The time Caiden called me a waste of space in front of half the science class, and how his lips curled up like he was swallowing a joke. The time he tripped me in front of the auditorium, and lost half my dignity in front of everyone. The time he waited for me after detention, hands tucked in his jacket, voice quiet and almost gentle when he told me I didn’t have to go home if I didn’t want to.
He said it so simply I almost believed him.
The worst? The time he stuck up for me. That was the day everything went sideways, when I realized that cruelty and kindness could come out of the same mouth and taste exactly alike.
I’d been cornered behind the gym by a cluster of upperclassmen, hands grubbing at my backpack, voices in my ear like static. I knew how to take it, had learned to go limp and wait for the moment to pass.
Then Caiden appeared, a shadow falling over the mess of limbs, and the world stilled. He looked at me, then at them, a dark look falling over his face, and the boys scattered like bugs.
He didn’t say anything. Just picked up my bag and slung it over his own shoulder, then walked me to the edge of the faculty lot, where the teachers couldn’t see.
He never mentioned it again. I hated him for it.
The car bumped over a pothole, shaking me back into reality.
I wondered if he remembered the same things I did. If he heard the echo of that old cruelty in his own voice, or if he’d ever learned how to swallow it down and pretend it wasn’t a part of him.
Caiden pulled into the lot of the Pathosbury Inn, which looked like it hadn’t been updated since the nineties.
I wanted to laugh at the inertia of it, the way nothing here ever really changed, just gathered more layers of dust and decay.
He cut the engine, but neither of us moved.
“Should we check in first?” Caiden asked, not looking at me.
“I guess.” My voice came out foreign, like I’d left it behind and was only now trying to wear it again.
Neither of us made a move for the door. We sat, shoulders hunched, breathing the same recycled air, letting the heat fog the windows.
For a moment, I wanted to lean my forehead against the glass and press until it rattled. Instead, I watched our reflections in the rearview: two ghosts, pallid and unfinished.
“We can just sit here if you want,” Caiden said, voice low and rough. “We don’t have to go in yet.”
I shook my head. “If we don’t move now, we’ll never get out.”
He seemed to weigh that, then nodded, and we both stepped out into the cold that bit through my jeans and straight into bone.
The Pathosbury Inn’s front desk was manned by a teenager who looked twelve, bored out of his mind. He didn’t even glance up when we entered, just twirled a pen between stubby fingers and scrolled on his phone.
“Checking in?” the kid asked, monotone.
Caiden did the talking. “Baxter. Reservation for two.”
The kid clicked at his monitor, chewed his lip. “Queen bed, or two singles?”
My lungs squeezed. Caiden didn’t look at me. “One’s fine,” he said, flat.
“Room 205.” The kid handed us a key card, still not meeting our eyes.
We walked back outside to the designated door.
Inside, the room was a relic. Floral bedspread, battered TV, a single brittle bar of soap on the bathroom sink. I dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the springs groan under my weight. Caiden didn’t sit. He stood at the window, staring outwards.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t even tug the curtain aside, just hovered as if, by will alone, he could keep the outside from leaking in. I watched his shoulders, broad and rigid, and wondered if I’d ever seen him relax.
After a minute, he turned. “You want to shower first?”
I almost laughed. Like this was a vacation. Like hygiene was something that mattered. “No. I just want to get it over with.”
