Here In Your Arms

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A tale of finding love in the most unexpected places.
- Written for a special someone.

Submitted: December 04, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 04, 2011





I hope you like your present Racquel.
Te quiero.




I glare at the squishy foam in my hand while I count down to sixty, for the fifty fourth time tonight, mind you. It isn’t like the poor strike ball has done anything particularly annoying actually, it is just my brain clicking in and waking me up when I don’t want it to. I want to go back inside the little happy bubble I was in since today morning with no one threatening to burst it.


Now, as I wait for him at this stupid Striking stand at this stupid boring carnival, is when the questions flooded. Why exactly do I bother with him? Why do I waste all these precious seconds of my life him even though we nothing but fight all the time? Why, why, why?

“Gee! Don’t kill the ball man. You gotta pay for that shit if it tears ya know? Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, alright?” I sigh and turn my glare at the guy at the stand and take his appearance in. Midnight black eyes, tanned skin, tattooes that covered all of his right arm and those dreadlocks. He was a looker.

“Whatever bro.” I throw the blue sphere right at him as I said it. “You can play with it all you want.”

No, I’m not a violent type of girl at all. I like to keep my inner bitch hidden and tucked inside me so I scold myself for snapping and apologize to him. I don’t care about what he thought of me or anything, I just don’t have anything to do at that moment. So, I dig around in my little side bag which is a gift from my sister and come up with a few dollars. I will play this game if that’s what it takes. Gotta keep my anger in control until that idiot honors me with his presence.

Dreadlock boy gives me three replicas of the blue ball I was mutilating not so long ago and tells me the instructions. It is fairly easy; get the ball in any of the four corners if you want a big snuggly panda. It is even easier when I imagine those four corners as José’s heads.

José. I try to come up with as much hate inside me as possible, as much anger that I could possibly muster, but still, I couldn’t suppress that huge swell of excitement and that flicker of a smile that lightes my face and spreads to my eyes on the way to my heart as I think about him.
I miss the first shot. The second is way off. The third one hits dreadlock boy. Oops.

If you knew me, you’d call me an achiever. I aren’t one to give up, not ever. I give him more money and get three more balls. As I aim the first one, I remember the day when it all started, at this same carnival.

Carnivals are one of the most exciting things that happen in Hope. You see the lights everywhere, the cheery faces of people with their loved ones, you see the big rides that take nothing but adrenaline rush. You see it. you see life. This particular carnival came to my ghost of a town every year. It came that year too. I was seventeen.

Having snowed in the day before, the atmosphere was wild. It didn’t stop me and my friends as we snuck out of our houses and giggled like the bunch of girls we were. It was exciting to forget the rules and have fun. Making our way around the powder and stopping to hit each other with snow at intervals was something that never got old.

Somehow, minutes after reaching here, we all lost ourselves in the beauty of it. Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a spinning ride of some sort. Without wasting a minute, I got on. I laughed along with others and lost the track of time. It was a feeling better than any drug could give you.

Stumbling my way through a throng of girls from my school, I looked for my gang. No sign of them. Yippee! I looked at my cell phone and frowned at the little message that bleeped “battery dead”. Throughout this ordeal, I bumped right into José, who apologized profusely until he recognized me.

“Oh. It’s you.” We knew each other. We had a history to tell.

My mother and his father went to school together. é of parents thinking that their children should automatically be best friends with their friend’s kids didn’t escape our families either. We were expected to be twins too.

We weren’t. We fought as soon as our parents turned their backs. We called each other names. We didn’t want to be in the same room as the other. We were opposites. We were out of control.

Anyway, somehow, somewhere, we grew up. We started school and drifted apart. His two years of age difference didn’t help much either. Last I heard, he’d moved to Toronto for completing his degree in Engineering.
The past was forgotten between us.

Until that night of course.

“What? You aren’t gonna make fun of my birthmark now?” He laughed when I popped that question.. It was a lyrical sort of laugh. The kind that makes you snicker along.

“Are you here alone?”
“Not quite, with my friends actually.”
“You still have invisible friends from when we were two? What were they called again?”

And off we went. José walked with me all the way to my house as we drowned into our childhood memories. Laughing at how incredibly ironic it was that we couldn’t stand the sight of each other when our parents practically wanted us to be married with four children.

It was a nice experience. Even though some of his actions still irritated me, right as he bid me good night and asked if we could hopefully meet up again soon and have a cup of coffee together, I said yes without sparing a breath. It was hard not to. We weren’t the same kids anymore. We were a lot more grown up and you could say that his extremely good looks also played a huge role in my approval.

With his light brown eyes and thick locks of curly hair, it was hard to forget about all those times we had humiliated each other about things that seemed so naive now. That night we became the friends our parents wanted us to become, the coffee date a few days later was just an excuse for us to start seeing each other more.

A tickle of a raindrop on my forehead ushers me into reality and I lift my hand to aim the ball again. It falls about three inches from my prize. Guh.

On my third shot, I feel fingers around mine and a pair of lips close in on my neck and press a tiny kiss there as my eyes go wide from the touch. I turn on instinct but not before a hand covers my eyes. My heartbeat comes faster. He is here. I smile as his arms pull mine back and make the ball slip from my hands. I hear it go in one of the corner boxes. Finally.

I rip off the hands from my face and stare into his eyes while I find myself getting lost in the deep shade of caramel. He is here. Before I could stop myself, I press my mouth against his and take a taste of him. Good god.

He laces my fingers through his and guides us to a tiny patch of dry area behind a fortune teller’s tent. I take the moment to bombard questions his way, “Where were you? Keep me waiting here for two hours why don’t you?” I pull out my lower lip just for the dramatics.

He doesn’t say anything, I don’t want him to. He just does what he always does. Reaches behind him and pulls out a lilac and tucks it somewhere in my french braid and holds me close until I can feel some of his body heat transferring into me. To tell you the truth, it feels amazing. It is so good to acknowledge the fact that my body was made so perfectly to fit into the curves of his.

“I waited for so long you know?”
His buries his face into the crook of my neck. “I know. Forgive me?”

You know how I asked a billion questions in the beginning? Well, I got my answers too. Like I always did. I bother with him because he is the only one who can make me annoyed at him and then make me love him in the next second. Everything with him is fierce, free. Life is interesting. The way his eyes hold mine is beyond intoxicating and just that gesture makes my face flush and make my heart beat so feverishly. I know he cares for me.

I can feel it in the way he holds me.

I can feel it in the way he kisses both my eyes.

I can feel it in the way he makes his way down the hollow of my neck to tease me.

We are getting married in a few months. When we told our parents, they didn’t believe their ears for a second. I know they are ecstatic for us nevertheless. So am I. I guess sometimes, it’s always the clichés that work out.

I shiver as his lips near mine and curl against him before we get into a conversation about how he caught the next flight from Toronto the minute he heard that tonight was the night of the carnival. As his grip tightens on me, I am content. I want nothing more.

I have never been so much in love.

I have never been so happy.

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