“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?”
I just nod. “I know, baby.”
He shakes the papers in the air. “But that fucking monster knew! He served me this and told me I’ll go to fucking jail over it, and I couldn’t even argue with him because he knows I can’t—” His words stop as he drops the papers to his side. Looking out at the dark surf, he just shakes his head, battered and helpless.
Weeks of missed clues suddenly align themselves in my mind, and I feel like the biggest fool. How did I not see it? How did he hide it from me so well? At the same time, my hatred for Troy grows exponentially. Somehow, he dug deep enough into Ryan’s private life to learn this about him, and then he found a way to weaponize it. It’s truly the most base, demeaning form of cruelty. I could kill him for it.
And it makes me love Ryan even more. He’s strong. He copes. More than that, he thrives. My sweet beach puppy, my valiant protector. God, he’s just mine. I need to bring him back to me.
“Ryan, honey, are you dyslexic?”
His gaze darts to me and he glares, his walls firmly up. For once in our relationship, he’s the one feeling backed into a corner.
“It’s okay if you are,” I say. “And I’m not angry at you for hiding it from me. I just need to know.” I point to the documents in his hand. “If Troy gave you that, we need to be able to read it, so we know what we’re dealing with, okay? So…are you?”
Slowly, Ryan nods. “Yeah.”
“How bad is it?”
“Severe,” he admits. “I have dyslexia and dysgraphia. Most days it’s so bad I can hardly read anything. My spelling is worse. It’s…fuck, it’s exhausting. And embarrassing,” he adds.
I close the space between us, looking up at my handsome hockey boy. The knot of his tie is loosened, the top button undone. His hair is no longer slicked back behind his ears. In his anxiety, he’s been fiddling with it. And now the wind from the coming storm whips some of the loose blond strands across his brow.
In his body, I see the man, powerful and strong. Millionaire NHL hotshot Ryan Langley, star forward of the Jacksonville Rays. But in his pretty green eyes I see the boy, lost and embarrassed and coping in a world that has been unkind.
“The oven,” I whisper. “Bake and broil. You—”
“The font on those dials is always so damn small,” he says. “And I was in a rush and the words look the same. That’s why I don’t cook. I can never follow the stupid instructions. I always mess it up. I mess everything up.”
I nod, more pieces clicking into place. “And the voice memos?”
“Easier than texting.”
“Your contracts…your finances…”
He just shrugs. “Why do it wrong when I can just pay to have someone do it right? MK knows. He’s cool about it. He always breaks things down to make sure I understand.”
“And the beach? The release form?” I remember he made a joke of turning away, like he was hiding his answers so I didn’t cheat.
“I had Joey fill it out when you walked away,” he admits. “I said I hit my hand on a weight machine at the gym. He didn’t ask questions.”
Is it odd to say that I’m impressed? His skill at coping is off the charts. “I didn’t see it,” I admit. “Ryan, I didn’t know.”
“That’s kind of the point,” he replies. “I don’t want people knowing this about me, Tess. I don’t want them judging me or pitying me or calling me stupid. I’m not stupid, I—" He groans, glancing my way. “I really didn’t want you to know.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to give you one more reason to think I’m no good for you,” he admits.
My heart stops. “Oh…Ryan—”
“You know it’s true,” he snaps, glaring at me. “Tess, you’re so fucking smart. You’re a lawyer and you run nonprofits.” He shakes his head. “I just play hockey—”
“Don’t,” I say, stepping forward and grabbing his wrist. “Don’t say that. There is nothing wrong with you, Ryan. I would never say that. I would never even think it. And you don’t have to carry this alone,” I add. “You don’t have to hide or be ashamed or think people would actually choose not to be with you over having a learning difference.”
“I’ve been hiding it for so long,” he say, the pain evident in his voice. “I’m so fucking tired. This shit is hard enough for me to deal with every day without other people piling on.”
“And Troy piled on, didn’t he?”
“He’s a fucking asshole.” He says the words, and I know they’re meant to imply his indifference, but I can see it in his eyes: Ryan is anything but indifferent to the insults Troy flung his way.
“What did he say to you?” I ask, squeezing his wrist.
But Ryan pulls away.
“Ryan—”