Into Your Arms

  * * *

  A few minutes later I’m at my laptop with my fingers hovering over the keys. All I have to do is type in a name. Just her name. Two words. I can do this.

  I can’t count how many times I’ve been in this same position and ended up shutting my laptop and giving up.

  Not this time.

  I put in the first letter.

  R.

  And a second.

  E.

  My hands are shaking. I stop and then freaking Google tries to complete my thought for me. No, Google, I’m not looking for the Red Sox, Reddit or a Realtor.

  Rebecca. That’s who I’m looking for. Rebecca June Cooper. My birth mother. I know nothing about her, other than her name and that she gave birth at Maine Medical Center. I was worried that she might have gotten married and changed her name, but I found more than a few Rebecca Coopers in Maine and one Rebecca J. Cooper. I couldn’t look further than that to social media accounts, or other public records, and I haven’t been able to since. Every time my hands would seize up, or I’d delete her name, or someone would interrupt me, or I would just plain freak out.

  I know she’s out there. I know she isn’t dead. I made sure to check death records. She’s alive and she’s in this state and so am I.

  I close my eyes and take a breath and type in her name again, letter by letter.

  There she is. Or at least I think so.

  A Facebook page.

  Below that a few newspaper articles and then the results go off to other Rebecca Coopers in other states. I don’t care about those Rebecca Coopers.

  I click on her Facebook page, but she has everything set to private. I can only see her profile picture and cover photo. I enlarge her profile picture, but it’s just of a flower. A poppy. Looks as if it has an Instagram filter on it, but I didn’t find an account for her. Her cover photo is the view from the top of a mountain. I bet it’s Acadia National Park.

  Nothing else. No pictures of her face. No details. Nothing.

  Dead end. I’m almost relieved. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see a picture of her face.

  I’ve thought about her so many times since I found out. Does she look like me? Do I have her eyes? What about my personality? Is it anything like hers? How old is she? Where does she work?

  And the most important question: Why did she give me up?

  I have no details about that. Other than that she was nineteen when she gave birth to me, which could be an explanation, but that’s not enough. I need to know.

  I need to know or else I can’t go on with the rest of my life. That first night I found out, I got no sleep. I turned everything over and over in my head, and by the time the sun came up, I made my decision to come here.

  So far, I haven’t regretted it. Much.

  I get up and head to bed again. At this rate, I’m going to feel like complete shit tomorrow, but there’s nothing I can do about that.

  I close my eyes and try to quiet my thoughts.

  Where are you, Rebecca Cooper?

  Do you miss me? Do you think about me? Do you regret giving me up?

  Someday I’ll know. And I can’t move on until I do.

  Rhett

  Sleep is next to impossible. Every time I hear any sort of sound, I think it’s going to be her. A very small part of me imagines a scene where she knocks on my door and asks to stay with me, but that part of me is an idiot because that is never going to happen.

  At last I get to sleep, but my alarm goes off a few hours later. I’m almost afraid to get up and see if she’s there, but I do and tiptoe out to the living room to find the couch empty and my blanket folded up across the back of the couch. I sigh and walk over.

  Oh, she left a note on the back of mine in her loopy handwriting.

  Thanks for letting me crash. I woke up and decided to go home. Thanks for dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or today. Whichever it is when you read this.

  —Freya

  My heart jumps a little bit at the thought of her writing this. Even though she’s not here. My alarm goes off again, reminding me that I need to get my ass down to the field house for our morning run. If I don’t book it, I’m going to be late.

  I smile at the note and run to get changed.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Freya says when I finally get there. I’m a little bit late, but everyone is stretching. It’s a brisk morning and I can see my breath in smoky whorls when I exhale.

  “Hey,” I say, a little shocked that she’s talking to me. She usually doesn’t and I think she likes it that way. Freya is not a morning person and I respect that.

  “Did you make your pancakes?” she asks, cracking her back.

  “No. I woke up late and had to rush. I’m going back to make them.” She looks at me for a few moments and then nods.

  “I’ll bring some orange juice.” And then she’s off running and I’m standing there wondering what the hell changed and how I missed it.

  * * *

  I catch up to her and fall into pace beside her. Since my legs are so much longer, I slow quite a bit. She hates running, which I also know. It amazes me that she’s here every morning, without fail, even though she despises it.

  Just shows how much she truly loves cheer.

  “Sorry I left,” she pants. “I felt weird. But then I kinda regretted it.” The cold air makes my lungs burn. It’s going to suck running out here in a few weeks. If it snows, we’ll have to take these workouts inside to the treadmill. I wouldn’t mind doing that now. As long as Freya was on the treadmill beside me.

  “It’s fine,” I say with a smile. “I figured you would. But you can still come over for pancakes. Anytime.” She gives me a tentative smile and then bites her bottom lip a little.

  Fucking hell. She shouldn’t be allowed to be so cute.

  “Cool,” she says and we fall into running again. We exchange a word here and there, but we mostly focus until we get back to the field house.

  “Do you mind if I go home and shower and then come over?” she says as we head to our cars.

  “Not at all. See you in a few.” I give her a little wave and she gives me one back, and I can’t help the goofy fucking smile I have on my face as I drive home.

  * * *

  I’m in the process of mixing up pancake batter (from scratch) and deciding on whether or not to add chocolate chips when there’s a knock at my door. That was fast.

  “Hey,” she says, her hair freshly washed, blow dried and pulled back.

  “Come on in,” I say and she does, carrying a bag.

  “Okay, I brought orange and cranberry, because I like to mix them together. Is that weird?”

  “Not at all.” My heart thumps at having her here again. She comes in and sets the bag down on the kitchen counter.

  “Question,” I say, holding up the bag of chocolate chips. “Chips or no?” She hops up on the counter and gives me a look as if I’ve said something ridiculous.

  “Chips. Duh.” I laugh and start dumping them in.

  “Good enough?” I ask and she nods. I hold the bag of chocolate chips out to her and she reaches for them, popping a few into her mouth.

  “Pre-breakfast snack,” she says.

  “Solid plan.” I get the griddle pan (yet another yard-sale find) set up, and Freya comes over to hover at my elbow and watch me.

  “I always burn my pancakes. Or don’t cook them enough and they fall apart when I try to flip them. I feel like I’m pancake cursed,” she says. I laugh.

  “I don’t think that’s a thing, Freya, but if you want, I can give you pancake lessons.” I cook most things well, but I take special pride in my pancakes.

  “It’s better to have a lower heat than a higher one. Because you need it to heat evenly, and if it’s too hot, then one side cooks faster than the other.” I look to see if she thinks I’m being patronizing, but she just watches and nods. I go on, talking about the right amount of butter to use and when to flip. I turn the pancakes over and they’re j
ust the right amount of brown on the other side.

  “You really are good at this,” she says, and I realize her cheek is almost pressed up against my arm. She’s leaning into me. I don’t even know if she realizes she’s doing it.

  I’m afraid to move because I don’t want her to back away. I can feel the heat of her body near mine.

  “I think they’re done,” she says softly and I realize they definitely are. I slide them onto a plate and hand it to her.

  “Syrup and butter are in the fridge, and if you need anything else, help yourself,” I say and start pouring out some more pancake batter into the pan.

  “I don’t want to eat without you. Seems a bit rude,” she says, setting the plate down.

  “I can wait.”

  Her pancakes are probably going to be cold at that point, but I like that she wants us to eat at the same time. I turn up the heat just a touch so my pancakes will cook faster and soon we’re sitting at my small dining table and making our way through two stacks of pancakes.

  “How is it that everything you make is fucking fantastic?” she asks through a mouthful. At first I thought that Freya would be a delicate eater. She looks like she’s a delicate eater.

  Not so much, but it’s cute as hell. It’s not that she’s a gross eater. Freya enjoys her food and she eats a lot of it. Without any shame, which is great.

  “It’s a gift,” I say, wiping syrup off my beard. I have to make sure crumbs don’t get stuck in it all the time. I’d shave it, but it keeps my face warm in the winter, and I like the way it makes my face look. I’m not sure how Freya feels about it. I hope she likes it.

  But if she wanted me to shave it, I probably would. I’d do almost anything she asked of me.

  “I wish I had that gift. Pretty much the only thing I’m good at is cheer. And binge-watching stuff. Oh, and sometimes taking pictures. And writing, I guess.” I give her a look.

  “There’s a lot of things you’re wonderful at, Freya. Don’t you know that?” She raises both eyebrows.

  “How would you know?”

  How would I not?

  “I don’t know, because I spend a significant portion of my waking hours with you? And I spend a lot of time lifting you up and down and up and down and up and down again.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah, I get it. But that still doesn’t mean you know shit about me.” I know plenty about her, but she clearly doesn’t like that and doesn’t want me to.

  “Okay. Fine. I don’t know shit about you, Freya.” I stab the last bits of pancake off my plate and shove them in my mouth. I’m not mad, but she’s starting to get steamed up. I know her well enough now to see the signs. Her eyes narrow just the tiniest bit and then her mouth tightens at the edges.

  Like what’s happening right now.

  “I really don’t know why I come over here,” she says, picking up her plate and heading into the kitchen.

  “It’s the food,” I call after her.

  “Yup. Just the food!” She turns on the sink and rinses off her dishes. I pick up my plate and take a chance by walking up behind her.

  “You don’t have to be pissed, Freya. I was giving you a compliment.” I’ve hit on a sore spot and I don’t know why, but I need to so I don’t do it in the future. Learning Freya.

  She makes a grumbly sound and turns off the sink before facing me.

  “Look, I’m not a huge fan of people trying to shove their way into my life. The people that are in my life are people I’ve chosen. Carefully.” I wait for her to continue.

  “And you’re . . .” she trails off and gestures to me with one hand.

  “I’m what?” I’d very much like to know what I am.

  “You’re a pain in my ass,” she says and I chuckle.

  “But I make damn good food. And I’m charming. And I save you from busting your ass during practice.” She glares at me and then sighs.

  “Okay, you are all of those things and that’s what’s so annoying. You’re not part of the plan, Rhett.” That’s fine. She wasn’t part of my plan, but plans fucking change. They shift all the time. But her life is her life, and she can live it however she wants. I’d just like to be part of it any way I can.

  “So what are you saying?” I ask, crossing my arms. Her eyes rake my tattoos before coming back up to focus on my face.

  “I’m saying that I don’t know. I need . . . I need for you not to be a distraction. But I also like being around you. Don’t let that go to your head.” She points a finger at me and I lift my hands in surrender, but I can’t stop the stupid grin that covers my face.

  “Does this mean you’re going to continue to have dinner with me? And maybe breakfast?” She’s costing me money for the extra food, but I can pick up some extra hours if I need to. I can handle it.

  “Maybe. And . . . and maybe we can do some other things too. Outside of cheer and everything.” Her face is a little red and she’s being so cute about everything that I want to kiss her, but that’s actually the last thing I should do right now that she’s decided to start letting me in.

  “But. I have things that I need to do and that I can’t be distracted from. So if that starts happening, we’ll have to tone it down. Okay?” I’m not so on board with that parameter, and I’m wondering what she needs to do that I might derail her from doing. She’s handling school and cheer and did so before me. But maybe she thinks that I’d cut into her study time. I don’t know. But I definitely don’t want to do that. This is probably the worst timing for both of us, but I’m not thinking about that right now.

  “Okay,” I say, sticking my hand out. She reluctantly shakes mine and we have that moment again, where everything pauses and I think she’s going to lean in and kiss me. But she shakes her head and drops my hand.

  “We’re not dating. We’re hanging out. As friends. That’s it.” I nod. Fine with me. For now. That one kiss notwithstanding.

  “You’re fine with that?” she asks.

  “Yup,” I say, moving around her to rinse my plate off. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for work.

  “Oh.” I guess she prepared herself for the possibility that I’d push for all or nothing. Well, I’m not that guy.

  “Listen, it’s fine. We’ll just be friends. No pressure. Whatever happens, happens.” I rinse off my plate and put it in the dish drainer.

  “Sure,” she says and I sense that she wants to say more, but an alarm goes off on her phone.

  “Shit, I have to go. I’ll see you later?” She dashes toward the door and grabs her coat off the hook.

  “See you later,” I say, but she’s already out the door.

  10

  Freya

  Yeah, so I said I was going to cut myself off from him, but then I had another thought. What if I let myself hang out with him? Gave in and stopped trying to tell myself not to. Maybe then I might be able to shove him aside in my brain. Or I might find something about him that I didn’t like so he would stop being such a paragon of male perfection.

  Giving in to a craving so that I don’t binge later. Ugh, I have no idea what bingeing on Rhett would look like, but it would probably involve nudity.

  Yeah, let’s not think about that, Freya.

  After I leave Rhett’s I still have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I do feel a little better about what’s happening with him. Now I can stop obsessing and focus on the shit I need to focus on. My schoolwork hasn’t been slipping, but I haven’t been putting as much into it as I should.

  I’m going to do better. I’m going to do better at everything.

  And I’m going to find her.

  I will.

  * * *

  My plan to get my shit together lasts about three days until Rhett asks me if I want to come over for dinner after practice. He’s been pretty much the same as before. Still flirty, still always lurking in the corner of my vision. Still giving me that smile that turns my knees into liquid.

  I’m also not having any luck with searching furthe
r for my birth mom. I have a Skype session with Mia, and she asks me what’s going on. I don’t want to tell her about my dismal failure to do the one thing I came here to do. So I blather on about Rhett to distract her, but it doesn’t work.

  “Are you doing okay? Really? Mom has been next to impossible lately, asking me for details about you. I wish you’d let me tell her.” I groan. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

  “I’m fine,” I say, but that’s the wrong thing to say. No one says they’re fine when they’re fine. People only say they’re fine when they want other people to think they are.

  I take a breath. “I’m okay. I swear. Everything’s going well. I’m doing good in my classes and cheer is . . . well it’s not the same, but there’s a chance for this squad to start from the bottom and grow into something. I’m okay, Mia.” She’s silent for a while and then sighs.

  “I don’t want you to be okay. I want you to be amazing. I want you to have everything you deserve. You were happy here and you just up and left. And you don’t seem happy there. I just . . . I don’t get it and I miss you. You can come back here and we’ll work things out. You know that my parents will support you or rob a bank or do anything to get you back in school and back on the squad. I wish you’d come home.” Her voice cracks on the last few words, and I realize she’s crying.

  Shit. I miss her too. So much.

  Now we’re both crying and telling the other one not to cry and it’s a big mess. I have to get up and grab some tissues and come back. Mia’s blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense to you and I know I’m being difficult, but I need to do this. I have to look for her and I can’t be back in Texas. It just reminds me of my parents, and it’s like having my entire shitty childhood shoved in my face all the time. It’s just too hard, Mia.” She sniffs and nods.

  “I know. But I’m still going to worry about you. I’ll always worry about you. That’s my job as your best friend and one I take very seriously.” She raises her stubborn chin and I finally smile. There’s the best friend I know and love.

  “Will you at least come back for Christmas?” This is something I’ve been putting off telling her for a while. I’m scared if I go back to Texas, even for a few days, that Mia and her family and all my friends back there will convince me not to come back. And I can’t do that. I can’t let emotions and all of that cloud my intentions. I’m not going to look back on my life and have this be my biggest regret. I can’t.