Impulse Control (ON HOLD)

Chapter 9

I spend the next thirty minutes wondering how weird it is that I fit into Cleo's arms almost perfectly, and how safe and warm I feel in her arms. It's like we were meant to hold each other.

A slow song, Love Me Like The First Time by Brenda K. Starr, comes on, and Cleo picks up my hands and guides them to her shoulders. She puts her hands against the small of my back. On impulse, I lean forward so that my head rests on her chest and my arms encircle her neck.

Cleo guides me in swaying back and forth in time to the beat, and I find the tension leaving my shoulders, my head hanging heavy without stress. I could care less that there's a storm that might make a freaking tornado raging outside. All I care about is being in Cleo's arms, swaying in the pale light of the bunkhouse.

Cleo takes a deep breath, pressing her face into my hair. I take a deep breath as well, inhaling the calm, comforting scent of rosemary. Eventually, I allow myself to close my eyes. It's like doing yoga; you're in the moment. I don't think of anything else besides Cleo's arms wrapped around my waist. My thoughts are like clouds that are slowly drifting away.

All too soon, the song ends and switches to something with a much faster beat. Reluctantly, I let go of Cleo, stepping back. "I can't dance to this song," I tell her. I may have been able to dance to the slow song, but almost anyone can if you have a partner. I, however, don't know the first thing about dancing to fast songs.

Cleo just shakes her head, and says, "Of course you can. You just sway your hips to the beat and let your body move on it's own with the music." She demonstrates by shaking her hips and twirling around.

However, I find my gaze wandering to her butt as she twerks vigorously to the beat. The song is Respect by Aretha Franklin, and I find myself giving in to the impulse to dance with Cleo.

Tentatively at first, I begin to move my hips. The moment I start, I can physically feel myself loosening up. I wave my arms over my head and move to the beat of the song.

When it comes to the part where she says, "R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Gotta know what it means to me!" I pick up Cleo's hairbrush from her bed and start singing into my "microphone". Cleo starts to laugh, so I keep on. Outside, a frighteningly large clap of thunder crashes through the air, resonating off of our camper, but I hardly notice. Cleo doesn't seem to, either. We're in our own little fun-filled world.

Cleo runs over to me and starts to twirl me around like we're ballroom dancers. Laughing crazily, I let her.

Cleo's POV

The scent of Sierra's wavy red locks brushes past my nose again, and warmth runs through my body. Just my luck to find a recipe for heartbreak at a campground of all places. Because damn, she is a heart-breaker.

She's the picture of perfection with her red waves of hair that softly glide around her shoulders, dancing to the beat like they have a mind of their own and making me want to touch them. And her cutoffs... well, let's just say they fit her very well. And, obviously, her tank top is a little too low-cut for me to be able to keep my hands to myself easily.

And when she smiles, it's like the whole world is smiling with her. It's truly a smile that could light a small city. And her eyes...do I even have to describe them? They're that perfect chocolate brown, the kind that swirls around and makes you want to stare into them all day long.

The lyrics of the song that pretty much guided me through life come back to me as I think what I can do with this situation.

Why, oh, why, do you think it's okay to pursue when you knew she wasn't gay?

Why, oh, why, are you coming to me?

When there's five words to learn,

Let the straight girls be.

And, as I'm spinning Sierra around, I can't help but wonder if she's straight.

Sierra's POV

My hair flies out from behind me again, smacking Cleo in the face. She doesn't seem to care. When the notes of Respect fade into silence, I sit back down on my bed, tired from the vigorous dancing. However, Cleo's phone obviously doesn't take pity on me as the notes of another great song begin to warble up.

Reluctantly, I lift myself off of the bed, reaching for the hairbrush microphone. Cleo beats me to it, snatching it out of my hands. She shakes her head slightly, and, with a small smile on her face, says, "My turn now."

I watch in awe as she lifts the hairbrush to her mouth and begins to sing the lyrics to You Belong With Me by Taylor Swift. Yes, Taylor Swift. Don't judge us.

"You're on the phone, with your girlfriend, she's upset, she's going off about something that you said, she doesn't get your humour like I do!" Cleo passes me the hairbrush and I start to sing. "I'm in my room, it's a typical Tuesday night, I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like, and she'll never know your story like I do!"

Then, as the chorus rolls around, we both sing it at the top of our lungs. "BUT SHE WEARS SHORT SKIRTS, I WEAR T-SHIRTS, SHE'S CHEER CAPTAIN AND I'M ON THE BLEACHERS, DREAMING ABOUT THE DAY WHEN YOU WAKE UP AND FIND THAT WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR HAS BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME!"

I pause to take a breath, laughing. Cleo just smiles and somehow manages to keep singing. I smile at her, and she takes her voice up about an octave, making her sound like a squeaky old woman. I burst into hysterical laughter and Cleo beams with pride and satisfaction, continuing to sing in her old-lady voice.

"IF YOU CAN SEE THAT I'M THE ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS YOU, BEEN HERE ALONG, SO WHY YOU CAN'T YOU SEE? YOU BELONG WITH ME!"

I laugh and laugh, until tears are running down my cheeks. Yes, this is it. This is how life is supposed to feel. Happy.