Chapter 3 The Writing Class #12
That’s the first thought that crosses my mind when I spot Grayson Rhodes kissing Tessa like he’s got the right to.
It’s getting dark, but not too dark to see her shove him back—breaking the kiss and trying to put space between them. Grayson, apparently, isn’t the kind of guy who takes no for an answer. He moves in closer, putting his hands on her shoulders.
I break into a run, which is not the easiest thing to do in everyday prosthetic legs, but I don’t care—I would crawl over broken glass with no legs at all to get to her.
Red-hot rage boils up inside me as I close the distance.
I hear Tessa saying, “Let go of me,” but Grayson doesn’t move an inch—that is, until I grab him by the shoulders and jerk him backwards.
Tessa’s eyes widen; her cheeks are wet with tears.
The sight of her crying is enough to make me go batshit.
Grayson puts his hands up in some pansy-ass plea of innocence. But I know what I just saw. And I’m not letting him off the hook that easily.
I punch him in the jaw, sending his glasses flying off his face. Good—I hope he can’t see a damn thing without them. Anger courses through my veins as I catch his arm, twisting his wrist at an impossible angle and dropping him to his knees with a guttural cry of pain.
I’ve got his fingers—his whole career—in my hands. I want to break every one of them. I want him to be sorry for this for the rest of his pathetic life.
He flinches as he kneels there, his eyes wild with fear, as I push his tendons to the brink of snapping.
“Wes.”
Tessa’s voice pulls me out of my rage. I glance at her for a second, but she only shakes her head, something quiet and fierce in her eyes.
“Let him go.”
I’ve made the point. Anything more would make her see me as a monster.
I wouldn’t mind being a monster if I happened to be alone in a dark alley with Grayson Rhodes. But here, now, in front of Tessa—I can’t lower myself to his level.
So I let him keep his fingers and his stupid writing career.
“Get out of my sight,” I seethe through gritted teeth. “And stay the hell away from Tessa—got it?”
Grayson doesn’t so much nod as tremble, scrambling backwards on his ass to put space between us. He crawls to his feet, grabs his glasses, and limps back down the path—possibly to go call the cops on me. I don’t care.
All I care about is Tessa. As soon as that scumbag is out of sight, I rush to her.
“God, are you alright?”
She falls on me in tears, wrapping her arms around my neck and gasping into my chest. I hold her close, my knuckles still throbbing from decking Grayson in the jaw. He’ll have a bruise for weeks. But he deserved worse.
“Shh, I’m here. You’re safe.” I whisper those words over and over again into her soft hair. And when she calms down enough to breathe and speak normally, I ease back to look her in the eyes. “Did he hurt you?”
She shakes her head. “No… I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes… I’m just—so… so ashamed. I was so stupid. You were right—I was wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t trust your judgment. I should’ve known you were warning me because you loved me…”
“You weren’t stupid,” I assure her softly, brushing the tears off her cheeks. “You just think the best of people. That’s not a bad thing. Until you come across an asshole like that guy.”
She sniffs, wiping her nose and looking up at me with her huge blue eyes filled with tears. “Thank you for being here for me, Wes.”
I gently rest my forehead against hers. “I will always be here for you,” I promise in a whisper. “But… I still think it might be a good idea to teach you how to throw a punch.”
TESSA
Lieutenant William Barnes was the most beautiful man Mabel had ever seen. And she had seen many beautiful things before her sight deserted her, leaving her in a world of darkness. Perhaps, one day, she would see him again—if the optimistic doctors were right and her vision healed with time.
Until then, Mabel was determined to love him more than ever. The war had left them both with scars. They had both been broken, one way or another.
But her love for William would never break. Never fail.
“I can’t believe you kept your wound a secret from me for so long,” she said to him one evening as they sat in the garden together, side by side, soaking in the last rays of warmth the setting sun had to offer.
William’s hand slipped effortlessly into hers. “Wounds heal, Mabel. Mine never shall… I’ll never be quite the same as I was before.”
Mabel laced her fingers through his and squeezed his hand. “The war has changed everyone. But you are the same man, inside. And that’s the only thing that matters. We’ll both learn how to laugh again—together.” She reached up and found the smooth edge of his jaw, tipping his face towards hers.
Their kiss began featherlight and grew more passionate as he wound his fingers into her hair and she gripped his jacket’s lapel. Across the garden, a robin sang her sunset song. And in that moment of perfection, it was like all the suffering that came before had never happened at all.
They still had each other. And they would never let go.
I’m not sure if the story is finished until I sit back and stare at that final line for a long moment—feeling a slow smile take over my face.
It’s the perfect scene to end on. And even though my imagination wants to explore what might happen next to these two characters I’ve slowly fallen in love with… this is all for now.
I type “the end” at the bottom of the document and hit save. It’s bittersweet, seeing those final words. I don’t want the story to be over, but there’s a kindling fire of anticipation in my heart for all the other stories I’m bound to write.
“Hey.” Weston’s voice comes from behind the chair where I’ve parked myself with my laptop.
I’m at his house today, dog-sitting Thor while the boys are at school and Weston’s mom is running errands.
It’s been a quiet afternoon of writing with the sweet golden retriever snoozing at my feet.
Weston has been infinitely patient, making an effort to not disturb me until this moment.
Now he sneaks up to whisper into my hair, “Can I interrupt the creative genius?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, shutting my laptop and tipping my head back to look up at him. “I just finished.”
“Finished? The whole thing?”
“The whole thing.”
Weston cheers and applauds, coming around the other side of my chair to whisk me to my feet and twirl me triumphantly. I burst out laughing at his huge reaction, and Thor thwacks his tail, spinning in circles as if joining in on the excitement.
“I can’t wait to read it,” Weston says. “I’m sure it’s awesome.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing what you think of it.” I grin up at him. “There’s a sappy kiss at the end.”
He laughs, tipping his head back. “You’ve brainwashed me with all the Jane Austen movies. I can handle a little sappiness at this point.”
I smack him on the arm. “Okay, why did you want to interrupt me, anyway? You look like you’re… up to something.”
“It’s time for our lesson.” Weston gives me a meaningful wink and takes my hand, leading me to the garage—Thor trailing after us like an eager spectator.
Weston stops beside the heavy bag swaying from the ceiling and turns down the volume on the radio, which is playing an ’80s rock station.
“You were serious about this?”
Weston snatches a pair of boxing gloves from his gym bag and turns to give me a frown. “Of course I was serious. Everyone should know how to defend themselves. Plus, I’ve always wanted to see you in boxing gloves.”
“Well, I guess it’s not the most scandalous thing a guy could want to see me in.”
Weston laughs and helps me into the gloves, fastening the Velcro straps around my wrists. “Now,” he says, taking a step backwards and tapping his chest. “Hit me like you don’t like me.”
“What? I can’t.”
“You’ve gotta. Come on. Hit me.”
I throw a feeble punch at Weston’s chest. He doesn’t flinch or even blink.
“Seriously?”
I strike him again, putting a little more force into it.
“I said hit me like you don’t like me,” Weston reminds me, impatience flaring in his eyes. “Or maybe I should say: hit me like I’m Grayson Rhodes.”
That uncorks a bottle of leftover anger in me. The force of my punch makes Weston jolt backwards a little. A satisfied smile curves onto his face. “That’s what I’m talking about. Again.” He taps his chest.
“I don’t want to just keep hitting you.”
“Oh, I think I can take it. You hit like a girl.”
I punch him again, so hard it forces him back a whole step.
“Ow!” He exaggerates a glare, rubbing his chest where I landed my jab. “What the hell…”
“I’m sorry—”
“Shh. Never be sorry for punching a guy who’s asking for it.” Weston steps in close, gently tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.
He kisses me softly, and I kiss him back, my hands moving up to his neck—but my bulky gloves only thump gracelessly against his head, making him laugh.
“I was right, by the way,” he whispers against my forehead. “You look really badass in boxing gloves.”