The Stranger 's Arms
1432 Words
Roberta's POV
"Come out of the car."
His voice was low. Firm. Not asking.
I looked up at him. He was standing outside the open door.
My legs wouldn't move. He didn't ask again.
He reached in. One hand under my arm. The other around my waist. He pulled me out gently.
I stumbled. My knees buckled. He pulled me into a hug.
Then his arms were around me.
The way you hold something breakable. The way you hold something you are not going to let fall.
I pressed my face into his chest. His shirt was soft. Warm. He smelled of expensive cologne.
The tears came again.
I didn't want them to. I was tired of crying. Tired of falling apart. But my body didn't care what I wanted.
I cried into his shirt. My shoulders shook. My hands gripped the fabric at his sides.
He didn't shush me. He didn't tell me it would be okay.
He just held me.
One hand pressed flat against my back. The other cradled the back of my head. His fingers moved through my hair. Slow. Soothing.
Like he wasn't going anywhere.
I don't know how long we stood there. The street was quiet. No cars passed. No footsteps. Just the wind in the trees and his heartbeat under my ear.
Then he moved.
His hand came to my chin. His fingers were warm. He tilted my face up.
Hey, look at me," he said.
I looked.
His face was close. Too close. His eyes were dark. Intense. There was something in them that made my chest tight.
"You're not going to the Riggs building," he said.
I opened my mouth to protest.
He shook his head. "Listen to me."
I closed my mouth.
"You weren't discharged from the hospital. You pulled out your own IV. You can barely stand. What happens if you get there and collapse? What happens if you faint? What happens if they call security and throw you out?"
"I don't care—"
"I care."
The words stopped me.
He stepped closer. His hands were still on my face. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones.
"Going there right now won't fix anything. It won't bring Ziva back. It won't make them pay. It will only hurt you. And you've been hurt enough."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he didn't understand. That I couldn't sit still. That every minute I wasn't doing something, I felt like I was drowning.
But his hands were warm. His voice was calm. And something inside me was tired of fighting.
"You need to rest," he said. "You need to eat. You need to get your strength back. Whatever they did to you, we can talk about it. We can make a plan. But not today. Today, you're coming home with me."
Home with me.
The words landed in my chest.
"You don't even know me," I said. "You're a stranger. I woke up and you were there. I don't understand why you care."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Let me worry about that," he said.
I looked at him. Really looked.
No one had ever spoken to me like this. No one had ever held me like this. Jace had never once put his hand on my face. Never once told me he cared if I collapsed.
Jace had watched me fall apart and walked away.
This man caught me.
"I heard you," I said. "I'm not going to the Riggs building."
He nodded.
"But I'm not coming with you either."
"Why not?"
"You're a stranger. I don't know you. I don't know what you want."
"Do you have somewhere else to go?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
The house with Jace was not my home anymore. The hospital bed was not an option. I had no friends. No family. No one.
Millie had been my only friend. And she was the one who destroyed everything.
Brett watched my face. He saw the answer before I said it.
"That's what I thought," he said. "It's final. You're coming with me."
He walked me to the passenger side. Opened the door. His hand hovered near my head as I lowered myself into the seat.
He's guiding my hair. Making sure it doesn't get caught in the door.
Jace had never done that. Not once in eight years.
Brett closed the door. Walked around the front. Got in. Started the engine.
I sat in the passenger seat. My hands were in my lap. My heart was beating too fast.
The last time I got in a car with him, I was twenty years old. We went to a hotel. We had s*x. My first time.
I still remember his hands. Gentle. Patient. The way he asked if I was sure.
I said yes.
I never saw him again after that day.
I pushed the thought away.
But my hands were still shaking.
He drove.
Then I remembered.
The hospital. The night I brought Ziva. The stretcher. The woman. The wedding band. The way he held her hand.
I looked at his hands on the steering wheel.
The ring was there. Now, why was this man asking me to come home with him when he has a wife?
"Are you married?" The words came out before I could stop them.
His jaw tightened. The silence stretched for a moment.
"I was." His voice was quiet. "I lost her. The night you were at the hospital. The same night your daughter—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She died from complications after an ectopic pregnancy. I brought her in. But it was too late."
My hand flew to my mouth.
"I'm so sorry." My voice cracked. "You lost her the same night I lost Ziva. And you've been coming to see me at the other hospital. Taking care of me. Through all of that pain."
He didn't say anything.
I looked at his face. The line of his jaw. The shadows under his eyes.
He's been carrying this alone. Guess he really needed that hug more than I did.
***
The house was huge.
Stone. Glass. Lights glowing from inside. A long driveway with trees on both sides.
He has money. Everywhere smelled like he had more than enough.
He parked, and then he walked around to my door. Opened it. Helped me out.
His hand was on my lower back as we walked to the front door.
He unlocked the door. Led me inside.
The sitting room was warm. Soft lights. A fireplace. Couches that looked comfortable. Books on shelves.
He guided me to a couch. I sat down. The cushions were soft.
"Sit here," he said. "I'll get you something to drink."
He walked out of the room. I looked around.
And then I saw his wedding photographs. On the wall. On a shelf. On the mantle.
Brett in a suit. A woman in white. Her head tilted back, laughing. His arms around her waist. His was looking at her like she was the sun.
More pictures. The same woman. Cooking. Reading. Walking outside. Always smiling. Always happy.
This was a happy home.
I could feel it. Even now. Even with her gone. The warmth was still here. The love was still here.
Her hand was everywhere. The throw blanket on the couch. The flowers on the table. The curtains in the window.
She had made this a home. My chest ached.
Brett came back with a glass of water.
He stopped when he saw me looking at the pictures.
I looked at him. At his face. At the pain he was trying to hide.
"Thank you," I said. "For bringing me here. For not leaving me alone."
He set the water on the table. Sat down on the couch beside me.
"Drink up," he said. I picked up the glass.
The water was warm. It felt good going down.
He leaned back. Looked at the ceiling.
"The house is too big for one person," he said. "I've been thinking about selling it. But I can't. Everything here is her."
I looked at the pictures again.
"She was beautiful."
"She was everything." His voice was soft. "We were trying to have a baby. She wanted one so badly. We did IVF. She went through so much. And then—" He stopped. Swallowed. "And then she was gone."
I reached out. Put my hand on his.
He looked down at our hands. Then at me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "For your loss."
He turned his hand over. Wrapped his fingers around mine.
- Writer
