The Edge of Almost

An hour later, I emerge from my study, rubbing the tension from my temples as a dull headache forms—another gift from the endless parade of case files back at the office. Such is the life of a prosecutor: deadlines, politics, and the ever-growing mountain of paperwork.

Descending the stairs, I expect to find Tessa in the living room or kitchen. Instead, I'm greeted by empty spaces, no sign of her. A prickle of unease settles at the back of my neck.

"Tessa?" I call out, scanning the area. Silence.

A flicker of anger surges through me—hot and immediate. Did she really bail, just hours after showing up? After everything I said? After all that Lauren needs?

My jaw tightens as I stride toward the front door, ready to chase her down if I have to. But before I can reach it, a faint rustle filters through the quiet house—a sound coming from the backyard. I pause, the anger cooling into something harder. Curiosity, maybe. Frustration, definitely. 

Changing course, I head toward the sliding glass doors leading to the patio. What I see stops me short.

Tessa is on her knees in the garden, her jeans smeared with dirt, hands tangled in the mess of weeds clinging stubbornly to the ground. Her hair's a wild halo in the fading evening light, and she mutters something under her breath, tugging furiously at a clump of green.

"Come on, you bastard," she grits out.

The roots give with a snap, and Tessa tumbles backward onto the grass with a muffled "Oof!"

For a moment, she just lies there, panting and staring up at the darkening sky. I think she might laugh, but then she catches sight of me. Her whole body stiffens.

"Uh, hey," she stammers, scrambling to her feet and brushing herself off like she wasn't just wrestling a garden into submission. "Just, uh, doing some weeding. Thought it might cheer Lauren up to see the garden looking nice again."

I don't say anything, just watch her as she fidgets under my gaze. Dirt smudges her face; her hair's a mess; her cheeks are flushed from exertion—or embarrassment.

She clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Is that okay? I mean, I can stop if you want. I just thought, y'know... it couldn't hurt."

I can't look away. She's clearly out of her element, floundering for approval, but there's something oddly... sincere about it.

The garden has been neglected for months, a casualty of all the hospital visits and treatments. Watching Lauren retreat from something she once loved has been brutal—just another reminder of everything cancer has stolen from her.

And now here's Tessa, kneeling in the dirt, trying to bring some semblance of life back to what's been lost. I don't know whether to be annoyed or... grateful.

"It's fine," I say finally, more gruffly than I intended. "Just... don't overdo it. And wash up before coming inside."

Her expression is impossible to read—relief? Frustration? Maybe both. Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and head back inside. I need a drink—something strong enough to dull the edges of this oddly emotional day.

In the kitchen, the amber liquid of whiskey burns as I down half a glass in one go. It steadies me, grounding me in something tangible, something I can control.

A faint tinkling sound breaks my thoughts, Lauren's bell—I know it well. She's awake.

Setting down the glass, I head upstairs, steeling myself for the conversation ahead.
When I enter Lauren's room, she's sitting propped up against her pillows, a worn paperback resting on her lap. Despite the fatigue clinging to her like a shadow, she's beautiful.

"Hey, beautiful," I murmur, leaning down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

Lauren smiles weakly. "Hey yourself. How was your day?"

"Same old," I say, settling beside her. "Paperwork and politics."

She squeezes my hand—a small, fragile gesture that still manages to ground me. "And Tessa? Did she arrive?"

"She's here," I say simply, fighting the urge to spill my frustrations.

Lauren's expression softens, though her eyes search mine. "And? How did it go?"

I hesitate. Lauren has a way of cutting through truth with her gaze, and I can't hide what she'll already see.

"She looks... determined," I say carefully, choosing my words. "Healthy enough, seems like. But it's early—too early to tell how committed she is."

Lauren sighs, leaning her head back. "She's trying," she says quietly, as though willing me to agree. "Please give her a chance, Adrian."

"I will," I promise, and this time, I mean it. Whatever lingering frustration I have, Lauren's hope—fragile though it may be—is enough to keep pushing me.

Her eyelids flutter, drowsiness quietly stealing her away.

"Do you want me to call her up?" I ask gently.

Lauren nods. "Yes. It's time."

Downstairs, I find Tessa in the kitchen, still stained with dirt but determinedly scrubbing her hands at the sink. Her head snaps up when she spots me, the guardedness returning instantly.

"Lauren's awake," I tell her. "She wants to see you."

I watch as a flicker of panic flashes across her face before she schools her features into determination. She nods, drying her hands.

"Be right up," she says, her voice quieter than usual.

Sometimes first steps are the hardest to take.