Page 39 of Brazen Being It

He pauses, searching my face again, asking with his eyes if I want this. I nod, too full for words, and he smiles, the kind of smile that makes my heart stutter. I’ve never gone this far with a man, but I’m not scared. Not with him. Because he looks at me like I’m more than my past. Like I’m more than what I’ve lost. His hand settles at my waist, grounding me, and I exhale, letting go of old fears.

He moves over me, his weight gentle, his body fitting to mine like we were always meant to meet like this. His lips travel over my collarbone, down the center of my chest, leaving a trail of warmth and longing. He murmurs my name, the sound of it a prayer, a promise. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him close, anchoring myself to the here and now.

I know about sex. My mom got paid for it more than once and left me to sit in a closet while she did it. The memory flashes behind my eyelids, sharp and ugly. But when he touches me, none of that matters. With him, it’s not about transaction or survival. It’s about connection. It’s about choosing.

I choose him. He chooses me.

When our bodies finally meet, when he moves with me, inside me, it’s not just physical—it’s everything. It’s surrender and trust. It’s healing. His body presses into mine, slow and deep, and I gasp at the feeling, the fullness, the ache that isn’t pain but something softer, something sweeter. He holds me like I’m something sacred, like he’s honored to be here—with me—for this. Every thrust is a promise, every breath a vow.

We move together, finding a rhythm that belongs only to us. The world outside the room dissolves—there is only the hush of our breathing, the quiet urgency of our bodies, the thud of our hearts beating in time. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting all of him. He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot, his voice rough with feeling. “Cambria,” he whispers, as if saying my name can hold us both together.

Pleasure builds inside me, slow and insistent, curling through my body like a flame. I cling to him, letting myself fall, letting myself trust that he will catch me.

He does. His hand finds mine, our fingers lacing together, grounding me. I come apart with him, my body shuddering, my heart breaking open. He follows, groaning my name, burying himself deep as if he could anchor himself in me.

Afterward, I don’t ache. I feel full, complete. We stay tangled in the silence, hearts thudding together, breath slowing. He strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, and I realize I’m crying, but it’s not sadness, not fear. It’s relief. It’s gratitude. I press my face to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He doesn’t pull away. He holds me, his hands gentle, his body curved around mine like a promise. We lie there in the quiet, letting the world come back slowly. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone.

I feel cherished.

I feel whole.

He brushes my hair from my face. “You okay?”

I nod. “More than okay.”

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. “Then don’t go back to the weight. Stay here. With me. Just for tonight.”

I press my lips to his shoulder, close my eyes, and let myself believe—maybe for the first time—that I deserve this.

NINE

CAMBRIA

Some skeletons refuse to stay buried.

It’s beena full week since I’ve seen the black SUV. Seven days—each one a gift I don’t fully trust, but can’t help savoring. I almost expect the shadow to come crawling back at any moment. My mind’s grown so used to danger, it’s suspicious of the peace. But with every dawn, the space between heartbeats grows quieter.

I miss my mom. I worry about her. But I don’t reach out. Being able to sleep, really sleep at night changes the way I view my old life. I promise myself to never go back to that situation again. I hope one day she will want to make changes. I hope one day she will have the courage to take the risk and try the unknown. This has been the scariest thing I’ve ever done, but the most rewarding to be able to sleep in peace and not fear or worry.

Frankie’s presence has haunted me for so long that his absence feels like a trick. Every time a car drives by, every time I hear gravel crack under tires, I have to resist the urge to duck down, to count the seconds before the world explodes again. But nothing comes. Just the wind in the pines, and occasionally the low whine of a lawnmower somewhere down the road.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m starting to believe in stillness. In mornings where the air is sweet with a small breeze, where the sky stretches wide and blue, and my only job is to exist—to breathe, to feel the sun on my skin, to not be afraid. I never knew stillness could be a kind of luxury, a thing you could earn just by surviving long enough.

I stick close to the house, mostly. At first, it’s habit. Later, it becomes choice. Inside these walls, nothing can get to me. The trailer is older, but updated, with only a few floorboards that groan and windows that rattle in the wind. But it holds me in a place of contentment. The kitchen smells like coffee and lemon, the den like old leather and dusty sunlight. Each of the rooms are stacked with history—family photos, little trophies, the faded quilt draped over the back of the couch. I’ve never felt more at home and more like an outsider at the same time.

Little Foot heads out to work most days. Sometimes it’s at the club garage, fixing up bikes or helping Toon with the fleet. Sometimes it’s the truck—long hours spent in the cab, music low, his hand gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. But he never leaves without pressing a kiss to my temple, murmuring, “Back before dark, promise.” He always is. No matter how tired he looks, he always brings me something: coffee in a diner cup, a chocolate bar, a wildflower he’s pressed flat between the pages of his notebook. His gestures are quiet, but they’re the loudest love I’ve ever known.

He doesn’t have to say the words. I’ve never trusted words, anyway. Actions are a different language—one I’m still learning, but crave all the same.

Today is slow, a Sunday kind of quiet, even though it’s a Thursday. The sky is low and hazy, the sun draping itself across the porch like it knows we need softness. The world feels muffled, safe, like a thick blanket pulled up to my chin.

This morning, Drew dropped me off at his mom’s since she invited me to spend the day with her baking. It’s just me, Tessie, and Acadia in Tessie’s kitchen. Tessie’s peeling apples—she does it with the kind of grace that comes from years of feeding a family, her hands steady and sure. The peels fall in long, green ribbons, piling up on a paper towel at her feet. Acadia’s next to her, knees hugged to her chest, sketchbook propped against her thighs. She draws without looking at the page, like she trusts her hands to remember what her eyes have seen.

Me? I’m just breathing. Letting the quiet seep in, fill all the old, hollow places that used to ache with fear. There’s a rhythm here—a slow, gentle thrum. Tessie’s knife slicing through apple flesh, Acadia’s pencil scraping paper, the porch swing creaking with every shift of my weight. Even the birds seem to be keeping time, flitting through sunbeams that cut the dust into gold.

Tessie glances over at me, eyes bright, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You know," she says, tossing another apple peel into the pile, "I don’t think I’ve seen you this still since you got here."

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