Page 21 of A Thousand Broken Pieces

I didn’t realize Cael had stopped rowing until the breeze on my face died and I opened my eyes. I swallowed back nerves when I saw Cael was watching me. The anger he was holding on to seemed to have dimmed, and that deep kind of desolation returned to his silver-blue eyes. Seeing me watching him back, Cael removed his beanie and ran his hand through his messy hair. He was rarely without it, and the sight of him hat-free … he was beautiful.

Cael looked out at the people on the other side of the lake. The tourists. Eating ice cream, feeding ducks, booking lake tours. I followed his line of sight. They seemed so carefree. So unburdened.

“What are you reading?” Cael’s graveled voice sounded exhausted. I wasn’t surprised. He had rowed at a breakneck speed until he clearly couldn’t go anymore. But I also knew it wasn’t just physical exhaustion that had brought him to this place. Life was exhausting too.

I had been clutching the book to my chest. When I pulled it away, I said, “It’s about the Lake poets.”

Cael’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Who?”

“The Lake poets.” I gestured around us. “Famous English poets who came to the Lake District to get away from the hustle and bustle of city living in the nineteenth century. They wanted to live among nature and rest and live a slower-paced life. They wanted a place to be in touch with their feelings.”

Cael looked out over the lake again, oars stowed and his arms resting on his legs. He appeared lost in thought, until he said, “I can see that.”

I tipped my head to the side, taking advantage of his preoccupation with the lake to study him. Tattoos seemed to cover every inch of him, small gauges in his ears, a lip ring in his bottom lip. I’d only seen him wearing black clothes. Yet even without color, he was stunningly beautiful. One of if notthemost beautiful boys I’d ever seen.

“What did they write about?”

I blinked, too lost in studying Cael to process his question. When I didn’t say anything in response, he turned to me, resting his chin on his crossed arms.

“Pardon?” I asked, cheeks blazing at being caught studying him.

Cael’s eyes seemed to flash with annoyance. “The poets. What did they write about?” It was like he needed something to quickly occupy his mind. Something to take him away from whatever hell kept him trapped.

I could do that for him. “They were the English Romantics. Wrote of beauty, thoughts, and feelings—a bit out there for the time. Some of the most famous poets were Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey.” I shrugged. “I guess they were seen as rebels. Shaping what they wanted poetry to be, disregarding the old rules. Using it to express their feelings.”

“Do they have any of their poems in that book?”

“They do,” I said and turned to one of my favorites by Wordsworth.

I went to hand it to him to read, when he said, “Can you read it?” My heart beat like a drum and heat infused my face. I went to shake my head, to refuse, when he said, “I like your accent.” And my thundering heart just about stopped.

“I like your accent …”

I could feel my skin burning with embarrassment, but Cael still wore that devastated look in his eyes, and I yearned to make it better.

So I read.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud …” I read each beautiful line about skies full of stars, daffodils, and waves and marveling at these remarkable sights when pensive and still. And I felt every line. Reciting this poem in the place that was its muse was surreal and beyond a blessing.

When I finished, Cael’s attention was fixed on me. He didn’t say anything immediately, then rasped, “It sounds just like here.”

I smiled and nodded. It was my sentiment exactly. “I’m nearly done, if you want to read it when I’m finished.”

Cael stared at me again. And I felt like he was looking for something in my face. I had no idea what. “Thanks,” he said.

I shifted in my seat and watched a small motorboat pass us by. A young family was on board. A mama, daddy, and two little kids wearing little red life vests. They seemed so happy and carefree. I remembered those days.

“Do you feel any better yet?” I dared ask Cael.

Cael inhaled a long breath and slowly exhaled. “I never feel better,” he confessed, and his voice sounded as splintered as shattered glass. His expression was guarded, and I wondered what it had cost him to reveal that to me. Cael was so formidable, so tall and domineering, intimidating. Yet right at this moment, he seemed so fragile, so broken down by life I wanted to hold him tightly until he felt okay.

My heart fell. Because Cael’s simple confession was as raw as my own feelings. I flexed my hand, wanting to reach out and hold his hand, but I didn’t know if he’d want that—I didn’t think I had it in me to be that bold.

A few silent minutes passed before he asked, “Where are you from?”

The boat swayed soothingly as a larger tourist boat sailed by, causing small ripples to flutter across the lake. “Georgia. A small country town called Blossom Grove.”

Cael smiled the smallest and briefest smile, but it was enough to lift some of the gray from the day and let in a little sun. “A real Georgia peach, huh?”

---