Page 59 of Open Arms

We settled on the grassy bank of the pond. The water was smooth, mirroring the cotton candy blue of the sky. It was the kind of scene that begged for silence, for whispered confessions, or maybe just for two people to sit and feel the world spin beneath them.

“Chloe,” I started, then stopped. I wanted to ask her a million things, but now, with her sitting beside me, the questions didn’t seem as important.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said softly.

“Anytime you need an escape, just say the word.” I leaned back on my hands, giving her space, letting her breathe in the quiet beauty of the place.

“Escape,” she repeated thoughtfully, looking over the water. “Sometimes that’s all we’re looking for, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” I watched a dragonfly skim across the pond’s surface. “But sometimes we find something worth staying for.” My gaze shifted to her, holding a silent question I wasn’t sure she was ready to answer.

She nodded, a small movement that felt as significant as any words.

I shifted closer, the grass tickling my palms as I turned to face her. The pond’s gentle lapping was like a quiet drumbeat, grounding us in this moment of truth. “Chloe,” I said, my voicebarely louder than the breeze, “whatever it is that’s eating at you . . . you can trust me with it.”

Her eyes, wide and as blue as the sky above, darted away for a second before locking back onto mine. She drew in a deep breath, like she was about to dive underwater. “Mason, I—“ Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s just . . . hard. To talk about.”

“Hey,” I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her scarred temple, “no pressure, all right? But know this—I’m here for you. Always.”

A smile flickered across her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They were still stormy, full of things unsaid, secrets that weighed her down. And there I was, ready to be her anchor.

“Always is a long time, Mase,” she whispered, a half-hearted attempt at lightness.

“Good thing I ain’t going nowhere.” I flashed her a grin, hoping to coax one from her in return. It worked, sort of. A ghost of a smile, but it was a start.

“Thank you,” she said, her hand finding mine, fingers entwining like they belonged together. “For being patient. For this.” She gestured vaguely around us.

“Chlo,” I leaned in, our foreheads nearly touching, “whatever demons you’re fighting, we’ll face them together. When you’re ready.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “I . . . I want to tell you. Everything. But it’s like this knot inside me—tight and tangled. I don’t know where to start pulling.”

“We’ll untangle it,” I promised, my thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “One loop at a time.”

Her breath hitched, and she leaned into me, seeking comfort or maybe just warmth. “Okay,” she murmured, “okay.”

I saw a shift in her, then. She was preparing herself. Readying to open up. And it was everything.

24

Chloe

The pond’sglassy surface reflected the blue sky, a collage of pink and orange fading into twilight. My heart thumped an erratic rhythm. I had carried the weight of my past alone for so long, letting it hunch my shoulders and furrow my brow. But today, with Mason’s gentle presence beside me, the burden felt lighter, like maybe, just maybe, I could set it down.

“Okay.” The word was a whisper, more to myself than to him. A promise that I was ready to let someone in. Ready to peel back the layers of carefully constructed walls brick by brick, even if the thought sent tremors through me.

I glanced at Mason, his profile calm and reassuring against the backdrop of the sprawling ranch. He waited, patient as the ancient oaks that lined the pond.

A shiver traced the length of my spine, not from the cool autumn air, but from the prospect of vulnerability. The water rippled as a fish disturbed its tranquility—a mirror of my own unrest. I hesitated, biting my lower lip.

“Back home . . .” I started, then stopped. The words clung to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter, thick and unyielding. Itried again, forcing them out. “There’s a lot I haven’t told anyone here. About . . . about why I really came to Whittier Falls.”

My eyes returned to the pond, locking onto the undulating reflection as if it held the script of my life. The scars on my back tightened, a physical reminder of the night that changed everything. Of the night I became a survivor rather than a sister, a daughter.

I exhaled slowly, steadying my voice against the memories threatening to capsize me. “I think it’s time I tell you about that,” I said, finally lifting my gaze from the water to find Mason’s steady, kind eyes. His gaze never wavered from mine, patient and expectant. I took a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs, emboldening me.

“Growing up,” I murmured, “was like living on a tightrope. My father . . . he was a storm cloud in a seemingly clear sky.” My words hung heavy between us, each one a weight lifted, yet pressing down with the gravity of my past.

“I thought we were happy, an ordinary family. But there was this darkness in him—like a riptide beneath calm waters.”

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