For The One

by Brenna Aubrey

  I nodded. "I was little when I came here. I didn't speak English, but I was only five so I picked it up fast."

  "And these techniques you've learned? Have you ever taught them to someone before?"

  I smiled. "Trying to test if I'm legit?" His features clouded, so before he could ask, I continued. "Yes. I work with other war refugees. You know that's my job, right? Ann and I both work at the International Refugee Support Center." At least until I began traveling with the Faire in June. The thought of leaving the RSC was one shadow over that bright spot of moving on. "We help refugees from places like Iran, China, Cambodia and now Syria, with all that's going on there."

  "I'm not a refugee."

  "You don't have to be for these techniques to work for you. You have a trigger--something that stirs panic. For me, it was loud noises...anything that sounded like bombs or rifle fire. For you, it's crowds. We can work on that."

  I scooted across the mat until our knees were almost touching. "Here...let me show you. This is simple breathing."

  "I already know how to do that."

  I laughed. "Okay, true. Everyone knows how to breathe, or we wouldn't be here. But there is a right way to breathe."

  He looked skeptical. His eyes flicked to mine and then immediately darted away. "I didn't know there was a 'right' way to breathe."

  "Well, there is. It's the way that's healthy for your diaphragm and your abdominal muscles. It's probably counter to what you've always thought. When you breathe in, your chest expands, and when you breathe out, it contracts. But it should actually be the reverse. If you breathe correctly, it will trigger a sense of calming in your nervous system. Here...give me your hand."

  William tentatively held out a big hand and I took it. Placing it on my stomach, I took a deep breath in and then exhaled it. "Do you see what I mean?"

  His fingers moved ever so slightly against my abdomen, and through the thin cloth of my baby tee, my skin reacted to his touch--really reacted to his touch. Tingles everywhere, like I'd been shocked by static electricity. I resisted the urge to move away and chanced a glance at his face to see if he understood what I was demonstrating.

  He frowned. "Do it again."

  I did and he paused. I waited.

  "One more time."

  I complied and he didn't say anything, just moved his fingers again then splayed them across my stomach. His fingers were so long that his hand covered most of my belly. After another moment of no commentary from him, I looked up. He had the biggest grin on his face.

  Well, he might not think his brain behaved typically, but right now he was acting just like a typical man.

  I batted his hand away. "You get the point."

  He blinked. "I might need a refresher course later."

  "Don't make me smack you, Wil." His face clouded briefly, and it occurred to me that he might not realize I was joking. I immediately felt like a jerk. "I'm kidding."

  He nodded. "Now you tell me if I'm breathing correctly."

  He inhaled and exhaled. I leaned forward to get a better look at his abdomen. "Again?"

  "Maybe you should put your hand here." He gestured to his firm, sculpted abdomen, which was now, thankfully, covered by his t-shirt. "So you can tell."

  I peered at his face to see if he was pulling a fast one on me, but he appeared deadly serious. I tentatively reached out my hand and, with the lightest of touches, placed my fingertips on the area just below his sternum. He inhaled and exhaled, and the feel of his rock-hard, muscled chest under my fingertips made them tingle. Again.

  I jerked my hand back. "That's good."

  "So we've established that I know how to breathe. Now what?"

  I smiled. "Now we ground and center."

  "Ground and center? That sounds like baseball."

  "It's a visualization technique that should work well with your style of thinking. So time to put your image-centric mind to the test. Close your eyes and rest the backs of your open hands on your knees, palms up." Hesitantly, he complied, closing his eyes last, as if he had no concept of how to move or place his hands unless he was watching them.

  I began to speak in a low voice, keeping it calm and even. "Okay. Now you are going to relax every part of your body. With each breath you take in and expel, you are going to become more relaxed. Your muscles easing. Your heartbeat slowing. Your breaths becoming further and further apart."

  A long pause. "You're using a Jedi mind trick to get me to stop breathing, aren't you?"

  "Wil! Be serious. Do as I say."

  "I'll do as you say."

  "Good."

  "It is very good."

  I opened one eye and peered at him, but he had his eyes closed and was sitting exactly how I'd left him. Hmm. Was he joking around? It was so hard to tell!

  I decided to test him. "Clear your mind."

  "My mind is clear."

  "These aren't the droids you're looking for."

  "These aren't the droids I'm looking for...."

  I tapped his leg with the back of my hand. "Stop goofing around. This is important!" The smile melted from his face and I immediately felt bad. I cleared my throat, continuing in a less waspish tone. "You need to take this seriously. You have to win. You have my honor to defend, remember?"

  I said it lightly, but he nodded soberly. "Your honor, your tiara, my place in the clan and...my worthiness. A lot depends on this. I won't joke around again."

  He'd mystified me. "Um...your worthiness?"

  "Yes."

  I blinked. "What exactly do you mean by that? You think you lost because you weren't worthy?"

  His gaze met mine and fled just as quickly. "I lost because of my shortcomings."

  "We all have shortcomings. You're no different. It has nothing to do with your worth."

  He didn't appear convinced. "In the medieval era, disputes were solved by duel. The worthy knight was the one who won the duel."

  "Well, this is the twenty-first century, not the medieval period, and you aren't unworthy. Who on earth ever gave you the idea you were unworthy?"

  Something flashed in his eyes--a deep, dark hurt. His lips pressed together so hard they whitened, but he didn't answer. I'd hit a nerve and the Vulcan veneer had cracked just a little.

  I held out a placating hand. "Um, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. If you want to believe that this battle is for your worthiness--if that's what motivates you--then you should be allowed to believe that."

  "I believe it because it's true," he asserted.

  And he said it in such a somber way that something inside my chest twisted and then tightened. I could tell he was using those words to say something else. Those words had weight. They fell like coins, rattling on the floor between us until they were motionless and their echoes had faded.

  "You don't think that because of Doug, do you?"

  He looked profoundly puzzled. "Doug?"

  "I mean, because Doug was mean to you and talked shit about you?"

  He chewed on his lip. "I never think about Doug. He's not worth my time."

  "Oh...I'm just confused, I guess." I so wanted to argue with him. If not because of Doug, then why would he think himself unworthy?

  "Doug can't tear me down because I don't respect him. Why would I believe his opinion of me or let it define my opinion of myself?"

  I nodded. "Good point. That's a healthy attitude to have. But why believe yourself unworthy, then?" The pain that had passed through his eyes went deeper into his past. I immediately wanted to know what it was.

  He looked away. "I have reasons."

  So that was that.

  I clenched my teeth, fighting the urge to pursue the issue. But I couldn't allow myself to get involved. I was moving on soon and I couldn't be anchored down. I'd help William because I had a stake in this, but that was where this had to end.

  I took a deep breath and lifted my chin, ready to begin. "Time for us to get back to this breathing business, okay? No more talk about being worthy or not."

  He
glanced up at me and nodded, but what I caught in his eyes startled me. Because it looked a lot like fear.

  Chapter 6

  William

  "Now," she says, and I try to not look at the way her lips form the words, the way she brushes her pale hair back from her shoulders. I try to ignore that tight, tense feeling I experience whenever I'm around her. I wipe my palms on my jeans again and she leans forward to correct me. "No. Palms up. Rest them on your knees."

  She grasps my wrists in her small hands--her fingers aren't even long enough to close around my wrists--and turns my hands upward.

  I do that sometimes. Rubbing my palms across my pant legs calms me. I turn my palms back over again, brushing them across my jeans a few more times. It's already starting to work.

  She folds her arms across her chest. "What's going on? You don't want to do this?"

  "I like to know what's ahead and be in control of it." I brush my hands across my thighs again, the friction soothing me.

  Her eyes follow my movement. "Should I go?"

  I freeze. "No."

  "I don't want to make you uncomfortable by being here, William."

  My back straightens and my muscles tense. Though I'm unsettled by her nearness, I'm suddenly afraid that she'll leave. She smells so good--like freshly ground cinnamon. But it's all I can smell, and she's all I can think about. And I really don't give a crap about breathing correctly. I just want to please her.

  I force myself to stop rubbing my hands on my jeans by closing them into fists. "Let's continue."

  "So do you do that to calm yourself?"

  I nod.

  "Then you've found a way to cope when you're stressed out. That's a lot like what we're trying to do--using a coping mechanism for dealing with crowds."

  "This isn't something I can do when I'm in a full suit of armor. And it wouldn't help even if I could."

  She thinks for a minute, her eyes wandering to the left while she catches her top lip between her even, white teeth. Her dark pink tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I'm suddenly flush with warm arousal. I wonder if she has any idea how lovely she is. How much I want to kiss her, touch her...

  Her head jerks back to me. As she speaks, she begins fiddling with the rings on her fingers. "How do you feel when you're wearing the armor?"

  "I like wearing the armor. It has a calming effect."

  She cocks her head to the side. "Really? I would think it would make you feel stressed or uneasy, since putting on armor is like preparing to go out and kill."

  "I don't kill anyone in my armor."

  She blows out a breath, eyes wandering to the ceiling. "Of course not, but...you're getting ready to fight. That doesn't stress you out?"

  "No, the armor weighs me down." She doesn't seem to understand, and I don't really have any idea how to explain it to her. I wish I could draw a picture to make her understand--to convey the message straight from my brain to hers.

  There's silence between us and she flops back onto the mat. With a long sigh, she stares up at the ceiling. "You've got to be willing to work with me here."

  "I am willing."

  "No, you're resisting me at every turn. Meet me halfway, would you please?"

  I picture about five different possibilities for 'half way'--half of a pumpkin pie at family dinner at my dad's house, a half-empty glass of water I left on the kitchen counter beside the sink before going to my workshop, half way to--

  Jenna sits up again so suddenly that I'm startled from that train of thought. "You're pissing me off, Wil. I'm sorry. I just have to say this. I need that tiara back."

  "Why?"

  Her pale brows bunch together. "It doesn't matter why. It's important to me."

  I nod. "I understand."

  "No. You don't. I don't meant to be mean, but...well, my sister is getting married in June and she wants to wear it at her wedding."

  I have a feeling that's not the entire story, but I don't know what to say in the face of her obvious anger.

  She sighs again. "Don't you care that you won't be able to associate with the clan if Doug wins? He says you'll have to exile yourself."

  My eyes lower to the floor, her words flowing over me in a strong current. They pull at me and steal my breath like I'm trapped under quickly rushing rapids. "I care about my friends. I don't have that many."

  She doesn't say anything, so I lean back on my arms and watch her.

  "Why did you challenge Doug to the first duel? You weren't even into fighting when you challenged him. It surprised everyone."

  I swallow what feels like a large lump in my throat. I can't tell her the real reason. I have no idea how she'd react to, "Because Doug had you and I wanted you to be mine."

  But I don't want to lie, either. "Doug is arrogant and insulting to people. I was tired of it." That's the truth...part of it, anyway.

  She appears to think about that for a moment before looking up. "Is--is that the only reason?"

  My face heats. Should I lie? Can I lie?

  "To prove to myself that I could do it." I throw that out there because, yes, it was a reason, too. It's probably the biggest reason I initiate and excel at mostly everything I try to do. My art, the blacksmithing, the sword fighting. All of it.

  Have I not been setting up these standards of personal worthiness my whole life? If I just get better grades in school, she'll be proud of me. She'll love me. If I become an accomplished artist, she'll brag to her friends that I'm her son. She won't stay away anymore...

  When I breathe in again, it actually hurts. But I shove that old pain aside, willing it to go away.

  Jenna's shoulders hunch. "We need to get you used to crowds. Like a sporting event. Do you like baseball?"

  "No."

  "Well, it's just as well--there's no baseball in March anyway. But hockey...we could go to a Ducks game?"

  I shake my head.

  "Come on. It will be fun. Hockey players are a lot like modern-day knights. They, um, wear their own sort of armor, they carry big sticks--like lances--and they fight a lot."

  I laugh at the thought of likening hockey players to knights. I've seen portions of hockey games before, and I would never view them that way. I chance a look at Jenna's eyes and see that she's not looking at my face. She's staring at my chest. So I take this opportunity to study that dark circle of blue around those cornflower irises fringed with pale lashes. She's fresh-faced and wearing hardly any make-up, and I think she's more beautiful that way. I feel warm, like when the sun comes out on a cloudy day.

  Her eyes meet mine without warning and I jerk my gaze away. I can't look too hard or deep. It feels like I'm seeing things that I shouldn't see.

  "Do you trust me, William?" I hesitate to answer that. In all honesty, Jenna has given me no reason to trust her. She waits and then sighs. "If you go with me, we can practice. I can't think of another way to acclimate you to crowds otherwise."

  "Did you do that? For your fear of loud noises?"

  She nodded. "Yes...I went to see some movies. About war. And"--she shudders as she continues--"I went to a rifle range. That was hard. I freaked out pretty bad."

  I look up, suddenly wanting to know more about her--about when she struggled with panic like I do.

  "How did you get through it?"

  "I reminded myself that it's mind over matter."

  Again she's speaking in the language of metaphors. I've heard this expression before, but I still don't get it and it's even hard to envision. She seems to pick this up from my reaction.

  "It means that I had to remind myself that I'm stronger than the fear."

  I nod, looking down, thinking about her words. How incredibly brave it was to force herself to confront that fear. Just the thought of her "freaking out" at a rifle range stirs something in me--a fierce protective instinct, I think. I imagine myself there with her, wrapping my arms around her, whispering that it will be okay, protecting her.

  If she's brave enough to do that...then I can be, too.

&nb
sp; "And if I want to leave?"

  "Then we'll leave," she says simply.

  "Why did you freak out at the rifle range?"

  "It brought back...memories. They took me by surprise."

  "What memories?"

  Her face changes, along with her entire posture. "Bad memories. I'd rather not depress you with them." She's laughing as she says this and waving a hand in front of her. She doesn't want to go into detail because, whatever it is, it's dark. I remember the pictures and film I saw of that war. Horrible images come to mind.

  And when she was little, she was there...in the middle of that. I'm marveling that she chose to expose herself to gunfire in spite of the terror.

  I clear my throat. "I'll go, then. If you come with me. But--"

  "We'll leave if you have to. The minute it becomes unbearable. No judgments. Okay?"

  I nod, but my heart is racing. I'm not sure if it's the idea of putting myself out there, or if it's the fact that I'll get to spend more time with Jenna.

  ***

  I've purchased the tickets to the hockey game, and we are going after I leave work. I'd expressed doubts--via text message--about navigating the traffic around the hockey arena. She had the idea of parking at a nearby movie theater and walking. So that's our plan.

  I'm waiting at the curb outside her apartment. I've texted her twice now to tell her I'm here, and she's finally just let me know that she's on her way down. Minutes later, she appears wearing jeans and a long-sleeved sweater that accentuates the curves of her body. She smiles when she catches a glimpse of my car, her pale hair spilling out under a dark knit beanie. The more I focus on her, the harder it is to focus on anything else, so I blink and tear my eyes away.

  "Right on time. Sorry I was late..." she says as she gets in.

  "Again."

  As I reach over to adjust the temperature in the car, I note that her brows twitch, but she doesn't respond. I pull away from the curb while she remains silent.

  Her cinnamon smell assaults my senses the minute she's settled beside me. It's so distracting that I can barely keep my mind on the road.

  I clear my throat. "I'm always on time. Or when I'm not, I have a good reason for it."

  She shifts in her seat. "Somehow I already knew that about you." I puzzle over her words, wondering how she could know that about me. "So how are you feeling about this?" she asks.