"Reasons, reasons, reasons," I snap. "You and your fucking reasons are going to be the death of me. There's always a reason it's not the right time. Tomorrow, you'll have a new reason, and the day after that, guess what? Another one! A new Reasongrowing on the Reason tree! You willalwaysfind a reason, Afon, because the truth is you don't want to tell me. You never did."
"That's not true."
"Then what is it? What are you so afraid of?"
Afraidis the word that does it. The first crack in that unbroken wall. He's been trespassed upon and shot at and screamed at and so many other things since I came barging into his life, and he's shrugged off every one of those intrusions like it's just another thing that happens to be happening to him.
But calling himafraid?
Oh, boy.
If it hadn't worked so well, I'd almost be terrified of the consequences.
He flexes his massive hands open and closed. "Be very careful about what you say next," he warns.
But any ability I once had to becarefulgot left back at that bus depot in Pike Hollow. And we're a long fucking way from there, that's for sure.
"Or what? You'll put me on another snowmobile? Send me out into the cold to become a human icicle? Do it, I dare you. I am fresh out of things to be scared of, and that includesyou."
"Caro—"
"You're a coward," I interrupt. "That's all you are. A coward."
Ifafraidwas a knife in his ribs,cowardwas an atom bomb.
I know it's cruel. It's the one word guaranteed to detonate whatever fragile bonds hold this man together. But I let it fly anyway, because cruelty is all I have left, and because somewhere in the stubborn, grieving, desperate mess of my heart, I believe that if I push hard enough, the wall will break, and behind it will be the truth I've been chasing since the day I put both my parents in the earth.
Afon moves.
He movesfast. So fast I don't even register the individual steps, just the blur of him crossing the space between us, and then my back is against the stone wall and his hands are on either side of my head and his face is inches from mine.
"I warned you," he snarls, huge and terrifying. "I've never given a second warning in my life, but I'm making the exception for you right now: Do not call me that again."
I should be afraid. Everything in my rational, magna cum laude brain is telling me to back down, de-escalate, give him space. And I am afraid. I'm as much of coward as he is.
No, actually. Not quite. I'm one percent less. Because I'm willing to shove my way into the darkness he keeps around his heart.
"If you aren't a coward," I whisper meekly, "then tell me the truth."
He's panting like he just, well, hiked a mountain. "You haveno idea," he grits out, "what I've done for your family."
"Then tell me!"
"You don't know what I gave up, what I lost. The things I did to keep your father alive, and when I couldn't do that anymore, the things I did to keepyousafe. You want to stand there andcall me a coward? Fine. That's your right. But you should know that every scar on my body, every year I spent in that fucking organization, every night I've woken up screaming… half of it was foryourfamily. For Bill. For Susan. Foryou."
Something hot and wet slides down my cheek. How dare it! I didn't give it permission.
"Then why won't you justtalk to me?" I beg.
"Because once I do, it's done," he rasps, shaking his head like even the idea is unthinkable. "Once you know, you can't unknow it. And you will look at me differently. Your father and mother, too. And nothing—nothing—will ever be the same. I won't do that. I've already taken enough from you."
"You haven't taken anything from me."
He shakes his head again. "I've taken everything from you, Caroline. You just don't know it yet."
We're breathing the same air. His forearms are braced against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in, and I can feel the heat pouring off him through the inches of space between his chest and mine. The lamplight catches the star on his throat, the silver in his beard, the devastation in his eyes.
"Afon…" I whisper.
