Lifting his gaze—cloudy with unshed tears—he looked at her. Deep green depths filled with sorrow and compassion. But no pity. Sadness wrapped him like a worn blanket, but his spirit felt free for the first time in over a year. The burden of Macy’s betrayal no longer weighed. He glanced to the floor to make certain his feet were still firmly planted.
Healing wasn’t instant. He knew years from now the prick of pain would likely revive the infidelity and the fear wrapped in its clutches, but he could see light and hope in front of him. He felt peace. All because he’d lifted his burdens out of the darkness of secrecy and allowed the healing touch of Jesus to sooth his pain. The healing touch of Jesus through one lovely blonde.
The gentle pressure of her squeezing fingers, shifted from compassionate comfort flowing through his spirit to waking desire swimming through his system like jelly fish sparking and stinging with passion. Shifting, palm touched palm. Tracing the edge of her hand with his thumb, electricity zipped through him pounding his heart in an erratic rhythm, instantly drying the tears in his eyes. “Tessa,” he said, his voice crumbled through his lips. He laced his fingers through hers and felt content. At home. “Thank you for asking.”
“Of course.” Her words sounded brittle, on the wisp of a broken melody. She dropped her focus to their linked hands. Encouragement bubbled. She didn’t pull away. Her hand remained firmly connected to his. No longer was she merely giving comfort. She had to be feeling the twist of burgeoning emotion too. Didn’t she?
“Daddy. Daddy!” Emma screeched as she slid into the dining room.
Tessa snatched her hand out of his grasp, pivoting to stand, nearly toppling the chair beneath her. She scooted from his reaching grasp with a mumble of cleaning dishes.
Like a rock shot from a sling, his world zipped by him and he landed with a thud in front of his little girl.
Emma hopped onto his lap. She grabbed his jaw between her dainty hands, forcing his focus to her. “We’s gots to get that new DBD of Pastor Tom’s. It’s the bestests video eber.”
“Emma Grace,” he sighed back to reality. “Bestests is not even in the realm of a word. We can discuss the video at home—after we read a book with all of the correct words.” A full four year-old lip thrust in front of him and guilt gripped his heart. “Maybe you can ask for your birthday.” Short arms squeezed his neck where once O-linemen tried to strangle. His heart settled and filled. Shifting his gaze over Emma’s shoulder, he eyed the empty doorway connecting to the kitchen.
The rush of water and clink of plates echoed.
Standing with Emma in his arms, he held her tight to his chest. The unconditional love of his daughter was incomprehensible. Was it too much to hope he could also be blessed with the inconceivable love of Tessa Tarrington?
17
Tuesday morning, Tessa flipped her defrost heater to high trying to clear a visible line of sight in her ice-covered windshield. She glanced out the window—her car sputtered, battling against the frigid temperatures.
Snow blanketed the sidewalks, giving Elm Street an angelic quiet. The little girl inside her, frightened and hiding in the corners, missed snowy mornings. When she was small and the county gave her the rare gift of a snow day, she would race to the basement steps where her snow gear hung waiting. She would drop in the front yard and make angel after angel, closing her eyes and imagining the glowing white, delicately feathered creatures that she portrayed nearly every Christmas. The eerie stillness of a new snow fall allowed her the perfect canvas to create a world separate from the teasing and misfit casting of her own.
A few stray flakes scattered on the lawn and a slip of an idea trailed through her mind. Snow angels…children’s guardian angels come to life? Children’s books?
She grabbed her current journal from her bag and scribbled a few notes on the first blank page. The illustrations of a little girl in a puffy red coat with white fur trim formed in her mind. Her heart sped. She sketched the little girl and swirled notes about angel kisses and the uniqueness of snowflakes. The pen went dry against the parchment colored page. Tessa dropped her pen and journal. Shuttering her eyelids against the scene in front of her, she slowly drew in a lung-filling breath. The robbery had stolen more than her research and client files.
Her innate writer instinct had seemingly walked out the door on the thieves’ backs. The drought of inspiration she’d trudged through in the last few months since the terrible, awful day compounded her out-of-control existence. Moments of inspiration had been so long in coming she’d feared they’d never bubble in her soul again. And yet, here on a snow-covered morning an idea for a children’s book was plastered across her mind.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even wandered through the children’s section of her local bookstore, but she was grateful for any inspiration. One of her friends in New Orleans was an illustrator. She could pass her wisp of inspiration on to John. Maybe the idea was a non-starter, but at least she had an idea.
With the release of her long held breath, her eyes flickered open and she stared straight through the dripping circle on her windshield. The ice peeled back, cracking and sliding down the window, releasing her car from the cocoon. The day was beckoning her. Her classes of not so eager students—disappointed by the lack of a county-wide snow day—awaited her.
And Ryland Jessup.
Despite two texts asking to talk, a voicemail invitation to Monday Make-Up dinner from Emma, and the near constant inquisition from Lily Mae until the airplane door sealed for her flight, Tessa had managed to avoid confronting the churn of feelings that Ryland stirred in her. His transparency about his loss and the struggles he’d faced tugged at her heart. The fixer in her wanted to jump in with both feet, break-out the bandages and ointment, treat every ouchy he had. And yet, the memory of adolescence stood tall and cast a wide shadow over her life.
She was leery to trust him. She needed to resolve her conflicting emotions regarding Ryland. But for now, she had to face the snow covered streets of Gibson’s Run, class after class brimming with irritated teenagers, and then dinner with Joe Taylor. She shifted her car into drive. Ryland Jessup would just have to wait his turn.
~*~
“Students…” Principal Jamison’s voice crackled through the ancient intercom system.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Dozens of phones vibrated against jean pockets, purses and backpacks. The students in Tessa’s sixth period ignored the principal’s announcement and sought their appendages.
“Yes!” Connor Avery pumped his arm. “Early dismissal.” His announcement was followed by a series of whoops.
“Students,” the principal’s voice was barely a torn whisper above the din of excitement pulsing through her class. “Your parents are currently being notified. School is being released early today due to the inclement weather. All after school activities are cancelled this evening. Please leave your classes in an orderly fashion…” The balance of his instructions were lost behind the shuffle of desks and squeaks of rubber soles against the tiled floor.
“Don’t forget to write five hundred words on the essence of being a teenager. Your assignment is still due on Friday.” Tessa hollered as students scurried out of her class. She slumped against the edge of her desk with a sigh. “Good bye…” Scrubbing her face, tension melted from her body and she allowed the pull of inspiration that had been tugging all day to overwhelm her.
Snagging her journal, she snatched a pen from the cup holder and dropped into a front row desk—plowing into her snow angel story. Images of winged creatures filling the outlines of the snow covered grounds of a Midwest town flowed through her fingers onto the page. Her main character became three dimensional—a four-year-old, motherless girl with a broken heart. The story, simple and true, began to take root, no longer a wisp, but a twisted thread creating a beautiful tapestry. She sketched and wove. Her heart pounded as the story branched and twirled with adventure. Her outline intermingled with prose and swift drawings of the main characters. Sweat
beaded against her forehead. Flashes of scenes trailed through her mind, quickening her pulse and breath. Flipping the page of her journal, she pressed her pen against the page and scribbled another scene. A jolt of pain shot through her hand, contorting her fingers. The pen slipped, landing against the floor with a clink. She massaged the cramp even as the pen rolled across the floor and under the bookshelf against the far wall.
“Ugh.” Maneuvering the desks, she knelt, her pencil skirt constricting her movements. With her cheek pressed to the gritty floor, she pushed down the bubbling bile threatening to race up her throat as the toxic mix of melting-salt, floor cleaner, and teenager burned her nostrils.
Swatting through the cobwebs and dirt lining the hidden recesses of the underbelly of the bookshelf she reached for the lost pen. The vision of dozens of unknown species of insects racing up the hollow of her sleeve flickered. “Mind over matter, Tarrington.” She whispered. With a puffed breath she snatched the pen and swiftly wiggled away from the horrors of the hidden filth of a public high school mid-semester.
“Well, this is an interesting view.” Ryland’s voice cut through the lingering silence of an empty classroom.
She spun on her hip, cracking her temple against the cinderblock wall. “Oww.” The sparkle of white pins sprinkled in her sight. Her hand shot to her head expecting to find the trickle of blood.
“Hey,” Ryland knelt in front of her. His hand gently lifted her chin. “You OK, bruiser? I’m not sure, but you may have gotten the better of the wall. He’s definitely not fighting back.”
“Funny.” She shoved his hands from her face. “I’m fine.” Pressing against the floor, she moved to stand, but found his hands clamped on her shoulders.
“Listen, you hit your head pretty hard. Let me take a look at your eyes.”
“For what? I hit my head, Ryland, not my eyeballs.” A wave of nausea crashed in her stomach, triggering another one the size of a tidal wave to grow. Please Lord, I don’t want to vomit on Ryland. The opposite of many a teenage prayer.
“I want to look at your ‘eyeballs’ to see if you overachieved and gave yourself a concussion.”
His long fingers were feather-light against her chin. Tingles raced against her jaw and down her spine, chased by a line of heat warming her cheeks. “I’m fine, Jessup.” She swatted his hands from her face and moved to stand. Wobbling, she fell against Ryland’s broad chest.
He wrapped his arms around her, guiding her to a chair.
Her head swam. The burn in her belly warned that the contents threatened to exit. Lifting her palm to Ryland, she drew slow breaths. Her eyes shut against the florescent, suddenly brighter and pulsing light of the room. One breath. Two breaths. In. Out. Slow. In. Out. With a deep inhale, her eyelids flickered open and she pushed the lungful of air through her lips, a slow whistle accompanying the release. The nausea continued to threaten, but she was in control. A few more minutes and she would be fine. At least her head and stomach would be fine.
She still had to look Ryland in the eye. Maybe he wouldn’t want to talk about Sunday? Maybe he was ready to give up the charade of being friends and they could return to being frenemies. Revert to high school and the perverted stability she knew. Forget about the ascribed Ryland’s-been-in-love-with-you-his-whole-life theory of Lily Mae, and go back to the status quo: Ryland the Bully. Tessa the Victim. She almost longed for him to call her Pee-Pee Tee-Tee.
Almost.
She glanced his way and looked into his eyes, her hand slowly falling to her lap.
He squatted beside her chair, his face openly reflecting concern. Not a bully tease in sight.
“Tessa,” he rested a hand on her knee, sending a surge of tingles through her leg, awakening the butterfly in her chest. “Let me look at your eyes. I just need to see if they’re dilated. You whacked yourself pretty good.”
Swallowing against the thickness in her throat, she turned in her seat. Her knees brushed his.
His gray eyes reflected a mix of concern and sad longing that she’d never before seen.
Her breaths became shallow as she fought the rising current of the butterfly wings in her chest. His palms cupped her cheeks, burned against the pulsing heat of her blush.
“What’s your full name?” his voice was low and tender.
“Tessa Natalie Tarrington.”
“What day is it?” His face inched slowly closer to hers.
“January twenty-first.” She licked her lips, her breaths quickening.
“Where are you?” Ryland’s lips were an angel’s breath from hers.
A fog clouded her mind that had little to do with the bump on her head. “Gibson’s Run High.” Her voice rasped, nearly foreign to her ears.
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you.” She looked down.
His thumb stroked her cheek—slowly—forcing her attention back to him. His steely gaze drew her, beckoning and weary.
“I don’t hate you, Ryland.” She whispered. Her hand covered his.
“Then why are you avoiding me?”
She tried to break from his tender hold. A tear streaked down her cheek. Her eyes shuttered against the intensity of his gaze. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Every cell in her body vibrated with his closeness. What was she doing? A spark shot through her lips as his soft mouth pressed against hers. The touch, as light as a sigh, rippled through, stirring something she couldn’t grasp. Her lips parted, and she leaned toward him.
“Ryland?” Her skin quivered and her eyes flittered open.
He stood and strode toward the wide expanse of windows. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He drove a hand through cropped hair, turning away from her.
Shivers raced through her body as she moved to stand by him. Drawing in a lung-filling breath, she inhaled his scent—a mix of the crisp wind of winter and the tawny rich aroma of leather. Her butterfly found friends and they swarmed from her throat to her belly.
Standing rigid—both disciplined with their focuses toward the high brick wall surrounding the football field five hundred yards in the distance—neither she nor Ryland moved.
The wall clock ticked. Each second echoed off the sterile walls of the empty classroom.
Her shoulder was near level to his—thanks to four-inch, stacked heeled boots. The temptation to lean against him overwhelmed and confused her. Comfort from Ryland Jessup?
When she’d escaped the intimacy of the dining room on Sunday night, her feelings had been like an assorted bag of jelly beans—some tasting sweet, some bitter. In the wake of his transparency, she wasn’t certain if what she felt was compassion or something more. Something deeper and potentially dangerous. In cowardice, she’d stayed in the kitchen, avoiding good-byes and probable pitfalls as she scrubbed already-clean dishes and pans.
Before her head had hit the pillow, Ryland’s “good-night” and “sorry” texts had scrolled across her phone, both embracing and embarrassing her. How could he be so open about the most tragic moments of his life? Tessa’s clients shared stories ranging from drunken nights hanging from balcony ledges to hidden pregnancies, and drug-induced binging. She’d always been able to remain compassionate yet professional, the wall between her clients’ stories and her personal boring, beige life firmly intact.
But hearing Ryland’s story,—feeling Ryland’s story—transformed her from a good, kindhearted listener to a warrior wanting to protect Ryland and Emma from all the pain the world wanted to impress upon them; and Tessa was not prepared to care about Ryland Jessup. She wasn’t sure she was able to care for him. But at the moment, standing in the aura of his intoxicating mix of brute strength and gentle warmth, she wanted nothing more than to step into his embrace and seek his comfort. “Ryland…” Her knuckles brushed against his, shooting sparks through her. She turned to face him. She knew what she wanted.
“Knock, knock.” Tessa jumped from Ryland and swiveled to the doorway.
Joe Taylor leaned against the frame.
&n
bsp; “Joey.” she plastered on a smile. “What are you doing here?” She glanced over her shoulder to the snow covered window, not allowing her gaze to linger on Ryland, who continued to stare toward the vacant football field.
“I called your house to make plans for tonight. Your dad said you were still at school.” He shoved away from the door, ambled into the room and rested his hip against a student desk. “Tried calling your cell, but no answer. I was a little concerned, and didn’t want to worry your dad. I had my brother drop me here to check in on you.”
The blush she’d been fighting flamed her cheeks. “Phone’s off.” She reached for her shoulder bag to retrieve her phone. “I don’t keep it on during school. I try to be a good example for the students.” She swiped the screen and saw the flash of two voicemails. “There you are.” She pointed the phone toward him.
“There I am.” His answering grin was wide, but she could see the question in his eyes. “Why are you two still here? This place is like a ghost town. I don’t even think Jamison is still in the building.”
“Ryland came in to check on me. We were just leaving.” She reached for her coat and saw Ryland link his arms tight across his chest, widening his stance but never pulling his stare from the field in the distance.
“They announced a Level two snow emergency over an hour ago. The roads are a mess. I’m planning on hoofing it back, but if you want, I can drive you home.” Joe picked up her journal from the front desk. “What’s this?” He flipped through the pages.
“Nothing. Just some notes.” She reached to snatch it from his grasp but his touted wingspan that made snagging fly balls from the mouth of a homerun lifted her treasured thoughts out of her grasp.
“I think I should get a peek at what you’re working on if the mystery is what kept you from me.”
“It didn’t keep me from you.”
“Really?” He lifted an eyebrow and glanced toward Ryland. “If it wasn’t your musings, then what kept a substitute teacher at school long after the final bell rang?”
Life on the Porcelain Edge Page 11