“Where are you?” I say, my gaze darting left and right.
The torches remain unlit, but there’s enough light pollution even on this stormy night for me to peer down the beach and see a pacing silhouette some hundred yards away.
It’s Ryan. He’s safe.
I sigh with relief, even as I hitch my dress back up and take to the beach. I run to him, my feet sinking in the deep, cold sand. Beyond us, less than a mile out, the thunderhead rolls in, dark and ominous, the clouds rumbling like the deep belly of a hungry beast.
Ryan stands at the surf’s edge in his tuxedo, the water lapping inches from his feet. His phone light glows in the darkness like a beacon, drawing me to him. He holds it up over a clutch of papers in his hand, reading them.
My heart sinks. This is what brought him out here, whatever Troy gave him. “Ryan,” I call, needing him to see me.
He spins around, his face cast in darkness by the bright light of his phone. “Don’t come any closer!”
I stop on instinct. He’s still a good fifteen yards away. “What are you doing out here?”
“Tess, go back,” he shouts. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Ryan—what happened? What did Troy say to you? What did he do?”
“I think he served me a restraining order,” he calls.
My heart drops. “What?”
“I think it’s for you. Tess, please don’t come any closer. I can’t—I don’t know what this is,” he says, his tone anguished.
I try to catch my breath, taking a step closer. “Well, what does it say?”
“I just said I don’t fucking know. I’m not a lawyer!”
“If it’s a restraining order for me, I don’t even think that’s legal. What does it say?”
“I just said I don’t fucking know,” he shouts, his phone glowing over the papers again.
“Well, am I listed as the plaintiff? Are you the defendant?”
“I don’t—where would it say that?”
“At the top,” I reply, taking another step closer. “Babe, it’s the first thing. The top usually lists the court and the district and the case number, along with the plaintiff and defendant.”
He looks down at the document again. “Okay…so if my name is on the second line, what does that mean?”
I grab my side, holding the stitch as I catch my breath. “Bottom line is usually for the defendant. Does it say ‘defendant’？ If it’s a TRO application, it might say ‘applicant’ and then list my name, which would mean Troy is doing all kinds of illegal shit. He can’t just fill out a TRO on my behalf. But this isn’t my area of law,” I admit. “I’m only going off what I saw in law school and courtroom dramas.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” he says, shining his phone light on it again.
Watching him struggle, a niggling awareness eats at me. “Ryan…do you mean you can’t understand it…or you can’t read it?”
“Don’t fucking patronize me,” he shouts, his hackles raised. He’s in defense mode. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s unraveling at the seams.
I take another step closer. Then another. We’re within ten feet of each other now, and I can see his features clearly—the stress, the worry.
“I told you to stay back,” he says, but the fight is leaving him. He craves my closeness as much as I crave his.
I have to know. I have to ask.
“Ryan…baby, can you read?”
“Of course, I can fucking read. I’m not an idiot, Tess.”
“Okay…then read it out to me. Read the first line. Just the first one.”
He groans, looking around hopelessly before he flashes the camera light over at me. “Is…do you spell your name T-E-R-E-S-A?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Yes, that’s Teresa.”
His eyes narrow at me. “Teresa?”
“That’s my name, Ryan. My legal name is Teresa. Is that the first name listed?”
“Yeah.”
Oh, shit. Troy, what the hell did you do?
“And…do you see R-Y-A-N—”
“I know how to spell my own name.”
“Okay,” I say, as gently as possible.
“But this font is—fuck, he did it on purpose. He made the font so fucking small. He shrunk it down so I can’t read it. The letters—they all blur together.” He looks down at the page again. Then he looks back up at me, his expression anguished. “If I have time, if—I just need to take some time, and I can usually work it out, you know?”