my mother and then one from my father. Demanding, arguing, pushing. Like they always do.
They could never just love me. I was a means to an end.
And as much as I long to run, to give it all up. I don’t know if I can.
Not even for him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After leaving him to wake up alone, after dashing his hopes about what we were, he avoids me.
I barely see him the following few days, and he’s slept in his bed alone every night.
I’m not sure if he’s giving me space or if he’s upset with me, but I’m too scared to ask.
I do need to address this with him. I need him to understand where I’m coming from. I need him to just listen, even if only for a moment. I feel bereft without him crawling into my bed at night. The chasm growing between us is unbearable.
I hate it.
“Caleb?” I ask, a determined energy moving through me as I square my shoulders. I’m going to speak to him, and he’s going to give me a chance to explain.He has to, I think as I walk into the apartment. I know he’s here because his jacket is draped over the couch and his shoes are discarded near the front door.
“In here,” he calls from the bedroom.
Just his voice has my heart pattering violently in my chest. He doesn’t sound angry…he just sounds resigned.
“Sorry I’m home late…” My eyes catch on the plastic bag he’s packing. “What’s that?”
He huffs and grabs a balled-up shirt from the bed, stuffing it in the bag.
“Taking a mini-vacation.”
“Why?” I ask my fingers tapping against my folded arms.
“Need to get away. Think a bit.”
“Think about what?”
This is not going according to plan.
He sighs loudly but says nothing, just moves to the bathroom, trying to grab his toothbrush, but I snag his bag before he can. I shuffle through it and then stare at him.
“You’ve packed three pairs of socks and an undershirt,” I say.
“You interrupted my packing process. It’s normally very precise,” he replies, moving back into the bedroom and dumping everything out to start over.
He tries again, but watching him stuff everything haphazardly into the bag forces me up next to him to help him fold and place everything in the bag. Orderly. Neatly. Or as best I can when he doesn’t own a duffel bag or even a backpack.
Then I hold it out to him.
“Thanks,” he says, almost shy.
I give a small nod. “You’re welcome.”
