Page 77 of Before We Break Again
ChapterThirty-Nine
Halsey
Thingsbetween me and the guys have been ...different.There’s a shift in the air, a kind of tension that lingers, but it doesn’t push us apart.It pulls us in closer, forcing us to notice the little things we’d taken for granted before.Dustin, especially, has been more ...attentive.It’s subtle but unmistakable, these small gestures that make my heart stumble in ways I wasn’t expecting.
Like today.After work, instead of heading back home to the ranch, he casually picked me up and mentioned we were flying to Seattle for dinner.Just like that.No big announcement, no fanfare.
The way he said it was almost as if it was something we did every day, but it felt anything but ordinary.It reminds me of last week, when he did something similar with Santos.They went to Portland for dinner, stayed out late talking, then drove back the same night.
But tonight is different.This time, we’re staying overnight.After dinner, he’s taking me to Thrice, a venue where he has a gig.It’s the first time I’ll see him perform live, and for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on, it feels like more than just a casual night out.
As we step into the restaurant, the soft glow of chandeliers bounces off the polished marble floors, casting everything in a warm, golden light.It’s all so elegant, a bit over the top, honestly.I take it all in, trying not to let the surprise show too much on my face.“This is fancy,” I say, because honestly I would’ve been okay with something less luxurious.
Dustin throws a smirk in my direction.“What, Carson never took you to a fancy place?”
I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze head-on.“Are we trying to outdo what Carson did?”
He gives me a nonchalant shrug, but the glint in his eyes says everything.Maybe.
I scoff, rolling my eyes.“Carson wasn’t the ‘sweep you off your feet’ type.He never brought me flowers to work, never made me breakfast in bed?—”
“The chef —who I hired to pamper you—made the breakfast, I just brought it to you,” Dustin cuts in, grinning.“But yeah, I did that.”
I laugh, shaking my head because he’s impossible.“Carson never flew me across the country for dinner.He never remembered the tiny details, like how I take my coffee or that I love watching the stars.He wasn’t ...thoughtful like that.It was always the big gestures that people would see, but never the small ones that count.”
Dustin leans back in his chair, his gaze softening as it locks onto mine, his eyes searching, as if trying to etch this moment into memory.A gentle smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something more—a warmth, a quiet depth swirling beneath the surface.His voice, soft and sincere, breaks the silence between us.
“Sounds like he missed out.No wonder you never fell in love with him,” he murmurs.
The truth is that I didn’t fall in love with Carson because my heart already belonged to Santos and Dustin.What would be the point of pretending I could fall for someone else?But I just nod slowly.“But I hope this isn’t about outdoing Carson,” I say softly, my gaze meeting his, searching for the truth in his eyes.“Because you already surpass him, in every way.”
He shakes his head with a small chuckle.“Nah,” he says, his voice steady, but his eyes tell a story of their own.“It’s never been about him.It’s about giving you everything you deserve.It’s about us—about this.”He gestures to the space between us, the candlelight flickering like the pulse of something fragile but real.“I just want to spend time with you, share these little moments, watch you smile ...all I want is to see you happy.”
Before I can respond, the moment is interrupted.The waiter appears with two tall, slender flutes, their glassy surfaces catching the glow of the candlelight, casting soft reflections on the table.
“We’re drinking?”I ask, my voice a mixture of surprise and concern, my brows knitting slightly.
Dustin lifts his glass, his eyes sparkling mischievously as he offers me a lopsided grin.“We’re toasting ...with sparkling apple juice,” he says with a wink.
A laugh escapes my lips, light and airy, as I watch the bubbles rise in a delicate, slow dance, catching the light like tiny stars suspended in the glass.Dustin holds his flute toward me, his smile softening into something almost reverent.There’s a tenderness in the way he speaks next, his voice low, intimate.
“To us,” he says simply, his words lingering in the air like a promise.“To new dreams, to a future full of stars ...and to you, the one who makes even the darkest nights feel like the brightest day.”
My heart swells at his words, at the unguarded emotion in his eyes, and I raise my glass, the simple gesture feeling profound in this very moment.“To us,” I echo softly, our glasses meeting with a delicate clink, a sound so gentle yet so full of meaning.
As we drink, Dustin leans back again, running a hand through his hair, his expression thoughtful, lighter than I’ve seen it in a long time.“You know,” he begins, his voice almost wistful, “it feels strange, being out like this.Just us.Next date?The three of us.I’m thinking Rome.”
I can’t help but smile, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.“He can’t travel to Rome,” I remind him, my tone gently teasing.“Santos has therapy sessions every day.We can maybe squeeze in New York if you promise it’s over the weekend.”
Dustin lets out a soft sigh, one of mock defeat.“Fine, fine.We’ll wait.But have you noticed?It feels like we’re not just surviving anymore.”His voice dips lower, more serious now.“We’re ...living.”
I find myself nodding, he’s right.It’s been five almost six weeks since we started working on us and now things are so much different.“How are you dealing with it all?Things are going alright in therapy?”I ask.
He leans forward slightly, his gaze drifting toward the flickering candlelight, as though the flames hold the answers to questions he’s been too afraid to ask.“Yeah,” he says, his voice softer now, more introspective.There’s a pause, a breath, before he continues.“I’ve been thinking a lot about ...everything.The therapy, you, Santos, all of it.But mostly ...my parents.”
I set my glass down, leaning in just enough to let him know I’m here, that I’m listening, really listening.He hesitates, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass, like he’s pulling at the thread of something fragile, something that’s been locked away for far too long.“I never really dealt with their deaths, you know?”His voice is low and solemn, as if he’s speaking not just to me, but to the ghosts of his past.“They’ve been gone for years, and I just ...buried it.Pushed it down so deep that sometimes it felt like it wasn’t even real.Like if I didn’t talk about it, I could keep moving forward.Keep pretending it didn’t hurt.”
I watch him closely.“And now?”I ask softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
