Page 43 of Into The Light
She slides off my lap and stands up, smoothing her skirt down. "I'll need to swing by my house first, though. I need to rinse off and change." She holds my eyes. "Unless you don't want to come."
My chest is tight. "Um. I…" I work my jaw, fighting for breath as the iron band around my lungs constricts. "I don't know."
She unsnaps the cape and whips it off, folds it up, and puts it away. "I get it if you don't want to."
"Not that I don’twantto. I do. Just…"
She puts the scissors in the jar and then puts her backside to the cabinet, looking at me. “Just what? You can tell me anything."
"It's your family. A family get-together. Not sure I belong." I shrug, looking away.
She gives my beard a gentle, playful tug. “It's an informal barbecue. My brothers and sisters have brought friends and dates over before. No one will think anything of it."
"Don't want to impose. Or…" I shrug and shake my head. "Be in the way."
She just laughs. "You're silly. Let me clean this hair up real quick and then we can go."
"How'm I silly?" I ask, leaving the chair so she can sweep.
She brushes the red curls and commas of my hair into a pile and then into a small trash can-like device that turns on with a whirr and sucks the hair away.
"I'm inviting you. Therefore, it's not an imposition. You will be welcome."
"I guess it's more than that,” I growl in frustration as the right words seem to evade my tongue. “It’s…who I am. I’m worried I don't…" I sigh. "Fit."
She puts the broom away and comes to stand in front of me, both palms on my chest, gaze soft with understanding. "You're definitely not what they'll expect when I tell them I'm bringing a…a friend. They may have questions, I won't lie, but just remember—you don't owe anyone an explanation. Okay?"
"We’re friends?" I ask.
"I mean, I sure hope so. At the very least." She pats my chest. "Don't worry. It'll be okay. Promise."
Eight
NOELLE
Bear is quieter than usual, pensive. We make the short drive from the salon to my house in silence, the only sound is Panzer's soft breathing in the back seat. To be fair, though, I'm kind of lost in thought myself.
Heisattracted to me. He just doesn't feel like he deserves to be. He doesn’t think he's allowed to. He expects me to reject him or mock him—I’m not sure which. Both, maybe.
More than once, he's called me "clean,” and I'm starting to understand that doesn't mean physically free from dirt. He means spiritually, existentially. He feels unclean as a person. Stained by his past. By his record.
But good grief, when he does touch me? I feel combustible. My skin still tingles where he touched me. My lips burn, longing to feel his on them. We weresoclose—had Dad not called when he did, we would have kissed.
I want more.
I want to kiss him. Touch him. Be touched. Held.
Sleeping with him—literally only sleeping—was incredible. So peaceful. Safe. Warm. Connected.
The thought of going home tonight and sleeping alone in a cold bed sounds horrible, now.
Lonely.
I want him. I desire him. And I want him to want me, to desire me. To show me how he feels about me. It'll take some time, though. He needs to be shown that he's not defined by his past. That I see him for who he is now. I’m not afraid of who he was or the things he did. I understand full well that he’s only given me the outlines of what his life was like before going to prison: violent and full of struggle.
That's not who he is anymore. He just needs a little encouragement is all.
And I plan to give him that. Show him who he is to me. Who he can be. Hopefully, I can show him that it's okay to want things. To hope. To believe in himself. To allow himself to have…
