Life on the Porcelain Edge

by C. E. Hilbert

  Gingerly sipping her coffee, the tension of the last forty-eight hours began to settle. Was it just two days ago she’d asked Joey to attend Lily’s wedding as her guest? Just hours after being plastered against Ryland’s very naked and sweaty chest. What was she doing inviting Joey to the wedding? They’d only been dating for a few weeks. One didn’t invite a newbie to a wedding. Too much pressure. Too many expectations. Too many slow dances. Too many bridal bouquets and garters. She knew why she’d invited him.

  Ryland.

  If Ryland hadn’t stirred up every female hormone in her body with one shirtless embrace. Or if he hadn’t acted as if she was a pariah for the last three weeks. Or if he hadn’t smelled like fresh wood and clean air every time she’d passed him in the hallway at school. Or if her heart hadn’t cracked a little each time Emma excitedly shared her daddy’s near super powers, ranging from killing a spider to reading the same book five times before locking said book with its strange googly eyes in a drawer for the night. If he wasn’t so…the opposite of everything she thought was Ryland Jessup, she would never have invited Joey to a wedding—let alone a wedding one thousand miles from home where he would be a virtual stranger to everyone in attendance. She lowered her forehead to her arms crossed on the rough-hewn table. She was an idiot.

  “Well this is a picture. You’ll never make it through to Sunday brunch if you’re pooped Thursday morning, cher.” Lily Mae chuckled.

  Tessa rested her chin on her crossed arms. Her heart warmed at the sight of her two best friends—Lily and Ella, her sisters from other misters.

  Lily’s face was obscured by oversized sunglasses. Her dark locks were blown out and as big as her southern roots would allow. Draped in a rich green sweater dress, she was accessorized with layers of thin gold chains in varying lengths.

  In stark contrast, Ella’s short brown curls cuddled her pink, rounded make-up free cheeks. During her time in New Orleans, the former ballet dancer discovered that the heady freedom of not being restricted in her diet coupled nicely with the delicacies of New Orleans’ cuisine. The combination had transformed her petite, five foot one, size zero frame to the comfortably soft, oversized-sweater-wearing writer she’d become during four years of college. Today, Ella remained curvaceous.

  Tessa often feared her friend hid behind her frame rather than embracing her plump body or committing to changing it. Either way, Ella’s perfectly porcelain skin, chocolate brown hair and nearly clear blue eyes were striking—but Ella’s features were nine hundredth on the list of what made her a wonderfully dedicated friend.

  Ella sat on the seat nearest Tessa and cupped one tiny hand over hers. “Why are you so forlorn?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Tessa’s heart. Only Ella would rely on a phrase better suited for an Austen character than a strong, modern woman. “Well, do you want the short version or the essay?”

  “Short.” Lily interrupted sliding a coffee in front of Ella and plopping her half-dozen shopping bags on the empty chair. “I love you, T, but your dramas already consumed the better part of a holiday weekend this calendar year. I can only give you an hour per day of this wedding to sulk, wallow, or whine about your life. We can focus on you again after I return from Belize and before carnival.”

  “Your compassion overwhelms, Lil.” Ella rolled her eyes at the bride-to-be.

  “I’m just saying. This one weekend is supposed to be all about me.” Lily slouched against her chair.

  “And Beau,” Ella said.

  “And Beau, of course. All about me and Beau.” She mumbled.

  “I don’t want to make anything about me. Let’s just go do all of the bridal duties that need doing.”

  “You said duty.” Both Lily and Ella said it simultaneously. “Jinx.”

  Tessa’s heart floated with the fullness of a helium balloon. “Short version. My life’s back in the toilet.”

  “What’s the long version?” Ella asked.

  “Well, it all started with snow angels.” Tessa shared the ups and downs of the previous weeks from her inspiration to write a children’s book with Emma, to her essential rejection by E&E, culminating with her curious feelings for Ryland. How he had all but ignored her during every writing session—making her see-saw emotions all the more inexplicable.

  She recounted her building romance with Joe. Her heart softened as she told the story of him sweetly walking her back to her father’s house Tuesday night. He’d insisted he wanted to spend the evening alone, suddenly cancelling their plans with his brother and Maggie, opting for a chilly moonlight picnic in the backyard. Something weighed on him after his conversation with Ryland, but he said it was nothing for her to worry over. She’d tried to believe him, but his smile never reached his eyes as he entertained her with clubhouse stories and childhood anecdotes. When she’d probed, he’d claimed he was tired, but something was troubling him. She hoped when he arrived on Saturday for the wedding, she would uncover his worry.

  “Let me get this straight. Hottie football coach was half-naked and you didn’t dissolve into a pile of ash from the heat of your blush?” Lily challenged.

  “I tell you I’ve been denied my livelihood. That I’m writing a book with a four year old. That one of my childhood friends—”

  “Soon to be official suitor.” Ella interrupted.

  Tessa sighed. “I don’t know about that, but he’s definitely in trouble. That I can’t define the feelings I have for either Ryland or Joe and all you focus on is I saw Ryland without his shirt?”

  “I love my fiancé, but I’d like to see that one without his shirt.”

  “Lily!”

  “Well, cher, he’s one mighty fine specimen—even if he is a Yankee. And rude.”

  “Regardless,” Tessa said. “None of it really matters. My career is essentially over. I’m probably over fixating on Joe’s potential problems so I don’t have to deal with my own.”

  “Darlin’, if the gossip rags haven’t wrangled the story, I don’t believe we’ll discover the issues of the seriously dreamy Joe Taylor.”

  “Agreed.” Tessa tossed the last of her coffee in her mouth, dropping her cup with a clank against the saucer. “Let’s get this southern belle married!”

  ~*~

  Four hours later, her hands wrapped in tinfoil and her face caked with a green concoction that smelled faintly of menthol, Tessa wished she’d stayed in Ohio until two hours before the wedding. Her face itched. Her back itched. Sitting still this long made her brain itch.

  In the whirlwind of the last four weeks, she’d been able to shove her thoughts about Joe and Ryland into tightly locked compartments in her mind. The distractions of school, the book, the potential revival of her career occupied her. But now, sitting for hours being poked and yanked in the name of pampering, her mind let loose, and the compare and contrast skills she’d acquired in Modern English Lit systematically evaluated each man.

  Joe was sweet. He was everything she dreamed when she was sixteen and longed for him to notice her. Their dates were filled with laughter and stories, but something was missing. His stories seemed to graze the surface—never going deeper than his bio on the team’s media page. His eyes held a sadness that rarely evaporated. One of the qualities she’d always admired in him was his light-hearted approach to life.

  Over the last few weeks, he’d appeared more strained than easy going. He was working hard to ensure no one noticed, but Joey Taylor was one of her favorite subjects in high school. Back then she noticed when his overlong hair was slightly out of place. Today, she’d definitely noticed his lack of joy. From her side of the glass, his life appeared to be one splashy scene after another. The press dubbed him the Shindig Slugger for the countless parties, premieres, and playmates connected to him. But that wasn’t the Joey Taylor she knew.

  Over the last few weeks, she’d glimpsed the old Joey; the sweet boy who helped her learn new music in the praise band and always said ‘hi’ to her in high school. Her Joey—the real Joey—was sweet, a
little flirty, and desperately broken hearted.

  And Ryland noticed, too.

  During the few times she’d seen the two in the same room, she’d recognized the shadow of concern eclipsing his tightlipped glances. Joe and Ryland’s bromance was larger-than-life. They’d been friends since the two could walk and hold baseballs in leather mitts. If anyone—including Joey’s two overly protective older brothers—was going to know what was driving him to depression it would be Ryland.

  His obvious concern for his best friend softened Tessa’s heart in places she was unaware existed.

  She was diligently trying to remain single-hearted—focused solely on her budding romance with Joe—but with each passing day she couldn’t deny the ebbing attraction to Mr. Baseball while her fascination with a certain enigmatic football coach continued to grow. If she was honest, her worry for Joe’s mysterious behavior spawned not from a deep abiding love, but from a place of concern for an old friend. She wanted to help him. She wanted to see the twinkle spark in his eyes once again.

  Dear Lord, I don’t know how to help Joey. He’s hurting but he doesn’t want to share his burden with anyone. He’s a lost soul in desperate need of Your tender healing. Help me to know how I can help him. Is there a clue to what is causing his pain?

  Moments clicked by. The faint mutterings of other spa clients humming above the synthetic nature melodies piped into the room. Tessa breathed in the sounds and expelled a slow and steady…peace. Her eyes flittered open. Peace.

  Joey needed peace. He didn’t need more dates or surface conversations. He needed to rip off the bandage and allow his wound to heal. “With healing, peace always follows,” her father had said.

  Through peace Joey would rediscover his joy.

  How could she convince him to willingly reveal the pain he was concealing? She wanted so much for Joey—just not her. “Huh,” a soft smile cracked her green caked skin, echoing the scales slipping from her heart. She didn’t want to be with Joe. Her sixteen year-old-self had motivated the dating whirlwind of the last month. She’d enjoyed nearly every minute, and in line with most teenage relationships—the expiration date was under thirty days. Knowing she didn’t want to pursue a relationship with Joey gave her new direction. She wouldn’t need to worry about any romance with Joe ever again.

  She only had one snag: in less than twenty-four hours she would be attending her best friend’s over-the-top, romantic wedding with him.

  Her first order of business when he arrived Saturday morning would be to establish the new boundaries of their relationship. She didn’t want to elongate the confusion—and the fixer in her itched to help him solve whatever was drawing lines at the corners of his beautiful brown eyes.

  23

  Calling Literary Agent Terrell Bergstrom’s building a place of business was a stretch. The garbage-strewn entryway greeted visitors leading them directly past cardboard patched windows. The once black and white tiled lobby was hidden beneath several years of dirt and mildew. The turn of the Twentieth Century charm existed. It was just on a very long coffee break. The elevator leading to his fourth floor agency, likely original to the building, was as out of order as the lobby.

  With no other option, Ryland jogged the stairs in twos.

  On the fourth floor, he was greeted by a buzzing security light illuminating the landing in a halted staccato, the eerie aura of a horror film. Twisting the handle to open, the door barely shifted. Using the force of his entire six foot six frame, he slammed against the door. The frame splintered with a crack, showering his head and shoulders with strips and bits of paint layers.

  “Seriously?” He mumbled, brushing his light gray sweater.

  “Ryland?”

  Every short hair on the back of his neck stood at the sound of his name slipping through Tessa’s lips.

  “What are you doing here?” She stood, absently brushing paint chips from his sweater.

  “You said it’d be a good idea for me to know the details of the book deal—for Emma’s sake.”

  “Ryland, we don’t have a deal, yet. This is just the first meeting. The first agent.” Her soft smile signaled his ignorance.

  “Oh…” Words were lost in the light touch of her hands against his shoulders. A slow burn spread from her fingers up his neck and down his chest warming his heart and mudding his mind.

  Yanking away her hands, she shuffled back to her seat.

  Ryland glanced at the curved back wooden chair beside her and lifted a silent prayer of safety before lowering to sit.

  The hum from the security light offered the harmony to the subtle tick of the wall clock offset by the rhythm of Tessa’s heel tapping. Her hands smoothed the flat surface of the wide leather case resting on her lap.

  “Like you said. This is the first meeting.” He squeezed her fingers.

  “But what if it’s awful. What if he hates the story? What do I do then? This is my last shot. I don’t have any other options beyond returning to Gibson’s Run and waiting for Mrs. Monahan to retire so I can take over for her for the next thirty years until I die because I’ve choked on my oatmeal and no one finds me until the smell fills the halls of my decrepit apartment building five days later.”

  “Whoa. How long did it take you to come up with that story?”

  “The last seven minutes waiting for Terrell’s door to open.”

  “Then clearly this isn’t your last chance. You obviously have plenty of fiction writing ahead of you.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted, pouring calm relief through him. Cupping her fingers in his large grip, he continued, “If this Terrell guy doesn’t see how great this story is, then he’s an idiot and we’ll find someone else who knows how special it is.”

  “We will?”

  The crash of dozens of books and glass against a tile floor snapped their attention to the opening office door.

  Tessa ripped her hands from Ryland’s grasp as she shot up. Wiping undetectable lint from her skirt, she stretched herself to a willowy height he didn’t know she possessed.

  Ryland stood behind her, resting a light hand to her shoulder.

  A man—presumably Terrell Bergstrom—emerged from the closeted space in a cloud of dust and mutterings. He barely reached Tessa’s shoulder and his girth made passing through the narrow doorway a challenge. His tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair spoke of an age his cherubic cheeks did not register.

  “Mr. Bergstrom?” Tessa asked.

  Lifting a forefinger to his ear, he jiggled it as if to clear unseen debris. “Miss Tarrington, I presume. John Samson speaks highly of your work.” He shuffled back through the door. “Come. Come. Let me see this story.”

  Snagging the portfolio, she followed in Terrell’s wake.

  Ryland trailed them, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Twenty minutes later, after enduring Tessa’s attempt to share Emma’s vision as well as her own with the apathetic agent, Ryland shifted in his seat and rested an elbow on the edge of Bergstrom’s paper strewn desk. “So do you like the story or not?” he asked.

  Tessa’s eyes shut. Tension stretch across her shoulders.

  “It’s got some promise.”

  “But do you want to represent Tessa and Emma?”

  “Ryland,” Tessa whispered through a clenched jaw.

  “No, no, Miss Tarrington. I like a man who doesn’t tiptoe around a question. Just jumps in with both feet. No life preserver.” Clasping his hands over the middle of his body, Bergstrom gently rocked his chair, a high pitched rhythm filling the small space.

  “Forget this.” Ryland stood and yanked Tessa to stand. “Let’s go.”

  “What are you doing?” She tugged against his grip.

  “I’m removing you…us, from a situation where we are clearly not wanted.”

  “Now, now, son, no one said y’all weren’t wanted.”

  “You clearly don’t have the same passion for this book Tessa or my four year old has, which makes you the wrong person to represent them. Have
a good day.” He pivoted but Tessa wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m so sorry Mr. Bergstrom. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  “No worries, cher. Clearly, he’s passionate about his daughter and you. Leave your proposal and any bits you want me to take a closer look at. I’ll get back with you in a few weeks or so to let you know. OK?”

  With her free hand, Tessa handed him the packet, including Emma’s sketches. “Thank you. I’m so sorry for all of this.”

  Terrell stretched a wide smile. “Darlin’, I love to see people as passionate about children’s literature as I am. I’ll look over the proposal and let you know if it’s something I can pitch.”

  She nodded, turning to Ryland. “Let go of my arm.”

  He dropped his hold and followed her.

  Silence hung heavy over their descent. Throwing open the door to exit, the damp air clung to Ryland’s skin. The sun barely burning through the early fog.

  “I can’t believe you.” Tessa whirled and punched him in the shoulder.

  “Hey. Violence isn’t necessary.”

  “Really? Terrell Bergstrom’s one of the leading Children’s Lit agents in the country. The country, Ryland. Do you know how blessed we were to even be in his office today?”

  “Tess, if that’s the office of a leading agent, Children’s literary agents need to find new jobs.”

  “Ugh.” She stalked across the cobblestone street.

  Ryland jogged after her opting for silence. They zigzagged through alleys and off street sidewalks for nearly fifteen minutes before stopping at a misplaced door along a city block-long wall of brick.

  “Hold this, please.” Tessa shoved her portfolio into his hands. She rummaged in her shoulder bag and lifted out keys unlocking the mystery door to reveal a narrow stairwell.

  “Are you coming?” She jogged up the stairs not waiting for his answer.

  Following her up four flights, and two landings, they stopped before a wide metal sliding door. She fitted another key into a hidden slot in the frame and shoved the door to the right. Her heels clicked against the cement floor of the open space. Dropping her handbag on the wide bar connected to the small galley kitchen, she kicked her heels under a chair and disappeared behind another sliding wall. “You can put the portfolio on the table by the door.”