Into Your Arms

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  “Knock, knock,” I say, pushing through the bedroom door. She opens one eye and glares at me.

  “You can’t dismember me; I brought you breakfast,” I say, putting the tray down on the end of the bed.

  Her other eye pops open and she sits up, hair askew in the cutest way.

  “I told you that I don’t eat breakfast early,” she says, but I can see her staring at the pancakes and starting to edge toward the tray. Haha, my nefarious plan has worked.

  “One plate?” she asks when she finally gets within eating distance.

  I shrug.

  “We’ve had each other’s junk in our mouths. I think we can share a plate,” I say, and she wrinkles her nose at me.

  “Haha,” she says, picking up a fork.

  “Do you want some coffee or anything?” I ask. She shakes her head.

  “Nah, this is fine.” She attacks the pancakes, and I’m a little concerned she’s going to eat right through the plate. Not hungry in the morning, huh?

  I sip my orange juice and let her go to town.

  “You’d better eat some of this,” she says through a mouthful, so I grab a fork and start in on the other side of the plate.

  We devour the first plate in minutes, and I get up to make more.

  “Actually, would you mind making some coffee?” she asks, pushing her lower lip out in the cutest pout I’ve ever seen.

  “Sure, Luna,” I say.

  * * *

  I leave her place and have to rush home and through a shower so I’m not late for work. I might need a nap later, but I’m definitely feeling energized and refreshed right now.

  The day blows by as soon as I blink and then we’re back at practice and I have to bite my tongue from talking about this morning or last night or any of it. It’s becoming harder and harder to be normal around her. I just want to tweak her ponytail or hold her or call her “Luna” to see her smile.

  It’s nearly an impossible task when I have to touch her all the time. I see her blushing a few times when I catch her and put her down. I would almost love it if Coach decided we shouldn’t be stunt partners anymore, because that would take away a lot of my temptation to touch her.

  But then I wouldn’t get to touch her as much, and that would be a damn shame. So I’m stuck. Totally. Stuck.

  “Hey, lover boy,” Tobi whispers in my ear while we take a water break. Freya is laughing with Carrie and Willow about something on the other side of the gym.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. I’m wary of Tobi because she seems to ship me and Freya one minute and want to sink it the next.

  “You could start by not looking at Freya like you want to propose to her and fuck her in the same breath. How about that?” I narrow my eyes.

  “Seriously? I do not look at her like that.” She snorts.

  “Yeah, you seriously do. You might as well have a neon sign above your head. And she’s just as bad, but she’s better at hiding it than you are.” Yes, I’ve noticed that time and again.

  “So what do you think I should do about it?” I ask, snapping the top of my water bottle shut again.

  “I think you should tone it down. Cool off. You’re both a little too hot for each other, and it’s going to fuck things up. Have you thought about what’s going to happen if you crash and burn?” I open my mouth to retort, but honestly? I haven’t. I didn’t think about what it would do to the squad if Freya and I were on the outs.

  “You’re the best stunting team we have. Everyone else works hard so they can get to your level. If you suddenly can’t work together, it’s going to affect everyone else.” She waves her hand around to indicate the whole squad. “It’s not just about you, you know? I know this team isn’t the best, but I think we have a shot of at least making it to Nationals, and I’d like to be on the team when that happens. I know I don’t seem like I care, but I do. I also care about Freya. Not so much about you.” She gives me a cheeky smile.

  “This is my shocked face,” I say, giving her a deadpan expression.

  “Hilarious. Anyway. Tone it down and keep it in your pants. At least until the season is over.” She pats my shoulder and walks away.

  “I’ll take that under consideration!” I call after her and she flips me off. Charming.

  * * *

  “What was Tobi talking to you about?” Freya asks that night at my place. She nabbed me after practice and said she wanted to have another session at my apartment. And she brought extra clothes and a toothbrush, but she hasn’t mentioned anything about staying over yet.

  “Just giving me the third degree about what we’re doing. Your friends are kind of aggressive,” I say. I’ve had Carrie and Willow and a lot of the other cheer girls giving me weird looks during practice for a while, and I think Tobi’s little speech today explains why.

  “I know,” she says, crossing her feet and propping them on the coffee table.

  “But I guess that’s a good thing, because they’re only looking out for you. Annoying, but sweet.” I make a face and she rolls her eyes.

  “They worry too much. About me and about things happening with the squad. We’re not going to ruin anything. It’s not like they even know. . . .” she trails off and I sense that she’s said more than she wanted to. She seals her lips.

  Time to go all in.

  “You want to know why I’m going to work with kids?” I ask, tilting my head to the side. She blinks at the change in topic.

  “Because you’re good with them?” I shake my head.

  “That’s not the main reason. I want to work with kids that are in the foster care system. Because I was one.” The color drains from her face, and she gasps and bolts to her feet.

  “I . . . I need to go. Right now.” What the fuck?

  “What are you talking about?” I say as she’s shoving her shoes on and grabbing her bag full of stuff to stay over.

  “I just do, okay? Leave me alone, Rhett. Please.” She’s out the door, and this time I’m chasing after her, but she’s quick and gets in her car and peels out of the driveway before I can make her stop and tell me what’s going on.

  I have two options. Go after her, or let it go.

  Yeah, I’m not a “let it go” kind of guy.

  So I run back upstairs, grab my keys, and throw myself into my truck.

  13

  Freya

  Rhett was in the foster system? That’s what he’s been holding back from me? My brain can’t process this. I don’t know why I’m having such a visceral reaction to him, but brains don’t make sense sometimes. I need to pull it together.

  I get myself onto my bed, close my eyes, and try to breathe, but then there’s someone banging on a door somewhere.

  Go away, go away, go away.

  Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? I consider putting my hands over my ears, but that’s not going to stop the sound. Why can’t I have my moment in peace? I get up and storm out of my bedroom, intent on screaming at whoever is doing the banging on my neighbor’s door only to find out that someone is banging on my door.

  I don’t need more than one guess to figure out who.

  “Freya, please talk to me! I don’t know what just happened, but I want to make sure you’re okay. I need to make sure you’re okay.” He came to check on me. Not to yell, not to ask what the fuck is wrong with me. No, he came to check on me. And I ran away from him and treated him like shit.

  Fuck.

  My hands shake as I unlock the door slowly and open it just a few inches.

  “I’m fine,” I say in a voice that is anything but fine. Have you ever noticed that whenever someone says they’re fine, it’s the opposite? Fine has ceased to have all meaning as a word.

  “Freya, please. Can I just . . . can I just come in for a minute?” His voice is so soft, and it’s doing things to me. I bite my lip and consider my options.

  “If I tell you to go away, will you go away?” I ask. A tiny part of me expects him to shove a foot in the crack in the
doorway and push his way in. But he’s not doing that. He’s being respectful, and I don’t even deserve it. I have no idea what must be running through his head.

  “Absolutely. I would really like to see if you’re okay with my own eyes first. If you’ll let me.” I take a breath and slowly open the door. There he is, in all his lumbersexual glory. A small (not that small) part of me wants to throw myself at him and fuck and cry and forget what just happened, but the rest of my brain is running the show and has put on the brakes.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough and his face pinched with worry. Still an attractive bastard. Always.

  “No. I’m not,” I say. Might as well be honest and he might go away and leave me to my breakdown.

  “Can you . . .” he stops and takes a breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I’m being strange and awful. But I can’t let you crawl into my life and make yourself at home. I can’t let you act like my boyfriend or my soul mate or whatever.” I’m crying and I can’t seem to stop. He reaches for me and I don’t know how it happens, but I stumble into his warm arms and they encircle me and the world goes dark. He blocks everything out.

  My body starts shaking again because I’m sobbing, and he’s holding me and stroking my hair and not saying a word. His heart thunders in my ear. It’s racing just as fast as mine.

  Rhett stands there with me until I’m out of tears. Which is quite a long time. For a small person, I can cry enough tears for five. I tug back and he lets me go. His shirt is wet in patches and even has some snot on it. Lovely. I know I look like shit, but that’s not my biggest problem right now, is it?

  I sniff and wipe my nose, but there is just snot everywhere. He puts a hand on my arm and then goes to the bathroom, coming back with a box of tissues and some of my makeup wipes. I’m numb as he leads me to the couch and sits me down facing him. I flinch back when he comes at me with one of the makeup wipes, so he freezes and then tries again. I know I’m being a complete weirdo, but I’m out of fucks and out of words and out of everything. I have nothing left to give.

  I sit there like a child as he wipes the tears and snot and makeup off my face. It takes more than a few wipes to get the job done and my eyes are starting to swell. Once he’s done with my face, he goes to the kitchen and comes back with a huge glass of water and two aspirin. I take the pills and the water. He waits while I swallow them and drink the entire glass before he goes back and refills it. Rhett presses the second glass into my hand and I drink that one, even though I’m nearly full to bursting. I’m going to have to pee like hell later, but I’d rather that than have a migraine from crying so much. My throat is raw and my face is blowing up and I just want to sleep for a week and wake up living another life. Not the one I was handed.

  “Do you feel any better?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. As if he’s scared to startle me.

  I shake my head once.

  “No,” I say, my voice sounding like I’ve been smoking a pack a day since I was an infant.

  He lets out a breath. His hair is falling in his face and I want to fix it, but I don’t have the energy to move my arms that much.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? I’ll do anything for you, Luna.” My breath catches when he uses the nickname. I hate how much I like it. I hate how much it makes me want to kiss him and forget about what he said a little while ago.

  But I can’t. I can’t forget, because you can’t unsay something that’s already been said.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head and sniffing again. He hands me another tissue and this time I wipe my own damn nose. Like a fucking adult.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I open my mouth to respond. I definitely don’t have an answer to that.

  “I think so?” He nods and gets up.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, my eyes following him.

  “Cooking,” he says, opening and closing my cabinets and pulling things down.

  “What are you making?” I don’t know what I’ve got. Since he’s been coming over and cooking for me, I’ve been stocking up on things I don’t normally buy. I actually have spices now. Like paprika and rosemary and thyme. And there are always at least three kinds of pasta and two kinds of sauces around. I’m eating better, but right now I don’t want to eat anything. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t really even want to breathe. It’s too much work. I close my eyes and lean against the couch as Rhett bangs around.

  “I don’t know yet,” he finally responds. “I’m just . . . trying to make it better.” He’s muttering to himself, and I’m wondering if this is what Rhett is like under stress.

  “I’m sorry. For running. And for not listening. And for what you’ve been through. I can’t imagine.” He looks up at me and gives me a smile.

  “It’s okay.” No, it isn’t. I’ve been treating him badly and he keeps coming back for more. I need to make some changes, but I don’t know how. I turn on the TV, as if that’s going to help.

  I’m suddenly so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. I pull my feet up and curl against a pillow, and the next thing I know, I’m out.

  Rhett

  I have no idea what the fuck is going on with her. I’ve been turning it over and over in my head since it happened, and I have not figured out much. Except for my current theory that the reason she was so freaked when I mentioned working with foster kids is that she was one herself. Why else would she have had that intense of a reaction? What other reason could there be?

  So, going on that theory, that means that Freya has a sticky and probably difficult past. Like mine. That’s something I understand. That’s something I can understand so much more than she’ll ever know. While she’s in the living room, I crash around the kitchen, trying to figure out what I’m going to do. What I’m going to say. This is one of our defining moments. There are so many ways to blow this. To completely ruin everything.

  Basically, I’m freaking the fuck out.

  Chicken soup is good for colds, so I figure why not in this situation? Can’t hurt. And it just so happens that Freya has part of a rotisserie chicken left in her fridge and some chicken bullion in her pantry. Add some celery, onions, carrots and egg noodles and we’re in business. I stay in the kitchen so I can give her some space, but I sort of check in on her. She’s watching TV on the couch. The crying has stopped, but at least I could wipe her tears and hold her. The silence is . . . daunting.

  Finally the soup is ready and I pour it into two bowls that I put on the tray I used when I made her breakfast in bed. Having a time machine right now would be excellent.

  I add some Saltines to the tray and carry it over to the living room as quietly as I can.

  She’s asleep with her hands curled under her chin. Her face is still red and splotchy from crying. Freya can’t hide a whole lot since her skin is so pale. She’s breathing deeply, and I’m glad she’s getting some rest. I sit down as carefully as I can beside her and her eyes snap open.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “No, it’s . . . it’s okay,” she says, blinking a few times and then rubbing her eyes.

  “I made soup,” I say, gesturing to the bowls like an idiot. As if I’ve created something no one has ever seen before.

  “Oh,” she says, slowly sitting up. “Soup.”

  “Chicken noodle,” I clarify.

  “Oh,” she says again.

  “You don’t have to eat it.” She finally meets my eyes.

  “I want to. Thank you.” Her voice is a little robotic, and the redness in her face is giving way to paleness that I’m worried about.

  “Here,” I say, handing her a bowl with a spoon in it and then a paper towel in case she spills.

  “Thank you.” I pick up my own bowl and turn to the TV. She’s watching a cartoon about a sponge that lives in a pineapple. It’s loud and frenzied

  “Mind if I change it?” I ask. She’s never watched this when I was here, but maybe she’s a secret fan?

  “Sure, go
ahead,” she says, picking up the spoon and stirring the soup around. I hope she’s going to eat it. I also hope she’s going to like it. I was a bit distracted when I was making it.

  I flip around until I find something funny and mindless. An old syndicated show from the 90s with a laugh track. Perfect background noise.

  “This is a good one,” she says, using her spoon to point. I assume she means the episode.

  “Is it?” I ask. She’s talking. She’s talking about a stupid show, but she’s talking. And eating. I’ll take it. If this is what it takes, this is what it takes.

  We end up each eating two bowls full of soup and watching a bunch of episodes of the show. At some points, Freya even quotes along with the characters.

  “I’ve seen this show a lot,” she admits.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I agree.

  It’s late by the time the last bowl is finished, and I take both of them to the sink to wash. Freya is still on the couch, staring at her hands when I come back.

  “You probably want to talk. To know why I freaked. And I want to talk. About you and your life. I should have been more sensitive about . . . everything.” I sit down again and lean back, turning so I can see her.

  “I want to do whatever you’re comfortable with. If that’s talking, then that would be great. If that’s just sitting here and watching TV, that’s great. If you want to fuck, that’s great. I’m here for you, Luna.” She jumps a little at the nickname.

  “I don’t know what I want,” she whispers, and laughs a little.

  “Let me know when you do,” I say, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it across her. She shifts and scoots closer to me. I lift my arm and she leans over, putting her head on my chest. Right over my heart. I know she can hear it racing just a little. I curl my arm around her and she puts one hand on my stomach.

  Easy, Rhett. She’s not going to go south. At least not right now. This is strictly cuddling, which is sometimes more intimate than sex. It’s another way of seeing how your bodies fit and work together. Freya sighs and sinks further into me. I lean just a little bit so I can rest my chin on her head. Some of her hair moves when I breathe.