A gentle hand reached out. "Clarity?"
I pried one eye open to look at him. Ford was hesitant, leaning over the coffee table, but he brushed his hand up from my arm to my shoulder. This time I did not flinch or pull away. I felt like any movement might cause me to fall over into a deep abyss.
Ford must have felt it too because he cleared his throat. "Clarity, you don't have to rethink your whole life. Everything will work out the way it's supposed to," he said. He came around the table and cupped my cheek in his hand. "You're taking too much of this on yourself. Your father didn't want you burdened with any of this and everyone would understand if you took a step back from it. Your life is allowed to go on."
He dropped his hand as I met his gaze. Ford's movements were jerky, as if he were unsure of every millimeter he moved. Then I saw his eyes. Ford's stormy-blue eyes were deep with concern, but his face was rounded in an expression of restraint. He wanted to comfort me but knew I might think his physical touch inappropriate.
I glanced around the empty, Spartan apartment, then threw myself into his arms. "I just feel like everything has changed," my voice wavered as I pressed my cheek to his strong chest.
Ford's arms closed around me. One hand trailed up from my waist to smooth down my hair and the repetitive motion lulled me to peace. "I know how you feel," Ford confessed. "When I had to leave Wire Communications, I felt like my whole life had been stopped and rerouted."
I nestled closer in his arms but couldn't help my question, "why did you have to leave?"
"I found out a truth that no one wanted revealed. When I threatened to publish it anyway, I was discredited." Ford gave a self-deprecating laugh. "By the time they were done making their point, it was a definite rout."
I leaned back and look up at Ford. "That's what I don't understand. You keep talking about retreating and playing it safe, but nothing about you personally tells me you would do that? Why? Why did you give up in your fight?"
He traced a finger down my arm and then clasped his arms around my waist again, not ready to release me from the hug. "I tried at first, but there was no way around it."
"Couldn't you have pushed the story to light some other way? Did you consider taking it to a rival media outlet?" I asked. My ideas made me step back, anxious to see if there was a way out of the situation that Ford had not noticed.
He hesitated to squash my hope. "The competitors weren't interested; it showed I would bite the hand that feeds me. My only choices were to bow out or get sued for more than I will ever have in eight lifetimes."
"Then a good attorney would have noticed the discrepancies and looked for another motive," I said.
Ford stood back and laughed. He chuckled all the way across his small living room to lean against the kitchen island.
"What's so funny? I'm trying to help," I snapped.
"I know, I know," Ford held up both hands. "It's just I wish you would realize the complete about-face you've had in the last few minutes."
My mind ran in a panic over why I had let Ford hold me. "I, I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"A minute ago you were saying how you hate messy motives and you just wished people would stick to the facts. And now you're telling me a lawyer could have built a case for me based solely on motives." Ford chuckled again. "See? You are going to make a great journalist yet."
He meant it as a compliment, I could tell by his easy smile, but my shoulders were stiff with indignation. Ford was laughing at me again like I was some kind of entertaining child. I wondered if he laughed about his students with his other professor friends.
"You keep saying I'd make a great journalist," I said. "Why don't we test out your theory?" I started to circle Ford's apartment. "There might not be a lot of stuff here, but I think that means there's a story here instead."
Ford straightened up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I already told you more about my story than I should have said. It all boils down to the fact that I am a boring college professor with very bad interior design instincts," he said.
It was my turn to laugh, but a thought struck me. "You live like you don't make any money, but you are a college professor. I know you have a decent salary, so the money must all be going somewhere."
"Gambling," Ford muttered.
"I don't believe that for a second," I said. I glanced at the secondhand dresser Ford used as a combination entryway table and television console. "I'd think you are saving all your money for something big, except you have no motivation. No pictures of fancy sailboats or brochures for fancy vacations."
"Guys don't really make vision boards," he grumbled.
I turned and crossed my arms in triumph. "I think you're sending all the money to your family. The only family you mentioned at Thanksgiving was your sister, so you must be helping to support her."
Ford's stormy eyes flew to a framed photograph on an otherwise bare shelf. "So what if I send a little money my sister's way? That doesn't really tell you much about me. Lots of people feel beholden to the bonds of family," Ford said. "Like you."
I scowled at the reminder of my father's situation. It was much easier to focus on Ford. "Oh," I said as I did the math in my head. "You were forced out of Wire Communications right when your sister was considering medical schools. That's why you didn't put up a big fight. That's why you settled for the job at Landsman College. You wanted to make sure that your sister got to go to the medical school of her choice without having to worry about money."
Ford paced into the kitchen and then back to the living room. "I get that people like to figure me out like a puzzle, but it's really not all that interesting," he snapped. "I did what any other person would do for a family member. I did exactly what you are thinking about doing for your father."
"What? Lying low? Just taking the hit and crawling away?" I asked. "I'm thinking about exposing the people that are trying to trick my father into helping them. I'm thinking that no matter what the consequences are, I want the truth to be known and I want to be the one to tell it." The volume of my voice dropped away when I saw the angry set of Ford's jaw.
"I took the hit so my sister wouldn't have to," Ford bit out. "For the same reason that you are not already running all over campus raving about donor corruption. You don't want to do more harm than good. You're hesitating because you are just like me and, no matter what, you want to make sure you do what is best for the people you love."
I sank back down on the edge of the sofa. "I just don't want to make things worse. I'm not going to give up, though."
Ford sat down on the coffee table directly in front of me. "The best thing you can do is continue on your life just like you were before. Don't give Michael Tailor a reason to target you or squeeze your father anymore," he said.
I held my breath and looked at Ford. It was amazing how in a few short months, he had become entangled in my small family. I trusted him with thoughts I had not yet voiced even to myself.
"There's nothing else they can do to my father," I said. "Actually, losing his position at Landsman might be the best thing for him. You know how much he goes on and on about painting. Surely Michael Tailor is not going to be able to stop him from retiring and taking painting lessons."