Free Salvation by Noelle Adams

Center that I didn’t want to be around a lot of other people.
    “It will be really low-key. We can leave any time you want.”
    I frowned and took a sip of water, mostly for a reason to stall. “I don’t think so,” I said at last, as I lowered the bottle.
    Now he was frowning. “Why not? You might have a good time.”
    “I wouldn’t.”
    “How do you know?”
    Now I was getting annoyed with him. As always, I tried to force down the feeling, since it made me feel like an ungrateful ass. “Because I know. I’m not up to hanging around with a bunch of strangers.”
    “It won’t be like that. They’ll be grilling and playing volleyball and there will be kids around to distract everyone. You won’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want. It might be good for you to get out a little.”
    “I’ll decide what’s good for me.” My arm was hurting from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, so I assumed I’d pulled something the night before when I was working out. I rubbed at the pain unconsciously and tried not to scream at Gideon. “You don’t get to make choices for me.”
    “I’m not trying to make choices for you.” His voice was rough with impatience. “I just think you’re not letting yourself get back into life, and I don’t see how it can possibly be good for you.”
    “I’ll decide what’s good for me,” I gritted out, using the same words I’d used before because I couldn’t think of another reply. “I don’t want to go.”
    “Okay. Fine.” He leaned back against the couch, taking another gulp of his beer, and I could tell he wasn’t happy with me.
    I didn’t care. I wasn’t happy with him either.
    I felt frustrated and jittery and upset, and I really needed him to leave soon so I could get back on the elliptical trainer.
    “Did you hurt your arm?” Gideon asked.
    I blinked in surprise, and he nodded down at my arm, which I was still rubbing compulsively.
    I dropped my hand immediately. “Not really. It’s just a little tendonitis or something.”
    He reached over and took my wrist in his hand, and I jerked away from him immediately.
    “What the hell?” he asked, his eyes searching my face in that intrusive way again. “I was just going to rub it for you.”
    I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted him to just go away so I could push myself into battered oblivion again. But, if I objected, it would just give him more ammunition for his concerns, so I relented and stretched my arm out.
    He took it again and very gently started to rub the inside of my wrist.
    I tried to relax back against the couch so he wouldn’t see that it bothered me. His eyes were focused on the television, as if his massage was simply an afterthought, hardly on his radar at all. But his touch seemed strangely careful, starting softly and growing more firm as he moved slowly from my wrist up to my elbow.
    He had to touch me over my sleeve as he moved up my arm, since I was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. It was a warm night, but I felt safer without any skin showing, so I never wore tanks and shorts anymore.
    He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be thinking only about sports. But he kept up the massage for a long time.
    It actually felt good. Really good. Easing the sore muscles, soothing them with pressure, causing pleasant sensations to ripple up through my shoulder. His fingers were strong and gentle at the same time, and I didn’t really understand how they could be both.
    I took a shuddering breath and tried to pretend I wasn’t reacting. But I was. I was.
    I didn’t want it to feel good. My body couldn’t feel good. It didn’t match how the rest of me felt, and so it was a jarring incongruity. Upsetting in a way I couldn’t articulate.
    Something inside me was shaking, but I used all the will I could muster to force it down, to keep the shaking from moving into my body.
    He was just rubbing my forearm. He hadn’t even moved past my elbow.
    He’d massaged back