Unbound - Rachel's Story
Copyright© 2025 by A Kiwi Guy
Chapter 12
Rachel stretched, the warmth of the sun slanting through the half-open curtains. “Mmm. That tea smells good.”
Matt grinned and held out the mug. “Made with precision and care. Your wish is my command.”
She took it, their fingers brushing in the exchange, and gave him a sidelong smile. “Careful, you’ll spoil me.”
“That’s the idea.”
For a few moments, they sipped in companionable silence, the muted winter light brightening the little flat. Rachel’s hair tumbled loosely over her shoulders, and though she felt oddly self-conscious in the soft jumper and track pants she’d brought to wear, she also felt at ease in a way she hadn’t expected. The warmth of last night’s terror still lurked at the edges of her memory, but Matt’s steady presence had drawn much of its sting.
She glanced at him over her cup. “You know ... I never thought I’d get to this point. Waking up in the morning and actually looking forward to the day.”
Matt reached for her free hand. “Then let’s make today worth waking up for.”
...
The phone rang just as they were clearing away breakfast dishes. Matt picked up, and his face lit with recognition.
“Mum! ... Dad! Great timing.” He motioned for Rachel to come closer and flicked on the speaker.
A warm female voice carried through. “We saw the footage, Matthew. You didn’t tell us you’d taken up dancing again — and with such flair! Who is this wonderful young woman twirling you about?”
Rachel flushed, suddenly wishing she could melt into the floor.
Matt’s laugh was easy. “This is Rachel. And yes, she’s every bit as wonderful as she looks on camera.”
His father’s chuckle followed. “Well, young lady, if you can coax our son onto the dance floor and make him look half graceful, you must be extraordinary indeed.”
Rachel found herself smiling despite the blush that burned her cheeks. “It was his idea, actually. I was just along for the ride.”
“Well, it did our hearts good to see,” his mother said warmly. “We’d love to meet you properly sometime soon, Rachel. Perhaps you could come out and visit us?”
There was a pause. Rachel’s stomach tightened. Meet his parents? Already? She darted a look at Matt. He caught it, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and said into the receiver, “We’ll talk it over and let you know, Mum.”
“Of course, no pressure,” his mother replied. “Just know you’d be most welcome.”
After the call ended, Rachel exhaled slowly. “That was ... unexpected.”
“Too soon?” Matt asked gently.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But ... it felt genuine. They seem kind.”
“They are. And we’ll only go if you’re comfortable.”
Rachel nodded. “All right. Let’s think about it together. I don’t want to hold you back, but—well—you know my history.”
“I do.” His gaze was steady. “And we’ll go at your pace.”
The rest of the morning unfolded in quiet rhythms: a stroll around the block, shared preparation of sandwiches and fruit for lunch, a few easy jokes that had Rachel laughing more freely than she had in months. She caught herself once or twice marvelling at the ordinariness of it all — and how precious that ordinariness felt.
By early afternoon they made their way again to the home group. This time, Rachel carried less tension in her shoulders. The warmth of familiar faces, the scent of fresh baking, and the casual murmur of greetings wrapped around her like a quilt. The evening before had been raw, almost overwhelming; today felt steadier, like a thread being woven into place.
As they settled with cups of tea, Rachel realised that the possibility of belonging didn’t feel so frightening any more.
...
Monday morning found Rachel with a lighter step heading into Ara. But the mood was blunted when the Principal’s secretary caught up with Rachel and asked her to go to his office as soon as possible. Rachel felt not-unexpected forebodings: Was their para dancing on Friday night unacceptable; had Matt’s interventions with Anton and with the drunk caused ripples; was he concerned that Ara’s reputation had suffered?
Rachel knocked on the Principal’s door with trepidation. “You wanted to see me, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, do come in, Miss Mears,” Professor Sorenson said jovially, catching Rachel off guard.
They talked at first about the class—the energy, the laughter, the way couples had started to loosen up. Then, gently, he leaned forward.
“You’ve got presence,” he said. “Not just on the floor, though that’s clear enough. But in the way you hold yourself, the way you listen, the way people are drawn to you. May I ask—what’s your story?”
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