Page 13 of Moving Forward

I keep running until I’m gasping for air. When the restaurant is far behind me, I stop and hunch forward, wrapping my arms around my stomach, no longer fighting back tears. I let them cascade over my cheeks.

My heart is tearing open for the millionth time.

Footsteps sound behind me, most likely Ellie’s, and I shake my head vigorously. No, I won’t let her apologize right now. Not when she’s the one responsible for this, because with every tear I can’t help but wonder if my heart will finally just break open.

Arms wrap around me from behind. They’re not Ellie’s or Danny’s. They’re tanned, hard muscles constricting as the hands press against my stomach, pulling me back against a stone chest. I don’t fight the embrace, I just sink back, praying the pain will go away.

Ruth said his name is Cain . . .

Cain rests his chin on top of my head, silent. He’s breathing just as heavily as I am. His hands are shaking. He lets out each breath deliberately, loud enough for me to hear and match his rhythm. I start taking those breaths with him, breaking out of my panic attack. As I calm down, he does too. Soon he isn’t shaking anymore and starts rubbing lazy circles on my waist with his thumb.

I focus on that feeling, letting it lull me away from the real world. His thumb is all I can think about. The calloused digit catches at the fabric of my dress, and little chill bumps rise on my stomach. I don’t ever remember feeling as comfortable as I am now—all because of a single finger.

“Better?” he asks gently.

I nod, but make no effort to move. I feel so perfect in his arms, whole and undisturbed. I’m not thinking about Ethan or his family or what Ellie did. I’m just thinking about where I am now. I’m in this moment. There’s nothing else to crowd my mind.

Cain detaches himself slowly and a new wave of panic washes over me. The second he lets me go, what will happen? Will it all come back? I can’t have that. He can't let me go. Thankfully, he doesn’t. He leaves one arm wrapped around me and guides me to his boat.

I didn’t even realize I’d run to the dock. I didn’t have a destination in mind when I fled. I don’t want to think about why I ran here of all places, why his arms feel like a safe haven, why I want to cling to him and never let go.

He isn’t nearly as caught off guard as he was last night. It’s almost like he’s been expecting me. But I doubt he expected to find me bawling my eyes out in front of his boat.

He opens the door to his boat and holds it open for me. I step past him and into the small room. It’s simple, with a small kitchenette, a table with four chairs, a couch parked in front of a TV, and a bed next to a small door I assume is the bathroom. Everything is meticulously placed and neat, no dust in sight. There aren't any personal items around, like pictures or posters. Not even a plant. All of the shades are drawn, his way of hiding. Sometimes it helps to pretend the world outside doesn’t exist, even if it is a delusion.

I know I probably shouldn’t be going into a complete stranger’s place—and shouldn’t have let him touch me like that, for that matter—but I can’t help it. I haven’t felt this content in a long time.

He leans against one of the counters, motioning for me to sit in one of the chairs. When I do, it finally hits me—god, I probably look like a lunatic to him. I swallow and risk a glance at him. His glassy blue eyes, the same as Ruth’s, are fixed on me, even more vibrant in the dark room. His gaze drops when my eyes meet his, and he brings his hand up to run it roughly through his short, sandy blond hair.

All his previous confidence has disappeared. He’s apprehensive, completely out of his element. He’s wearing a pair of ratty old jeans and a gray shirt that has a hole in it, giving me a sneak peek of his defined abs. His clothes are splattered with white and navy paint. When he finally looks at me again he swears under his breath. “I got paint on you,” he points out huskily.

I look down at myself, and sure enough, just above the waistline of my lavender dress are small dabs of paint that match the colors marking his arms. “It’s fine,” I assure him. “I don’t really like this dress anyway.”

He looks perplexed, and presses his hands against his face, instantly washing the look away. “Do you need anything else?” he asks.

My heart speeds up. Oh god, what if this is just a pity thing? I thought he understood and wanted to give me a moment of solace. He probably just felt bad for me and wanted to save me from embarrassing myself. Now that he has, he probably has no idea what to do with me. He probably regrets helping me.

“A drink.” He winces, looking like he wants to slam his head against a wall. Repeatedly. I know I want to. “I meant, do you want a drink?”

“No, thank you,” I answer. His face falls, and I wish I would have said yes. He's clearly at a loss for what to say next, but this is already going better than any of my dates. Why would I even compare this to that? I quickly steer myself away from that thought and say, “I’m sorry about this. I just—”

“You don’t need to explain,” he answers shortly. “Whatever it was . . . it was important to you and that’s all I need to know.”

Another sob racks my body. I’m about to lose it. Again. It’s just those words—they’re everything to me. I can’t explain it, but somehow one of the little cracks in me begins to heal.

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