by Whitley Cox
“Aria Elaina Stark,” Atlas said through clenched teeth, “we need to go. You will be back next week.”
“No!” Aria snapped back.
Okay, they’d had enough of this back and forth. He was obviously either without the proper tools in his belt to shift past this and get his kid moving, or he didn’t want to haul her ass out of there and cause her to start screaming. Tessa had seen it all, so she wouldn’t have been fazed in the least, but a part of her job as a therapist—and one of the topics in her PhD dissertation—was helping parents communicate with children after their child has experienced some form of trauma. Yes, art was a big component of her work, but it was just one component. Her master’s thesis had been on the benefits of art therapy for people who had experienced trauma, but children had always been her passion. She wanted to dig deeper for her PhD. She wanted to help parents and caregivers find the tools and resources required to help their struggling children after a traumatic experience.
And given how young the baby in Mr. Stark’s carrier was, she would say Aria’s mother died quite recently. Even at thirty-five, she knew how traumatic the death of a parent could be. She couldn’t imagine how much a three-and-a-half-year-old was struggling with it.
Remaining in her seat, she gently put her hand on Aria’s shoulder, applied a bit of pressure and encouraged the little girl to turn and face her. Aria obliged, her shoulders lifting and falling exaggeratedly at the same time the headstrong child sighed. Tears brimmed her eyes, and her lip and chin trembled.
“I don’t want to go yet,” she said. “I’m not done.”
So many emotions in such a small package. How did children do it? As an adult, she still struggled to manage her emotions, and she had impulse control (most of the time) and was self-aware. How did these little beings handle their feelings without exploding?
That’s why children fascinated her. Always had.
She slid her hands down from Aria’s shoulders to her hands and held them, squeezing gently. “I know you don’t, Aria. I have had so much fun with you. But you know what? I have to get home too. I can’t stay here forever either.” She cupped her ear. “You hear that?”
Aria shook her head.
“That was my tummy rumbling. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”
Aria nodded.
“So you know what? I bet that part of the reason you’re so upset right now is because your tummy wants to go home, but your heart and your coloring fingers want to stay here. There’s a bit of a tussle going on inside you right now, isn’t there?”
“What’s a tussle?”
“A bit of a fight.”
Aria nodded. “I am hungry.”
“Me too. And you know what?” Keeping one of the little girl’s hands in hers, Tessa rose and led Aria over to where a bunch of IKEA bins lined one wall. She pulled out a shallow green drawer. “This is now your drawer. Anything you don’t finish will go in here for next time, okay? You can take it home if you’d like, work on it at home, or you can leave it here for next week. Totally up to you. It’s your choice.”
Aria nodded. Then her tummy grumbled. Even Tessa heard it. She lifted unique hazel eyes up to Tessa’s face, and her mouth formed a cute little O in surprise. “That was my tummy. It’s really hungry.”
Tessa nodded. “I heard that. It’s like a little monster growling.”
Aria nodded again, then took off back to the green triangle table, grabbed her pasta art, and with determined strides and an intensity in her gaze far too serious for somebody so young, she marched back toward Tessa. “Put my name on the drawer, please? So no other kids put their stuff in there.”
Tessa nodded. “I absolutely will.”
“A-R-I-A is how to spells it.”
“Thank you. That’s really amazing that you can already spell your name.” She glanced back up at Atlas, who had remained quiet, his facial expression tight, his dark gray eyes holding a melee of emotions she couldn’t quite put a pin on. “You have a very bright little girl,” she said, hoping to get the man to relax a bit. “She can already spell her name? That’s incredible.”
A flush formed in his cheeks beneath the short, wiry dark blond scruff. The man was handsome, she wouldn’t deny that. Tall, lean and fit, with short, dark blond hair and an intensity about him that was as intriguing as it was a touch frightening. She also couldn’t ignore the air of sadness that seemed to follow him around like an invisible cloud. Not to mention the stress he carried in his jaw and shoulders. The two practically met, he was so tightly wound.
“I can spell our last name too,” Aria said with pride. She was now skipping, after having tidied up the art supplies without even being asked. “S-T-R … ” Her brows pinched. “That’s as much as I know.”
“That’s a great start,” Tessa encouraged. “Spelling is really hard.”
She knew that firsthand. Spelling was her nemesis. It took until the sixth grade for her teacher and parents to figure out she was dyslexic. Up until then, they all just thought she didn’t know how to read. Math had been a problem too. One teacher had actually called her hopeless and suggested holding her back. It wasn’t until her sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. White, a dyslexic herself, that Tessa got the help, support and compassion she needed to thrive.
“Ready to go?” Mr. Stark asked, bouncing slightly and patting the baby’s butt in the carrier when she started to stir.
Aria nodded. “Yeah, my tummy monster is growling. There is a bear and a monster in there seeing who can growl the loudest.”
Tessa chuckled. Kids had the best imaginations.
Aria’s father’s lip twitched. “Well, let’s go feed the monster and bear then.”
Aria’s head bobbed. She reached for her father’s hand and waved at Tessa with the other one as they turned to go. “Bye, Tessa. See you next week.”
Tessa’s heart constricted at the sweetness of this little girl, and she waved back as she saw them to the door. “Bye, Aria. I can’t wait until we meet again.” She glanced up at Mr. Stark, and another look passed behind his eyes, but this time it not only confused her, it also alarmed her. Was that anger? At her?
“Goodbye, Mr. Stark,” she said, hoping to disarm the man a bit and get him to at least acknowledge her.
All he did was grunt, nod and lead his kid out into the hallway. Aria was once again skipping as she held her father’s hand, nattering his ear off, her blonde curls bouncing.
Oh well, she couldn’t win them all. Mr. Stark or Atlas or whatever was not her client. Aria was. And as long as Aria liked her, as long as Aria was willing to open up to her and could be helped, that’s all that mattered. Besides, she was done with trying to impress, win over or please men.
The only person’s happiness that mattered now was her own, and today was the first day she intended to make that priority one.
4
“There isn’t a lot we can do, ma’am,” the police officer said on the phone that night. After work, Tessa had called in and reported Forest being stolen.
In the eyes of the law, Forest was half Carlyle’s. Tessa and Carlyle had adopted him together, and lived together for a number of years, so according to the state of Washington, her jerk of an ex had as much of a claim on the dog as Tessa did.
“But then, if he’s half mine, shouldn’t I at least get shared custody?” she pleaded. “If he’s half mine, shouldn’t I get him half the time?”
“That’s not a police matter, ma’am,” the officer said, regret in her tone. “This a civil matter. To be handled in small claims court. I mean, you could get a lawyer … ”
“But I don’t even know where he is to send any papers. I have no clue where to even start.” She was on the verge of tears again for the millionth time that day. The only bright bit of sunshine in her whole day had been little Aria, and even that was fleeting and shadowed over by her cold and surly father, whose gray eyes reminded her of a Pacific storm ready to ransack the coast.
“I suggest you speak to a lawyer, perhaps hire
a private investigator,” the officer offered.
A hot tear slid down her cheek, and she nodded. “Okay, thank you.”
She couldn’t afford a private investigator. Not with the rent she paid for not only her apartment but the studio, along with her mother’s nursing home fees. She was stretched thin already.
Was this it then? Was Forest just … gone?
“What about a chip? Did your dog have a microchip or a tattoo?” the cop offered.
“That only works if someone takes him in to the vet or police and has the chip or tattoo read. They’re not homing devices.” Clearly this woman didn’t have any pets, because she had no clue how it worked.
“Right, sorry.”
“Thanks for your help.”
Or lack thereof.
“You’re welcome, ma’am, and good luck.” She disconnected the call, leaving Tessa more crestfallen and broken than before. It was hopeless. She would never see Forest again.
Unable to pull herself out of her funk enough to make dinner, she ordered a heart- and brain-healthy meal for delivery. Poached salmon and a delicious-sounding salad with nuts and berries and an olive oil and raspberry vinaigrette. After her mother’s diagnosis and the realization that she could very well be a carrier of the early onset Alzheimer’s gene as well, Tessa had changed her diet completely. She researched until she nearly went cross-eyed the best foods for preventing Alzheimer’s. Not that she’d been a big meat eater to begin with, but she cut out all meat besides fish, went clean eating with no processed foods, very few sweets, no butter or margarine, and lots of nuts and beans, leafy veg and plenty of good healthy fats. Good fats like fish oil and avocado were brain food. At least according to the Mayo Clinic.
It’d been damn near torture cutting dairy out of her diet. She loved cheese, but the silver lining in all of it was how beneficial wine was to the aging brain.
A glass a day was exactly what the doctors at the Mayo Clinic ordered. And who was she to argue with a bunch of doctors? Particularly those at one of the country’s most esteemed hospitals?
After finishing her online order, she grabbed the three-quarter-full wine bottle off the counter, unscrewed the cap and upended the rest of the contents into her stemless glass.
Nowhere on the Mayo Clinic website did it say how full that one glass was allowed to be. Or if it did, she’d “missed” it.
In penguin flannel pajama pants, no bra and a tight black tank top, she wandered into the living room of her apartment. Not that Carlyle had moved into her place with a ton of stuff, but the few things he had brought, which were now on the front lawn of her apartment, left gaping holes in the place. She’d tucked away a few photo frames of the two them for the Rage Room on her next day off. She planned to hawk his record collection and comic book collection if he didn’t return Forest. She wasn’t stupid enough to drown those and chuck them on the lawn. Technically in the eyes of the law, because he’d acquired all that memorabilia while they were together, it was all half hers. Perhaps she should sell half of it. Break up a few collections just to spite him.
Everything else he’d brought with him when they moved in together, like his clothes, a few personal effects, his video game console and games were all out on the grass. She was sure by now some of it was gone. As was the way in Seattle—and most places at that—if you wanted to get rid of something, you put it on the curb and waited. Either some deal-hungry citizen grabbed it up or the city disposed of it.
She kind of hoped somebody else was playing Carlyle’s beloved Halo and Final Fantasy right now rather than it ending up in the city landfill.
With her phone in one hand and her wine in the other, she sat down on her couch and stared at her black television screen.
“That shit will rot your brain,” her father used to always say.
Yeah, well, that was the least of her concerns for her brain right now. It was probably rotting from the inside out already, television-watching or not.
Carlyle hadn’t even bothered to call her. Or return any of her emails. Which of course, had been similar to the texts she thought she’d been sending Blaire. Only to find out they’d gone to another number instead. She still hadn’t texted Blaire. If Carlyle wasn’t replying to her, why would his home-wrecking sidepiece?
Unless she still doesn’t know she’s a home-wrecking sidepiece.
Right.
She brought up her text messages and hit compose.
This time she was going to punch in the correct numbers in the correct order. She just had to slow her brain down and double-check before she hit send.
Hello, I am Tessa Copeland. I am not sure if you are aware, but I’m actually Carlyle Rickson’s fiancée. Or I guess I should say, EX-fiancée. I hope that you are as ignorant to my existence as I was of yours. I found photos of the two of you and text messages on his tablet. Needless to say, it was pretty upsetting. I have not seen Carlyle for two days. I emailed him asking for an explanation. Carlyle and I had been together for five years. We were engaged. If you know where he is, could you please have him call me. I would like to discuss Forest. I miss my dog greatly, and having him back would make going through this breakup a whole lot easier.
She read and re-read her message. Made a few grammatical and spelling changes, in case Blaire was a grammar Nazi. She could just imagine Carlyle and Blaire sitting together laughing hysterically over Tessa’s spelling or grammar blunder. Carlyle had always teased her about her poor spelling.
Once she made sure her message was being sent to the right number, as polite, calm and non-aggressive as possible, as well as grammar- and spelling-error free, she took a big sip of wine, shut her eyes and hit send.
Then she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was seven thirty on a Monday night. Maybe Blaire was at a Zumba class or something.
She shouldn’t let her mind race too much and think that Blaire and Carlyle were busy laughing at her desperation and sorrow. People weren’t that cruel, were they?
With her wine gone and her dinner app saying that her food was three minutes away, she flicked on the television and cast Netflix from her phone to the screen. Why did serial-killer documentaries intrigue her so? What was wrong with her?
But, like any addiction of the most bizarre kind, she loved them. Carlyle hated them, said she was weird for getting so invested in the stories.
She didn’t understand the fascination herself, but she did know she wasn’t the only person out there with such a penchant.
Deeply engrossed in the story of a man who liked to kidnap, torture and taxidermy child molesters he catfished on the internet—yeah, talk about sympathizing with the killer—she nearly jumped out of her skin when her phone started to ring to indicate the delivery driver was there.
With food in her belly, more wine in her glass and a hell of a lot of lavender essential oil diffusing in the corner, she finally felt herself relax.
It was about damn time.
She was still incredibly sad and wished like hell Forest was snoring on her feet as she curled up on the couch, but her feet were cold and the house too damn quiet for her liking. She turned up the volume on the television.
She didn’t want to have to resort to filing a civil claim or get the lawyers involved, if it came to that. But she’d do it all, hire a PI, hire a lawyer, heck, she’d hire a muscled-up thug who swung punches for cash if it meant she could get her dog back.
She’d deal with the financial repercussions later. Get a job moonlighting as a delivery driver for her favorite vegan restaurant or something. Perhaps she’d get a discount on the food? Win-win?
When the episode of the serial-killer documentary ended, she stared at her phone and scrolled through Netflix for something else to watch.
Romantic comedies?
Uh, hell no.
She was in no mood to watch Ethan and Isla have a dating montage set to Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” or whatever the hell upbeat song they chose.
She needed something like Linkin Park’s “Numb” to play while the “happy” couple slowly realized that one or the other was a selfish, dog-stealing prick.
Still scrolling through her phone, with a slight buzz from her fruity merlot, she tensed when her phone vibrated in her palm and a text message popped up.
Was this Blaire?
Was she as ignorant to Tessa’s existence as Tessa had been to hers?
Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm her jittery nerves, she opened up the message.
I knew about you. Carlyle is not ready to see you. He will be in touch. Forest is fine.
And that was it.
That. Was. It.
The bitch.
It took every ounce of self-control she had not to hurl her phone and wineglass at the wall. That would only cause her more grief. And the wine was too good to waste.
“That fucking BITCH!” she screamed out to nobody in particular.
Because she had nobody.
She was alone.
Carlyle, Blaire and Forest were all together. Probably cuddled up on Blaire’s couch while Tessa was all alone in her apartment. Just her, her wine, her serial killers and her rotting brain.
She stared at her phone and re-read the message over and over again, willing the woman on the other end to at least have the human decency to send her a picture of Forest so she knew he was okay. But nothing.
With trembling fingers and molten hot rage pumping through her veins like an angry volcano, she typed slow.
Could I at least have a photo of Forest, please. I need to know he’s okay.
She held her breath again and hit send.
Nothing.
More nothing.
She was helpless. So entirely helpless.
Despite how much she’d cried already, she still had more in the well, and another tear sprinted down the crease of her nose.
Her phone vibrated in her palm, but her eyes were too blurry to see the number.
Please let this be a photo of Forest. Please.
It wasn’t.
