A/N: Thanks so much for all the great feedback. More please! I have loads of exciting plans for this story, it's kind of taking over my life, however, if you're looking for something lighter in between updates, check out Trophy, my latest form of procrastination. Feel free to message me, or find me on Twitter at galsbeingpals. Love to you all, and *puppy eyes* reviews are the best motivation ever.
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We run to the house, the umbrella with us but folded, and hurry inside. I feel a little awkward, not quite sure what to do next, but before I can worry about it, Regina takes my hand and pulls me upstairs to her room and then into her bathroom.
"You're cold," she tells me. "Take a hot shower, there is a towel for you there. I'll bring you something to put on."
"You're not staying for the shower?"
She smiles, then leans in to give me a peck on the cheek. I shiver - perfect timing, as always. She reaches out and pulls me into a tight hug, rubbing my back. I wrap my arms around her too and will time to stop, to freeze right here, but freeze is the wrong word - I shiver again and she lets me go so I can shower and warm up.
I'm quick because she's waiting. I emerge from the bathroom dressed in the grey silk pyjamas (and underwear which has to be hers) she's left for me, but she's not in her room. Duh. There's another bathroom downstairs. I give my hair a last rub with the towel, hang it up on a suitable looking hook, then go to find her.
In the kitchen there's no Regina, but there are two large mugs with cocoa mix inside them, and a pot of milk on the stove. I start heating the milk and look around for cookies. She has a kid, she has to have cookies somewhere. The best I can find are some painfully healthy looking crackers, but beggars can't be choosers, so I nibble one. It's surprisingly tasty; I scoff it down and wonder if I'm sufficiently close to her to be allowed more. This line of thought, however, just makes me think I shouldn't have eaten one at all. I shouldn't have snooped around her kitchen, she just bought me dinner, she's giving me cocoa, and here I am, stealing food. I put the crackers on the counter, not wanting to hide that I had one.
I get a bitter taste in my mouth; I wind my fingers together, staring at this box of crackers. How could I have been so greedy? How could I have stolen from her? I've ruined everything, she's never going to trust me now, I'll be nothing but a thieving orphan to her, just like I am to everybody else. My breathing gets faster and faster; I gasp for air, my hands shake, my knees tremble, my heart thunders in my chest. I'm still staring at the crackers. I start to back away from them-
And walk right into Regina, who catches me.
"I know I'm small, but please don't squash-" she begins to joke. But then she sees my face.
"Emma."
It's not a question, she's not asking what's wrong. She knows.
"It's Regina, Emma. You're in my house, in my kitchen, we just went to dinner, and before that we were dancing. It was a wonderful evening - for me, at least."
She keeps talking even as she hurries to the stove to turn off the heat under the milk, which is boiling over. I've ruined her milk, too. I've made a mess of the stove. I've made a mess of everything. I always make a mess-
"Emma." Louder this time, strong, clear. I try to hold on, but everything's slipping away, I feel my knees start to buckle, I want to run, to hide, to crawl under something and never come out.
"Emma, I'd like to take your hand. May I?"
My eyes flick from side to side, but I just about register the question, and nod my head. She takes my hand and holds it tight, rubbing circles on my palm with her thumb. I'm shaking so much I'm sure I'm going to fall, but she carefully guides me to a chair. I sit in it; she stands in front of me, keeping eye contact, keeping talking. I don't even know what she's saying, but I hold on to it with everything in my mind I'm still in control of and slowly she comes into focus.
"Emma, you're having a panic attack. Try to breathe with me…" She breathes, she counts, I copy. It takes at least ten minutes, but eventually the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate. I still feel terrible, I'm an awful person, I… But I'm breathing. And she doesn't look like she hates me.
"I'm so sorry," I stammer. She continues to hold my hand.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," she says gently. I look at the box of crackers and shake my head violently. She tugs a chair up behind her so she can sit right with me, then takes my other hand too.
"What happened, Emma?" she asks gently.
I stare at my knees. "I stole a cracker," I mutter, already flinching at the blow that's bound to come. Except… It doesn't. There's just silence. So much silence that I look up. And when I look up she's even more silent, because her eyes are silent too.
Then she leans in, very slowly, and kisses me on the cheek. After a moment, she kisses the other one too. Then she smiles, and kisses me on the nose. I smile. It's weak, but it's there. She smiles too, then catches my eye, her face only inches from mine.
"Do I seem mad to you?" she asks.
"I burned the milk-"
"I know. Do I seem mad to you?"
I pause. The answer's too obvious; I bite my lip. She smiles gently, moving back a little, giving me space, but not leaving me alone.
"It's not a trick, Emma."
I take a long breath. "No, you don't seem mad."
"Good. You're right. I'm not mad. Do I seem like I'm going to hurt you?"
"No!" I exclaim. She strokes my hands encouragingly.
"You're right. I'm not. Why?"
"Because you're a good person," I say immediately.
"Right," she says. "But even good people get mad sometimes. Why am I not mad that you ate a cracker and burned the milk?"
"Uh… You're a really good person?" I attempt. She shakes her head.
"Not particularly. I love those crackers, and that was the last of the milk, so we can't have cocoa now."
"Shit, I'm so so-"
"No, Emma," she says. "I don't care."
"What? But you just said…" I trail off, totally lost.
"How would you feel if I ate your crackers and burnt your milk? Would you be mad?"
"No, of course you could eat my crackers, and it's only milk-"
I stop in my tracks as I see her pointed expression. "Oh," I say.
"Why could I eat your crackers?" she asks.
"Because… Because I care about you. And they're…" I sigh. "They're just crackers."
She smiles. "So why can you eat my crackers?"
I make a face. "Because they're just crackers."
"Yes, but that's not the only reason," she reminds me. "You said something else."
"I…" I don't know how to say it. I think I know what she wants me to say, but what if I'm wrong? What if saying it will just be even more presumptuous?
"I think it would be good for you to say it. Would it help if I said it first?"
I shrug my shoulders. She squeezes my hands.
"I care about you, Emma. I. Care. About. You. So you can eat my crackers, and burn all the milk you want. You can sleep at my house, you can wear my clothes, you can use whatever of mine you want and even if you stain the clothes and keep me up all night and hog the TV remote and eat every last crumb of food in this kitchen, I will be happy, I will care about you, and I'll take care of you. I will never hurt you, Emma. I don't know… I don't know what's going to happen between us, I can't see into the future but I can promise, I can promise you that I will never hurt you. I will never kick you out, I will never abandon you, and I will never..." she swallows. "I will never hurt you physically," she says. Her tone is hard and gritty, and I know she saw me flinch, but I have this feeling, this feeling that she knows a lot more about this final promise than she's told me. She gives herself a shake.
"So," she says. "Why can you eat my crackers?"
"Because you care about me," I breathe.
I practically fall into her waiting arms. She holds me close; it's awkward because of the chairs, we're a tangle of legs and knees and I end up mostly on her lap and it's like… It's like a part of the darkness inside me fizzes out, like it catches fire, puffs into smoke, and floats away.
"Yes, Emma," she breathes. We stay like that until she shuffles uncomfortably. I jump up right away. She chuckles.
"Hey, come back."
"You-"
"Have pins and needles. I don't care. I wasn't done cuddling."
She gets up, though, and hugs me standing instead. Then she fills the kettle with water, somehow keeping close to me even as she bustles around the kitchen.
"Tea?" she suggests.
"I… I've never had tea," I admit. I've always thought of it as something only… Only high register people drink. Artistic, knowledgeable people.
Regina stands on tiptoe to extract a floral tin from one of the cupboards, then presents it to me.
"There are at least a dozen types in there. I'll have apple and cinnamon if you can find one, the bags are all individually wrapped. If you're a rookie, maybe try the blueberry? Henry likes it."
I look through the tea, wondering how there can be so many different types of flavoured hot water. Then again, there are thousands of flavours of ice cream. Maybe tea is the yin to ice-creams yang. I'm tempted to try Regina's choice because of the cinnamon, but apples aren't my favourite and in the end I opt for blueberry, trusting Henry's judgement.
I watch, somewhat fascinated, as Regina unwraps the bags (in a motion similar to one I've used for condom packets - she laughs raucously when I tell her this) and drops them into mugs just as the kettle boils. She fills them with steaming water and delicious aromas waft into the air. It's like incense, only food flavoured and edible. I voice this too.
"Sometimes I make a cup of tea just so I can breathe it," she says. "Come on. Let's go sit on the couch and find a bad movie to watch."
I take my tea, feeling very small in her pyjamas despite being almost too tall for them. She's wearing a similar pair; I feel oddly like a child at a sleepover. We set down our tea on the coffee table then settle on the couch, not touching. Regina's hand finds my hair, gently twirling the damp curls that I know are tumbling down my back.
"My mother," she says, in an unusually reminiscent tone, "used to serve English Breakfast tea. She thought it was more refined than coffee. She had a willow patterned china pot, with matching cups and saucers and even a cake stand."
"Used to?" I ask tentatively.
Regina smiles, though there's no happiness to the expression. "Oh, she still does, I imagine. But I have not been in contact with her since I moved. She lives back East."
"Why would you not be in contact with your mother?" I blurt out. I feel foolish even as the words fall from my mouth. Her hand stills in my hair. Then she wraps her arm around my shoulder and pulls me into an unexpected hug.
I still can't stop the word vomit. A few seconds without an answer from her and it's pouring out of me again. "My mother cared more about drugs than she did about me. They found all kinds of shit in my system, I've seen the report. She left me by the side of a highway, she didn't even bother to take me to a hospital or like, even a freaking gas station. We might be biologically related, but she's not my family, and I've never wanted to find her… What I'm trying to say is, I didn't mean to say… I didn't mean… Moms can suck in a lot of ways, I guess," I finish lamely.
Regina pulls me even closer and kisses the top of my head. I look round at her and her eyes are glistening with painful memories, but instead of spiralling like I would have, the glistening fades while I watch.
"They sure can," she breathes. She slides over the words in an accent that's not her own, and I wonder where she is. Back in time, back in New York, back in a world she couldn't control.
We turn on the TV and drink our tea in silence, watching a truly awful docudrama that I get weirdly invested in (it's about an anorexic gymnast). When it finally ends (she quits gymnastics and gets an awesome boyfriend - aw) I turn off the TV. Regina's been so quiet I think she must be sleeping; her arm's slipped from my shoulder and she's leaning back into the couch. But when I turn around, I see that her eyes are open. She's not facing the TV, or even me. She's looking up at the ceiling.
"You ready for bed?" she asks. She sounds so distant. I adopt her tactic, ignoring the question.
"Your family. You and Henry. What you guys give each other… I wish I could have been part of something like that."
Her head snaps up. I'm surprised. She stares at me. Emotions flash across her face too quickly for me to read, but then she takes my hand.
"But Emma, you are," she says. "Aren't you?"
And I realise this moment is all on me. She's here. She cares about me. She's shown me over and over again. She's far from perfect, she's full of pain, but she's here, here for me, offering me everything she can. All I have to do is say…
"Yes."
It's a whisper, a shaky breath, full of trepidation. Having people means having people to lose. Having people means having people to let down. Having people means having to trust them, but it also means having to trust myself. And I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can trust myself not to hurt her, not to let her down, not to run away and leave her when everything gets too much. I've hurt her already. I hit her. I've made assumptions, I'm so young and weak, I'm so much less than what she deserves. And yet, I have to say yes, because by some crazy miracle, she wants me. All of me. Not my body, me.
"Bed," she says softly. "Where would you like to sleep?"
With your body wrapped around me, curled up in your arms.
She must be a mind reader.
"Come on," she says. She stands, she guides me by the hand, upstairs, into her bathroom. We stand side by side and brush our teeth.
It's a strange picture. Two silk-clad, bleary eyed, wet-haired women, brushing with aggressive synchronisation. The air's so heavy, so intense… We spit at the same time and suddenly I'm laughing. It's a strange laugh at first, hollow, desperate, but the more I think about it, us, in the bathroom, the movie, the panic attack, the exploding milk, the fact that she wants to be my FAMILY, the harder I laugh, and the laughter changes from almost painful confusion to delirious happiness.
She watches me with a half smile, wiping her face and waiting for me to get it together enough to explain the joke. Wheezing, still giggling, I finally manage,
"Best first date ever."
And then, when she smiles too, even in her eyes, I take a step, bend down to hold her gaze with mine, and press my toothpaste lips to hers. My toothbrush clatters on the tiled floor as our arms snake around each other, holding tighter and tighter. But they aren't squeezing life out. They're squeezing it in.
She doesn't grab my ass or fondle my breasts. Her hands don't explore under my clothes, she doesn't slam me against the wall with demanding lust. She just holds me, kisses me, slowly, softly. I'm burning with desire, but this… It's not about sex. She's kissing me, she wants me, but she makes me feel like whatever I am, whatever I want, whatever we're ready for, is more than enough to be everything.
We get into her bed and hold each other close, talking about nothing in particular. I want to move to the couch, but when I say this, she takes my hand and brings it to her face - which is visibly, though not badly, bruised, now she's removed her make up. She holds my fingers to where they hurt her, where I hurt her, then moves them to her mouth and kisses each one.
"I trust you," she says to my hand. Then she looks right into my eyes. "I trust you."
And so I stay. One night. One tiny piece of darkness, fizzing out and floating away. I wonder if any of hers floats with it.
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A/N: I agonised over this chapter, it took me days to write. Your feedback would be MASSIVELY appreciated.