Page 63 of Trusting the Fall
“Okay, all done guys.” The artist steps over to us with a smile, oblivious to the tension in the air.
He holds out a sketch of Leif and me standing behind the floral frame, looking at each other with emotion I’ve never been brave enough to let go and dive into.
I put the drawing against Leif’s chest. His fingers tenderly trace over my hand before I pull away, shaking my head.
“Trusting the fall,” I say, and then I get lost in the crowd before another word can be spoken.
If Leif has shown me anything over the last few weeks, it’s letting myself fall into his arms feels a lot like coming home. Something I want to take root and hold me tight.
And as strong as I feel in life, I don’t think I’d be strong enough to survive if he were to let go.
27
“Thankyoufortakingme out.” Aunt Georgia smiles as we walk along the street.
The mid-morning sun brings a steady warmth. Paired with my full belly of food, I feel ready for a nap.
“It’s always nice to get out with the whole family.” Tristan smiles down at his mum as he pushes her wheelchair along the sidewalk.
When Tristan was fourteen, his mum was in a car accident, leaving her paralysed from the waist down and needing permanent care. She moved into a facility, and Tristan came to live with us. He’s more like a brother to me and my sisters.
I throw an arm around Thyra’s shoulders and hug her closer to me.
I’ve always been close with my family, and it’s the exact feeling I’ve wanted to recreate for myself with my own children when the time comes. It’s not an endgame I’ve been actively pursuing. I’m only twenty-seven. I’ve been enjoying meeting people until now, but as my mind takes me back to Claire, it stops. Because I only see her.
Thinking back to one of our last conversations, I get the impression she didn’t have a family upbringing like I did.
It makes sense that she lives with high walls, warding off deeper connections, if she was raised to assume a partner would be unfaithful or lie straight to her face. It just makes me want to prove to her even more that I’d be worthy. I’d show her the way to be loved and cherished.
Fuck, I have never felt so strongly in my connection to another person.
I felt it from that very first night we met at The Wayside.
There was something undeniable in the way she carried herself with such confidence, but it was armour. Her sass was protection from being too vulnerable. It’s like she didn’t trust herself. To feel. To give in. She wanted the pleasure, damn well demanded it, but always on her terms.
I think that’s why it felt like such a high to have her submit to me. To be soft and unrestrained. She gave herself to me, trusted me to look after her, against her will. It only made me want to nurture that. To prove I had earned her trust, and not only would I protect her, I’d take her higher. And it scared her. Her fear was palpable when I saw her last night at the festival.
Words failed her. We were stuck posing for the artist, and she didn’t say a damn thing. When he told us we were all done, she fled, escaping into the crowd, leaving me with a sketch of a beautiful woman who holds my heart in her hands and a man who looked absolutely okay with that.
Her heart, however, was untried in a court of love and emotion. She’d never tested it out in the real world, against an opponent who could really do it damage. But she hasn’t figured it out yet. I don’t want to break her. I want to be the sword and shield that this woman commands with the power that makes her so damn beautiful. It’sherwho’s going to breakme.
“Jesus, do you bathe in your cologne?” my sister sasses from under my arm, so I pull her in closer with a noogie. “Oh my god, you beast! Get off me! Mother!” she yells, only causing me to laugh until I’m interrupted by Tristan’s upbeat greeting.
“Claire!”
My eyes snap up, searching for her. I'm always searching for her.
I don’t have to look too hard because there she is. Staring right at me with deep golden eyes is the very woman consuming my thoughts.
“Hi, Tristan.” She smiles at my cousin before returning her gaze to me, and with a soft whisper that owns my soul, she says my name, “Leif.”
“Leif?” Mum asks, her eyes filled with delight as they bounce between Claire and me.
Clearing my throat, I reluctantly drag my gaze from my Bombshell.
“Ah, this is Claire,” I say. “She owns the salon we’ve been renovating over the last few weeks.”
“And she calls you Leif?” Mum asks.
