Chapter 3 The Writing Class #4
Sometimes I see that guy Grayson meet her on the path—the college guy with the glasses. He dresses like he’s from another century, and I can’t help noticing how he smiles and waves every time he sees Tessa or parts ways with her when I come to pick her up after class.
I’d be lying if I said my defenses don’t lock up whenever I catch sight of him.
Tessa called it possessiveness, but that’s not the right word for it—because I don’t want to possess Tessa.
I don’t want to keep her inside a chrysalis.
I want to see those wings unfold and take flight.
I want her to see what she can do on her own, without the shelter of a terrarium around her.
It’s good for her to get out of her shell and do something all on her own, without me or her family there as a safety net to fall back on.
So each time I drop her off at the college, I immediately head to Bruiser’s, taking out any leftover aggression on the heavy bags.
Every night as I drive Tessa back home, she tells me how her class went—and though most of the writer lingo flies right over my head, it’s nice to hear her talk about it.
I can’t help but notice how much more enthused she is about her writing—like she no longer sees it as a side hobby, but something serious.
On Friday night, we make good on our promise to cuddle and watch TV together.
Tessa has a Jane Austen movie she wants me to see, and sure enough, I get through about fifteen minutes of it before dozing off with her in my arms. I can’t help it.
Between the combination of British accents, slow violin music, the sweet scent of Tessa’s hair, and the warmth of her body curled into mine… damn. It’s impossible to stay awake.
When I open my eyes again, she’s no longer lying beside me but sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, laptop on the coffee table in front of her.
The movie is still playing on the TV, but I can tell I’ve missed a lot.
The main girl character was all happy and in love when I fell asleep, and now she’s crying her eyes out.
Apparently, some stuff happened. But I’m more interested in knowing what Tessa’s up to.
Her hair is within my reach, so I catch a strand between my fingers and whisper, “What are you writing?”
She gasps, turning to me with surprise. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was,” I groan, rubbing a hand over my face. “This crying chick woke me up.”
Tessa murmurs a laugh and reaches for the remote, lowering the volume. “I just had some ideas I wanted to write down.”
“For the book?”
She nods.
“Can you tell me about them?” I roll onto my back, tucking one hand behind my head. “Or is it top secret? Or is it a sexy, spicy love scene that you’re too embarrassed to share with me?”
Tessa grunts, tipping her head back dramatically. “Oh, yeah, that. Definitely.” She types a few more words into her document before swiveling to face me, folding her arms on the edge of the couch—new ideas sparkling in her eyes. “I had a crazy thought. What if I made the story dual point of view?”
“What does that mean?”
“Like switching back and forth between Mabel and Lieutenant Barnes. So, right now it’s third person omniscient, but if I did this dual-point-of-view thing, it would be first person close.”
She might as well be speaking another language. When it becomes obvious that I have no idea what terms like “third person omniscient” and “first person close” mean, she explains.
“Dr. Travis was talking about tenses and perspectives tonight—the differences between them and how they can change the way you engage with a story. And as she was talking, I realized that my favorite perspective to read is first person—where the pronouns are I, me, my, etcetera. So it feels like the character is the one telling you the story.” Tessa waits to make sure I’m tracking.
When I nod, she continues, “So that got me thinking… it would be kind of fun to write both sides of this story, first person. But I might need your help.”
“My help?” I quirk one eyebrow. “I’m no writer, Tes. I don’t even understand half the stuff you said about perspectives—”
“I don’t mean the writing part,” she says with a grin, taking my hand in hers and gently stroking her silky-soft thumb over my rough knuckles. “I mean… writing from Lieutenant Barnes’s perspective. I want it to be realistic. The stuff about him losing his leg.”
“Well, I’m sure you can find an amputee who would be willing to answer your questions.” I give her a sleepy wink. “What is it you want to know?”
She glances down, pressing her lips together. I know that look—the color in her cheeks, the shy smile she uses to cover up awkward feelings.
“Seriously, you can ask me anything, Tessa. I don’t mind talking about it.”
“You sure? Because I don’t want to make you… relive it.”
“It’s not like I actually went through a war.”
“No, but it was still traumatic.” Her gaze falls on my prosthetic legs, which are lying on the floor.
I always take them off when we snuggle on the couch together.
It’s incredibly satisfying after a long, sweaty workout and shower to just lie here and let my stumps breathe.
Bonus points when I get to make out with Tessa at the same time.
“What did it feel like?” she asks softly, lifting her gaze to mine. “I don’t mean the operation; I know you were under anesthesia for that… but after. When you woke up.”
If I close my eyes, I’m back there—lying in that hospital bed with machines beeping and IV poles looming over my head and Mom’s hand clutching mine. I never told Tessa all the horrible details, and she’s never asked me to talk about it.
“I couldn’t really feel anything,” I murmur.
“I was pretty loaded with painkillers. But they didn’t have any of that stuff back in the day when your story takes place.
They had morphine, I think. Man, that shit must’ve hurt.
” I shudder inwardly at the thought. Having your legs amputated while you’re dead to the world is one thing.
But I don’t know if I would’ve gotten through it if I’d actually had to see my blood on the surgeon’s tools.
Luckily, I don’t think Tessa is getting that graphic with her story, so I tell her the things that might be useful.
I explain how phantom pain feels—how sometimes it’s just a sensation like the missing limb is still there, and other times it’s as if your legs are melting under a pile of burning hot coals.
She asks me about recovery time, rehabilitation, adapting to ordinary life when you’re missing something you used to depend on every single day.
I tell Tessa what I know from experience, and she takes notes on her laptop, hands flying over the keys as she writes down all my answers.
Finally, she moves back onto the couch with me, sliding my knees into her lap and stroking her fingers gently over my stumps—the faint white line where the surgeon sewed me up five years ago.
“What is the biggest thing people don’t understand about it?
” she asks me, her voice so sweet and honest. So willing to listen, to know me better.
It’s moments like these that make me think even if she hadn’t met me when she was blind and couldn’t see my missing pieces, we still would have ended up together—she still would have wanted me.
She still would have fallen in love with me.
And I still would have fallen in love with her.
“I think the answer to that question would be different for everyone,” I say, my voice low as Tessa’s beautiful hands caress my scars. “For me, the thing I feel like most people don’t understand is… how your sense of self gets lost in it.”
Tessa tilts her head, silently asking me to elaborate.
“It’s like, you go from being… whoever you were before to being known as ‘the guy with the missing leg.’ Or legs, plural, in my case.
” I let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “People start identifying you with it. Like that’s where you begin and end.
And they think anything you do is incredible, even if it’s just pumping gas or going for a run—all because you’re missing a limb. That shit gets old really fast.”
“Because you feel like that’s all they’re thinking about? The fact you’re an amputee?”
I nod slowly, meeting her eyes. “It’s like your guy—Lieutenant Barnes. He’s still the same person he was before the war. But he’s different. But he’s the same. You know? There’s more to him than… surviving something awful.”
Tessa turns my words over in her mind and smiles a little, her gaze softening as she lowers herself to my level and presses a soft, paralyzing kiss to my lips.
I reach up to cradle her waist, my fingertips accidentally sliding under her T-shirt and brushing against smooth, bare skin.
It’s enough to shake up a bottle of intense desires within me.
“You’re right,” she whispers, her warm breath on my cheek as she breaks away to look into my eyes. “There’s so much more to him than that.”
TESSA
On Monday night, Dr. Travis teaches about the importance of feedback and critiques—how to take constructive criticism, learn from it, and implement ideas into our stories. It all leads up to a moment halfway through the lecture when she drops an unexpected bombshell on the class.