Chapter 15
FAYE
I lead Ryder down the hallway away from the principal’s office.
He’s extra dusty today. As if he rode straight off the range and into my school. And he’s wearing cowboy chaps, or a shorter, fringed version of the classic ones. The leather covers his thighs, buckled over worn-out denim with the fringes reaching the tops of his mud-caked boots.
He smells terrible.
Horse and sweat and leather and earth, a combination that should make me wrinkle my nose and step back. Instead, I want to lean in. Breathe him in and find out how worse that stink gets closer to the skin.
I need an exorcism. I’m a lust bomb ready to go off. But right now, he doesn’t need that. He needs to have a hard conversation with his son’s teacher, one that he won’t like.
I rein in whatever free-range thoughts my brain is having and focus on the difficult topic we need to discuss.
I stop outside my classroom and hold the door open for Ryder.
He pushes in, going to stand by the first row of desks.
His attitude couldn’t be more different from when he showed up last week, all charm and stolen cookies.
His hands are on his hips, set in a defensive stance, and his scowl is formidable.
I’ve barely closed the door when Ryder goes on the attack, talking before I can speak.
“The other kid had it coming.” His voice is guarded. “You heard what he said about Rhys’s mother. And he threw the first punch. My son was defending himself.”
“Teaching Rhys it’s okay to hit someone back as long as they attack first is not the best message to send.” I keep my voice level, professional, even though part of me wants to agree with him. That Jordan kid was cruel. “But that’s not what I want to talk about.”
Confusion flickers across his face. “Then what?”
I take a breath, knowing I’m about to poke the Papa Bear. “Have you ever talked to your son about his mother?”
Ryder’s entire body goes still, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for a fight. His jaw clenches so tight the muscle jumps beneath the skin. Those twilight eyes darken to midnight.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The question is clipped, dangerous.
“It’s a hard topic, I know. But you and Rhys need to talk about it now that he’s old enough to have questions.” I stay gentle but firm. “Rhys can see that most of his schoolmates have mothers. It is normal for him to wonder why he doesn’t, where his mother is, and what happened.”
“And what am I supposed to tell him?” His words come scraped raw.
“That his mother wanted nothing to do with him? That she didn’t even have the decency to stick around long enough for him to remember her face?
” He points at the door in rage. “Because what the kid said is true, she abandoned him like he meant nothing.”
He’s angry, yes. But Ryder’s hurt runs deeper than his fury, hollowing him from the inside out.
Every muscle in his body is drawn tight against the weight of what he can’t change—what he couldn’t save.
I can only imagine how powerless he must feel in the face of this thing that was done to his kid, and that he has no control over.
I feel just as impotent now, looking at him, unable to take that pain away.
“I don’t know how to answer those questions,” he continues, running a hand through his dusty hair. “How do I explain to a seven-year-old that sometimes people leave? How do I make him see it’s not his fault for being a crybaby and what that little shit told him isn’t true?”
“Have you thought about asking for help?” I suggest carefully. “From a professional?”
Ryder’s head snaps up, his eyes blazing. “Are you suggesting I send my son to a shrink?”
It sounds like an accusation, as if I’ve suggested something shameful.
And I feel like a hypocrite lecturing him.
I didn’t go to therapy to sort my shit out, even if it would’ve helped.
I fled and started somewhere new where I could pretend my past never happened.
But I’m alone. If I screw up, the fallout stops with me.
Ryder has a son. He can’t flee, and he doesn’t have the luxury of dodging hard truths and messing his kid up with avoidance.
And I know how this sounds coming from the queen of running from things, but I’m not his whatever today, and he’s not my crush.
I’m a teacher, and he’s a parent. So, I need to do what’s best for Rhys.
“A therapist is the most qualified person to guide you through how to process this difficult absence in your lives.” I cross my arms, standing my ground. “Asking for support isn’t a show of weakness. And if an expert can help you heal faster, why not do it?”
When Ryder speaks again, his voice has gone cold. He sounds formal… distant. “Thank you for the suggestion, Miss Rose. I’ll keep it in mind.”
The Miss Rose lands like a slap. How different it sounds from how I imagined it in my head the other night.
He turns toward the door, and I should let him go. Accept that I’ve pushed too hard, crossed a line. But I can’t.
“Ryder—”
He stops at the threshold, turning around. “My son is fine. He doesn’t need fixing.”
“I never said he did.”
“You implied it.” He looks back at me then, and the hurt in his eyes makes my stomach roll. “Just like everyone else in this town who thinks they know what’s best for my family, or enjoys turning a tragedy into gossip their kids repeat at school.”
Before I can respond, he yanks the door open and disappears into the hallway.
He doesn’t slam the door, but the silence screams louder than a bang.
I stand still for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind. Then I cross to my desk and drop into the chair, lowering my head into my hands.
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the tiny desks where my students squirm and giggle and learn. But right now, I’m alone with the ghost of Ryder’s anger hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.
Why does he have to be so stubborn?
Well. At least this time, he didn’t spend twenty minutes lecturing me about everything I’m doing wrong as an educator.
But in a way, it’s more awful than that first day.
Because now I know him better. I understand how fiercely he loves his son, how hard he works to be everything Rhys needs.
And he thinks I’m suggesting he’s not doing enough.
He still doesn’t trust me. When all I wanted to say was that he doesn’t have to do everything alone.
Any mention of Rhys’s mother really shortens his fuse to nothing. No kidding. Ryder becomes a bull that sees red and charges whenever Abigail comes up. All defensive rage, wounded pride, and pain he doesn’t know how to process.
But I won’t leave him to hide his bull-head in the sand. Not when a child is caught in the middle, trying to make sense of why he’s different, why the other kids have the love of someone he doesn’t.
The classroom feels too small, too full of the echoes of our confrontation. I gather my things, shoving papers into my leather messenger without bothering to organize them. I want to get home, take a bath, and figure out how to fix this.
Because I need to fix it. Not just for Rhys, though he’s the priority. But for Ryder, too. For the man who looked at me with such betrayal in his eyes.
I drive home in a nervous haze. Sunlight stretches across the yard when I pull up, turning the cottage’s windows to gold.
It’s a scene too peaceful for how hollow I feel.
I let myself in, dump my bag by the door, and head straight for the bathroom.
I soak in the tub forever as if the water’s heat could soothe feelings and not just muscles.
After I dry, I change into leggings and an oversized sweater and move to the kitchen.
I eat cheese and crackers because I’m still too keyed up to cook.
But even after eating my feelings in cheddar and Colby Jack, I can’t settle. I curl up on the couch and stare at my phone, rolling it in my hands. And it’s not for Ryder that I start typing. I want to make sure he doesn’t hide from the problem for Rhys’s sake.
Faye
How are you? How is Rhys?
I hit send, not giving myself time to second-guess if texting a student’s father is a savvy decision.
Then I wait.
One minute. Two. Five.
I stare at the screen, willing it to light up with a response, but nothing comes through.
I get up, pace to the window, contemplate the dark lake. A few lights from other cottages reflect on the water, wavering like my resolve.
My patience evaporates. I type another message.
Faye
The silent treatment, really?
Ryder still doesn’t reply. I pace the living room, phone clutched in my hand.
Ten minutes crawl by. Frustration boils over into anger as I type again.
Faye
You can ignore me if you want, but you can’t ignore what Rhys is going through
Still no reply. I toss the phone onto the couch and continue with my back and forth across the small living room, too nervous to do anything other than seethe.
No video game or book can distract me from the silence of my phone and the man on the other end who’s shutting me out.
Punishing me. Or maybe he’s done with me.
Done with the teacher who keeps meddling in his life, who won’t let him handle his son his own way.
At the thought, a crank twists low in my belly, drawing my insides taut.
Five more minutes tick past. I’m wearing a path in the floor, vibrating with anxiety and anger and the sting of helplessness.
The sensation is not new. Helpless is how I felt when I left LA.
But it has a new fierceness now that it’s all about a boy who’s not mine to protect, and a man who’s not mine to save.
My phone rings. I dive onto the couch as Ryder’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe to answer before the second ring finishes.
“Hello?”
“I was putting Rhys to bed.” No greeting, only a rough, exhausted explanation like he knew I’d been spiraling the moment he read my messages.
“Okay.” I sink back onto the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest.
Silence follows, broken only by heavy breathing on his end.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
At his admission, the helplessness drives its hooks in deeper, metal biting into flesh, pulling until the skin splits and bleeds.
“I want to protect him from this shit,” Ryder continues. “From the hole his mother left behind. But then something like today happens, and I realize I can’t shield him from the truth. Other kids will use it against him.”
Ryder’s voice cracks on the last word; he takes a shuddering breath.
“I tell myself I’m enough for him.” A pause followed by a wet sniff that stops my heart.
Is he crying?
“That he doesn’t need her. That we’re fine on our own. That I can give him everything he needs—”
A sound catches in his throat. Half sob, half gasp. Like he’s physically pulling himself back from the edge.
I press my palm against my sternum to ease the ache blooming there. I’m bleeding alongside him. Alongside this impossible, stubborn, beautiful man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and refuses to let anyone help him hold it.
“What do I do?”
I take a deep breath to keep from crying myself. My eyes burn, throat stinging with emotions I wasn’t prepared for.
“You’re doing a better job alone than most parents do together,” I tell him gently. “Rhys is happy, healthy, kind, and smart. He knows he’s loved and that’s because of you.”
A low grunt is the only hint I get that he heard me.
“The best thing you can do is talk about it. Make sure Rhys feels free to ask questions about his mother. Don’t let it become this huge, unspoken thing that grows bigger in the silence.
” I pull my legs tighter, wishing I could reach through the phone and offer more than just words.
“Let him know it’s okay to be curious. To have feelings about her absence. ”
“And go to therapy,” Ryder says, bitterly.
“Don’t say it like it’s a bad word. Therapy isn’t about fixing broken things. But if you’re feeling overwhelmed, a professional can help.”
Silence stretches. I hear him breathing.
“You must think I’m a total nutcase after the way I walked out on you today.”
The self-deprecation in his voice makes me want to drive to his house right now and shake him. Or hug him. Or… so many other things.
“Just a concerned dad.”
“I was an ass to you.”
“A little bit.”
He laughs, the sound rusty but real. “Did I blow my second chance?”
The vulnerability in that question does something funny to my chest. “Not yet.” I sigh. “But you can’t ignore this problem and hope it goes away. Pretending the issue doesn’t exist is the worst thing you could do.”
“I know.” A long exhale. “So, what do I do, search childhood trauma psychologist on Craigslist?”
“Definitely do not go on Craigslist for this.” I chuckle. “We have an excellent counselor at school. I can ask her for recommendations. Keep it confidential, if you prefer.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Do you have time to take Rhys? With the farm and everything? I think it’s important for you to go together.”
“No, I fucking don’t.” His voice firms up, resolve threading through the exhaustion. “But I’ll make the time. For my son.”
That promise wraps around my heart and squeezes.
This is what gets me. Not the muscles or the eyes or how he moves in those damned jeans and leather thingies. This. The fierce, unrelenting love he has for his son. The way he’d burn himself to ash if it meant keeping Rhys warm.
“Thanks for calling me,” I whisper.
“Thank you for not giving up. I’m not used to people sticking around when things get tough.”
Ah, there he does it again, destroying me one tiny piece at a time. I could say it is my job to help the families of my students. Justify why I’m so invested in them. But this is not work, is it?
“I—I care about Rhys.”
I care about you, but I’m too chicken to say that aloud.
“He’s lucky to have you as his teacher.” Another silence loaded with everything we’re not saying. “I have to go now,” Ryder says. “I’ve an early morning tomorrow. Good night?” It sounds like a question.
“Night. I’ll send you a name when I have it.”
“Sure, thanks.”
He hangs up before I do.
I lower the phone to my lap and sit in the dim light of my living room, heart hammering, emotions rioting through my chest. Feelings that are spreading through me—warm and terrifying and utterly consuming—and that have nothing to do with physical attraction.
I’m starting to care about him.
And it’s a dangerous path. Riskier than flirting over texts or dancing at the Moonshine. This is a real connection, intimate, the kind that leaves scars when it ends.