Into Your Arms

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  “I miss talking to you. I thought the best thing to do would be to back off, but fuck that. I like talking to you. I like being around you. I like the look on your face when I annoy you, which is most of the time. I’d like to be friends with you, Freya, if I can. If you’d have me.”

  “I need . . . what?” My brain refuses to make words or sentences come out of my mouth. He wants to be my friend? Have they changed the definition of “friendship” and I didn’t get the memo?

  “Why?” I say and he laughs again.

  “Because you surprise me. And you make me laugh. And yes, you’re easy to look at, but it’s more than that. I’m not trying to pull something over on you. I really would like to be your friend.” If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was working some kind of angle. But I’ve spent enough time with him to know that he’s not that kind of guy.

  I search his eyes for a while. They really are lovely, and all I can see shining out of them is sincerity. Friends, huh?

  “You are such a weirdo,” I say and he chuckles, a sound that really gets to me.

  “Yeah, you’ve called me that before. I like it.” Seriously, he is one strange fellow. I’ve never met anyone quite like him.

  “I have no idea what to do with this information. I think I need some time to think about it. Like, at least twenty-four hours.” He nods.

  “That’s fair. If there’s anything I can do to help make the case for me being your friend, let me know. I make an excellent baked macaroni and cheese.” Now I’m back to wanting to punch him again. Mac and cheese is one of my absolute favorites. No one makes it like Mia’s mom. No one. But I’d be interested to see him try to beat hers.

  “Show me,” I blurt out. That wasn’t what I meant to say. I meant to tell him that I’d see him tomorrow morning. I’m not feeling so tired anymore. Just hungry. In more ways than one.

  “Okay. Is now good?” He doesn’t miss a beat.

  “Sure,” I say, throwing caution to the wind. What do I have to lose? If he makes it and it sucks, then I will have that piece of ammunition to use against him for a while. I need all the help I can get to combat his smile and his tattoos and his charm, such as it is.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  “Why don’t you take your car so you can follow me?”

  I nod and throw my study shit in the back of my car. What the hell am I doing? I think.

  What the hell am I doing? He gets into his truck and flashes me a grin.

  Oh, right. I have no willpower.

  Rhett

  That was a lot easier than I thought. I’m still not sure she’s fully aware of what she agreed to, but she follows me and I pat myself on the back for cleaning top to bottom earlier today.

  It’s pure coincidence that I also went grocery shopping and got all the ingredients I needed for mac and cheese. I was going to save it for Monday night and maybe invite Jem over, but this is a better opportunity by far.

  I pull into my complex and park, and she pulls into the space beside me. I get out and open her door for her. She looks like a rabbit, about to bolt.

  “So, this is it,” I say. She nods, looking up at the facade.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yup. I’m just wondering why I thought this was a good idea, but also I’m starving and I really want to see if you have cooking skills or if you’re full of shit. There’s a lot going on in my brain right now.” The words tumble out of her mouth in an uninterrupted string. Guess I’m not the only nervous one.

  “Well, I can help with one of those things. I can feed you, at least.”

  “Good. Because I’m starving.” She grants me a little smile and my stomach drops a little.

  I wasn’t full of shit when I said I wanted to be her friend. If that’s all I will ever have, I’ll take it. I want her not to hate me. Not talking to her didn’t do much to help, so maybe feeding her will. There’s that saying about the way to a man’s stomach, but I think it applies in this case as well.

  I hope.

  * * *

  “So, this is it,” I say, holding my arm out and presenting my apartment. It’s not much, but it’s mine and I pay for it myself, which I’m pretty fucking proud of. I searched and searched to find decent secondhand furniture and made my place not look like a shithole. It’s the first place that’s ever actually been mine. I still kind of get a thrill out of waking up in a bed that I bought.

  “It’s nice,” she says, looking around. I’m not big on knickknacks and clutter, but I have a few things up here and there. She gravitates toward some of my framed nature pictures.

  “Did you take these?” she asks over her shoulder. I walk to stand next to her. Already her scent is soaking into the room and making it hard to think.

  “No. Someone else did. But I hope someday I’ll get to travel to some of these places.” I haven’t been outside of Maine yet, but I don’t tell her that. It brings up other things that I don’t want to talk about.

  “That’s cool. And it explains the tattoos,” she says, pointing to my arms.

  “I figured if I could never go to those places, at least I could have a memory of them anyway. A permanent one. I also went a little ink crazy when I was younger.” Like, a year and a half ago.

  “They’re beautiful,” she says in a quiet voice and then looks up at my face with those huge blue eyes. She’s so gorgeous it’s hard to believe that she’s real and not a figment of my fevered imagination. I cough and step away from her.

  “Food?” I say, heading to the kitchen.

  “Yeah, food,” she says, but drifts over to the small bookcase I have and tilts her head to the side to read the titles. Most of them are ratty secondhand books that I bought at library sales, but I have a few gems in my collection that I managed to find and get a good price for.

  “Austen, really?” she calls as I wash my hands and start getting out everything I’m going to need.

  “Yeah, why not?” I call back, setting down the box of pasta.

  “No reason. Just surprised.”

  “Because she’s a woman and I’m a guy? Because I’m supposed to only read books by writers who have dicks?” She straightens up and raises one eyebrow.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say, shrugging as I hold up two bags of cheese. This recipe requires four kinds and is expensive, but I let myself have it at least once a month.

  “I’m not disappointed,” she says quietly. “It’s just a surprise.”

  I actually kind of like that I’ve surprised her. Maybe I can change her perception of me.

  “If you want to turn on the TV, the remote is on the coffee table.” She drifts into the kitchen instead.

  “Need any help?” she asks, leaning on the counter. I refuse to let myself ogle her.

  “Um, no, I think I’ve got this. I’m kind of an asshole in the kitchen, to be honest. I feel like if I’m not the one to do it, it won’t be right.” She smirks, and I see a little of the tension ease from her shoulders. I want her to be relaxed with me.

  Things between us are so much easier at cheer because we have something else to focus on. Here and now it’s just the two of us, and the awkwardness has started to creep in.

  “Yeah, I can see that. It’s cool. I’ll just watch.” She hops up on the counter and sits, as if she’s been in my kitchen a thousand times. I’m going to have to work around her, and that’s going to be . . . distracting.

  She swings her feet a little bit and keeps glancing around.

  “Your place is nice. Nicer than mine, anyway.” I’m surprised she says this, after she was so weird about me dropping her off that one time.

  “It’s not the best, but it’s mine and I pay for it myself.” Her eyes swing back around and focus on me as I fill a pot with water to boil the pasta.

  “Do you work? Or are you living off some trust fund?” I nearly drop the pot of water as I start laughing. Oh, if only she knew.

  “Why is that so hilarious?” she asks
when I finally get my breath back and put the pot on the stove, add some salt, and crank up the heat.

  “No reason. Yeah, I work at the on-campus day care.” I turn to get her reaction.

  “For real?” She’s gaping at me again. Score a second point for Rhett.

  “Yeah. I like kids. Why else would I be a developmental psychology major?” She blinks a few times as if stunned.

  “Wow, that’s . . . wow.”

  “What?” She’s looking like she’s thinking real hard about something with her eyebrows all drawn together. It’s painfully cute.

  “I just . . .” she trails off.

  “You didn’t expect it. I know. That happens a lot.” I know I’m not what people expect and that’s fine. I don’t care what most people think. It’s not worth letting them into my life. But Freya is different. I want her to approve of me. I want her to like me.

  “So, you like kids?” I look up from the bowl where I’m mixing the four kinds of cheese together.

  “Yeah, I do. They’re so much better than adults. Even if they can be little assholes sometimes.” I smile, thinking about some of my favorite kids at the day care. Most of them are children of students or professors, so they’re all just really cool kids.

  “I always wished I had a sibling growing up,” she says and then looks a little shocked at herself for telling me that. Tobi did say that she had a rough past. I hope she’ll get to the point that she trusts me enough to reveal it.

  I know how hypocritical it is to wish that someone will trust you with their past when you never trust anyone with yours. But I can’t change who I am.

  “Were you an only child?” I ask gently.

  She swallows and looks down at her lap, swinging her feet a little before she answers.

  “Yup.”

  “Me too,” I say, even though it’s not really true. I mean, biologically, I think I’m my parents’ only child, but I grew up having all kinds of temporary brothers and sisters.

  “Huh,” she says, her face forming a frown.

  “Hey, you can do something for me. Can you stir the pasta to make sure that it doesn’t stick together?” I ask. I am capable of making this whole thing myself with my eyes closed, but I think she needs a distraction.

  “Sure,” she says and pops down off the counter to go to the stove.

  “Are you close with your parents?” she asks, staring into the pot and moving the wooden spoon in slow circles.

  “No,” I say. That’s all she needs to know. That part, at least, is not a lie. Not even a little bit.

  “Me neither,” she says, so quietly that I almost don’t hear her. There’s a long silence that is only broken by me coughing and then getting out the baking dish from the cupboard. It’s a beautiful vintage Pyrex that I got at a yard sale for a steal.

  “So, do you cook a lot?” Freya asks, still stirring the pasta even though I’m sure it doesn’t need it.

  “Yeah, I kind of had to learn, and I figured out I really enjoyed it. Most of the time I don’t have someone to cook for, so this is nice.” I smile at her and she gives me a shaky smile back.

  “Ugh, why is this awkward? I see you every day, and we spend hours together,” she says, her smile relaxing and turning rueful.

  “I was kind of thinking the same thing. It’s because we don’t have cheer between us right now to keep things going.” I step close to her to check the pasta. She doesn’t move away.

  I pull out a piece and check it for the right consistency. Perfect. Just short of being fully cooked.

  Freya looks up at me, and I really want to lean down and kiss her. Put my hand on her back and bend her so our lips can meet. It would be so damn easy.

  “This part is done,” I say, my voice rough. She nods and scoots away from me. I take the pot to the sink and drain it, putting the pasta back into the pot. “Now it’s time for the roux.”

  Freya silently watches as I melt some butter in a saucepan and then whisk in the milk until it’s the perfect creamy consistency. I dump it over the pasta and then add all of the cheese.

  “That smells amazing already,” she says, peering around my shoulder.

  “Yeah, this isn’t exactly a healthy meal, but who cares?” She laughs a little, and I wish I could hear that sound at least a hundred times a day. Every day.

  “Cheese is life,” she says and now I’m the one laughing.

  “You got that right. I need that on a sign or something.”

  I finish the last few steps and shove the casserole dish in the oven and set the timer.

  “And now we wait,” I say, turning to Freya.

  “How about I help you with some of the dishes?” she says.

  “You don’t have to,” I say, but she’s already at the sink, washing out the pots and bowls and utensils I used.

  “I know, but it’s the least I can do since you’re cooking for me.” She tosses me another smile over her shoulder, and I realize how much I like this side of her. Soft, relaxed. I like her prickly and annoyed, but there’s something sweet and intimate about this part of Freya.

  She finishes the dishes and stacks them in the dish drainer. The macaroni and cheese has to bake for at least another twenty-five minutes, so now we wait.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” Freya asks as we drift toward the living room.

  “I don’t think I’m being any nicer to you than I would to anyone,” I say. Such a fucking lie.

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Okay, sure.” She flops down on the couch and I sit next to her.

  “You were easier to deal with when you were trying to be all suave and crap at the bar.” I laugh.

  “I could turn on the smolder again if you want,” I say, winking.

  “Ugh, stop it,” she says, shoving my shoulder.

  “Never,” I say, and bump her back with my shoulder.

  “You’re such a pain in the ass.” She crosses her arms, but there’s a grin on her face that she’s trying to hide.

  “Yes, but I’m a pain in the ass that is making you food.” Freya narrows her eyes.

  “Maybe I won’t eat it,” she says, thrusting her chin out. But then her stomach growls.

  “Good luck with that, Freya,” I say. I love saying her name. It’s such a beautiful one.

  She makes a huffy noise and sits back farther.

  This is the longest we’ve talked since the time I took her out for breakfast.

  “I wish I’d never gotten drunk and dared you to try out for the squad that night.” I can’t tell if she’s really serious or joking. There’s so much that goes on under the surface with her that I have no idea what she’s thinking sometimes.

  “Because now you’re stuck with me?” She turns her head and looks at me.

  “Because now I’m stuck with you.”

  * * *

  The macaroni and cheese comes out fabulously, which is great. I was so worried that something would go wrong, even though I’ve made it so many times without incident.

  “This is so fucking good, I could die,” Freya says through a mouthful. She’s shoveling it in and it’s really cute. Seeing her enjoy it is better than eating it myself.

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” I say as she wipes her mouth with a paper towel.

  “I thought it was going to suck, but it’s so good. Holy crap.” She can’t stop gushing about how good it is, and I feel like a billion bucks. I can feel my head starting to swell.

  “Is it the best you’ve ever had?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows. She’s so busy eating that she doesn’t even get the innuendo.

  “It’s better than Melissa’s.” She takes a breath and gulps down some soda. I’m actually worried about her choking, she’s shoveling it in so fast.

  “Take it easy,” I say, laughing a little. “Who’s Melissa?” She looks up at me, startled. Another thing she said that she didn’t mean to say.

  “Um, my best friend’s mom. We’re really close.” She dives back into her food, and I go ahead and di
sh more onto her plate.

  “Yeah?” I say, hoping she’ll go on.

  “Yup,” she says and stops talking. Even though it’s been hard to get anything out of her, she has let a few things slip that I tuck into my brain.

  Freya finishes her second plate of macaroni and cheese, puts her fork down, and leans back in her chair.

  “Oh my God, I feel like I’m going to die, but it was totally worth it.” She folds her hands over her stomach and sighs.

  “Glad you enjoyed it. Anytime you want some more, just let me know. I can also make enchiladas, tacos, baked spaghetti, chili, and a ton of other things. Come over anytime. What are friends for?” She rolls her eyes.

  “I didn’t say that we were going to be friends. I told you I need to think about it.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, balling up the paper towel that I’d been using and tossing it on my empty plate.

  “But this definitely doesn’t hurt your case,” she says, pointing to the casserole dish.

  “Food usually helps, I’ve found,” I say.

  “Funny how that works.” She sighs contentedly and looks at the clock I have on the wall.

  “Shit, it’s really late. We both have to be up early tomorrow too.” She groans.

  “I hate running with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.” I burst out laughing.

  “Yeah, I can tell. You’re always wearing the grumpiest face every morning,” I say and she glares at me.

  “I do not make a grumpy face, you asshat.” But she’s smiling.

  “Yeah, you do. It’s adorable. I look forward to it.” Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.

  Her cheeks color, and I think she’s happy with the compliment because she bites her bottom lip a little. Fuck. That’s hot.

  Being Freya’s friend is not going to be easy.

  Down, boy, I say to my dick.

  “Shut up,” she whispers and then stands up with a little bit of a groan.

  “Fuck. I need to get home and go to sleep. I’m totally fried.”

  “Sure,” I say and she picks up her plate and carries it to the sink.

  “Thanks, um, for everything. This was . . . nice?” I chuckle.

  “You make that sound like a question.” I set my plate on top of hers, and our hands are inches away on the rim of the sink. This is ridiculous. I touch her all the time. I know her body. She knows mine. But when we’re in practice, it’s different. Our bodies are just . . . machines. Carrying out a task.