by Matayo, Amy
THE AFTERMATH
For my readers.
Thank you for staying
with me.
You’re appreciated more than you know.
Copyright © 2019 by Amy Matayo
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.amymatayo.com
Cover Designer: Murphy Rae/Indie Solutions
Editor: Kristin Avila
Proofreader: Stephanne Smith
Interior Designer: Paul Salvette, BB eBooks / bbebooksthailand.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Half-Title
Dedication
Copyright Page
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Other books by Amy Matayo
About the Author
Excerpt from The Waves
THE AFTERMATH
by
Amy Matayo
CHAPTER 1
Riley Mae
“Order up, Buttercup.”
“Riley Mae, I wish you would stop talking like that. The customers will think they’re eating in a truck stop instead of a bakery. If you want to make franchising this place a thing, you need to act more like a professional and less like someone circling want ads in the back of the newspaper.” My grandmother, God rest her soul, is the queen of lectures. She’s also not dead. A good thing considering she is my only family, friend, and general person I can depend on for practically anything. Including regular lectures. The best news? I can give them back. I learned from the best.
“Two things about that,” I say, slipping a potholder off my hand. “One, have you ever eaten in a truck stop before? Best food around, so don’t knock it before you try it. Two, they don’t even make newspapers anymore. Or if they do, no one reads them.” This might not be true, but I don’t have time for technicalities. “And there’s nothing wrong with circling want ads. Lest you forget, I spent my entire senior year of high school doing exactly that.”
“It’s hard to get hired when you tell every manager in town that minimum wage is the unacceptable equivalent of child labor.”
“That might have been a bit dramatic…”
“A bit? People saw you coming and locked up for the day. Mr. O’Dell at the grocery store still brings up that time Ron’s Shake Shack closed before noon because you’d rattled the employees too badly.”
“All I asked for was a tiny bit more money than he offered.”
“You asked for thirty dollars an hour and called him a cheapskate when he said no. In front of the whole restaurant.”
Why is my past always used against me to make a point? “He deserved it. Do you know what high-schoolers make working fast food? It’s shameful.”
“They make what the rest of the country makes when they’re sixteen and have no resume. Minimum wage.”
“See? Child labor.” Point for me. “Besides, I have my own business now, so I don’t need anyone else to hire me. The American Dream in the flesh, who would have thought? Order up.”
“Living the American dream while throwing people off with that accent.” Paul, our behind-the-counter-boy with, coincidently, a great behind, grins at me as he swipes the plate off the counter and delivers it to table four. I watch him walk with a slightly guilty conscience because he’s twenty and about nine years too young for me. Not that it should matter; I’ve even caught my grandmother checking him out a time or two. But it does matter, and I’m slightly bitter about what-might-have-been if God had created me a decade past my time. It’s one of the first things I’ll ask about when I get to heaven, assuming He lets me in.
“Stop checking out my backside, boss,” Paul calls over his shoulder, and the whole restaurant laughs, mainly because they’re all checking him out too. “Anyone else would sue you for sexual harassment. You’re lucky I’m not just anyone, and that you’re practically like my mom.”
“You really know how to hurt a girl, don’t you?” I call. “I’m only twenty-nine, in case you forgot.”
He props an elbow on the counter and leans close to my face, making an effort to look smoldery and hot. It isn’t that difficult. “So you’re saying you would go out with me if I asked? You know I’m a sucker for the way you talk.”
For a second I hold his stare and think about the possibility—he’s so ridiculously good looking that GQ would wilt if he ever appeared on its cover. He’s also attentive in the way college guys with one thing on their minds are attentive, except he’s nice. So, what’s the problem? Paul is my grandmother’s best friend’s grandson, if you can keep up with that, and I’ve known him since infancy. I might have even helped change his diaper a time or two. I would find him hotter if that gross memory didn’t plague me.
So, it’s with a small sigh of longing that I pick up a clean towel and smash it in his face. Paul backs up and laughs, and I thank God once again that he agreed to work for me. Still, I have to correct something he said.
“For your information, I barely have an accent anymore. And second, no, I wouldn’t go out with you. Besides, have you already forgotten about Amanda? Any minute now she’ll walk in, and then you’ll know why I’ve been talking about her so much.”
Paul picks up the towel and tosses it on the counter, then reaches for another plate ready for table six. “If she’s so pretty, maybe you should go out with her.”
I shrug. “She’s not my type. I go more for the young, male, college-age crowd. Especially the ones with dark hair and way too much confidence.”
Paul laughs, his nearly black hair shaking with the motion, and darn it if I’m not once-again cursing the heavens at our unfortunate age difference. Nine years isn’t that unheard of, is it? Celebrities do it. Lord knows presidents do it. I sigh. Loneliness is seriously messing with my mind. If the heavens could do something like, you know, send me a sign that I won’t be alone forever, that would be great.
Instead, He sends me a customer waving a finger in the air like he needs help. I snatch an order pad off the counter and wander over to his table.
“Are you finally ready for your cupcake, James?” I ask. He’s been here nearly an hour and has only had coffee which is not unusual for him. James is the kind who has to slowly justify his sweet tooth, though he always decides that it’s permissible to have one.
“Sure am, Miss Riley. I can’t wait to see what you have for me today.”
I smile. “I had one in mind the moment you walked in the door wearing that red flannel shirt. Don’t you know it’s still hot outside, James? And today it’s especially muggy. You need to retire that shirt so you don’t die of a heat stroke. Hang on a second, and I’ll get the one I picked out for you. Want more coffee too?”
“Of course. It’d be a sin to have dessert without coffee.”
“Basically like breaking the eleventh comma
ndment. There aren’t enough Hail Marys in the world to redeem you from that.”
James looks up at me and laughs, and I walk away to get his cupcake.
I do a thing here. It’s something the customers have grown to expect. It’s like my own little novelty, though, for the life of me I can’t remember how it started. A couple years ago, I think? Maybe Paul’s first day of work when he showed up ten minutes late, and I made a production in front of everyone, quickly scratching a clock out of a nearby bag of black icing on a white cupcake and handing it to him. This says nine o’clock. Maybe now you’ll show up on time tomorrow. The customers laughed, and they’ve been requesting their own cupcakes since.
Make one for me, Miss Riley.
Make me one, Riley Mae.
It’s a mantra of sorts, so I do.
I make cupcakes designed around people’s personalities: good moods, bad moods, loud clothing, crass jokers. None of that matters to anyone, because when I hand them a cupcake that represents whatever I sense in them that day, they laugh. It’s hard to stay down when your dessert becomes your shrink. Cupcakes make everyone happy, even ones decorated with butcher knives, blood, and tears. Just ask James. He came in frazzled and sweaty—partly due to that dang shirt. This will get him in a better mood.
I set a naked, showering, and soaped up Santa in front of him and wait for his reaction.
He blinks at it and narrows his eyes. “Christmas, Miss Riley? In September?
“You look like Santa in that shirt. Lumberjack Santa building his toys.”
“Why’s he taking a shower?”
“Because he’s sweaty and stinky, that’s why.”
“Are you saying I smell bad?”
“Never.” James has gray hair and a short gray beard. He would, in fact, look exactly like Santa if he grew it longer and wore a red sweater. I drop my voice to a whisper. “But if you must know, I have a little crush on the jolly guy. Don’t tell anyone.”
I wink, and he blushes, doing his best to hide a smile. See? Cupcakes change moods for the better. James is still sweating, but I suspect now it’s for an entirely different reason.
Paul walks by with another plate and sets one down at a table by the front window, so I raise my voice to an unnatural volume.
“Especially don’t tell Paul. I wouldn’t want him thinking he has any competition.”
Paul glances up at me and raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell Paul what?”
I shrug. “About my crush on James—I mean, Santa Claus. Oops, I guess the secret’s out.” I blow James a kiss and walk away to the sound of both men laughing.
“She’s a mess,” I hear Paul say, and I smile when James agrees with him. It’s what I love about owning a bakery, maybe even more than the baking itself. The camaraderie. The friendly banter and lightening of spirits. The sense of family ushered in with familiar faces that show up day in and day out. I’m comfortable here; more than comfortable. I belong. I have a home. It’s been a long time coming for a girl who spent years hoping and praying just to feel included. Loss and abandonment will do that to a girl, even when she has a grandmother who cared enough to stick around through the hard parts. She’s been there for me in ways no one else has, but it’s sometimes easier to focus on the ways we’re slighted.
I’m almost to the kitchen when out of nowhere, lightning strikes loud and unexpected. Startled, I clutch my chest and turn around. What in the world? An elderly customer dropped a fork, everyone else is momentarily frozen and staring out the window. The air is still, but nothing looks particularly out of the ordinary. I rush to retrieve another fork. That little bit of activity snaps everyone out of their trance, and the shop is buzzing with noise again.
“Here you go,” I say, placing the fork next to her half-eaten cupcake, a strawberry one frosted white and laced with pearls. I look out the window and swallow, breathing slowly to calm my heartbeat. Old memories are impossible to shake, particularly ones that change your life. “Is it supposed to storm?”
“The news called for a thirty percent chance of rain today…” the woman mutters, looking out the window. “Well, would you look at that. Looks like more than thirty.”
The sky that was bright and sunny only seconds ago has suddenly turned an odd shade of grayish-green. The air has taken on an almost medicinal hue, like sulfur has settled inside the molecules and decided to hang on for a ride. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon but it looks dark enough to be near sunset. I stare another moment, then shrug and return to the counter. Customers are still waiting, and my staring out the window won’t get anyone fed. I reach for a bowl of sugar packets for table seven just as a low rumble makes its way across the roof. An overhead light begins to sway back and forth.
“Ow!” my grandmother says.
“Be careful,” I call over my shoulder, then set the platter down in front of a family of four. A mom, a dad, and two little girls wearing French braids, one child older than the other. It’s the best part about Saturday afternoons; the way families come out to eat, children filling up the tiny bakery with laughter and mischief. Two crayons are on the floor, along with a half-eaten waffle. How that fell is anyone’s guess.
Glancing up, I see that it’s bright and sunny again. This weather is weird. Paul is still standing by the window, engaged in what seems like a serious conversation with a first-timer. The storm must have been nothing more than a passing cloud, thank goodness. Bad weather tends to chase away customers.
I refill another coffee and walk back to the kitchen to check on my grandmother. She’s leaning against the sink with a wet cloth pressed to her wrist.
“You okay? What happened?”
“Oh, the light flickered back here, and I burned myself trying to get the cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”
I frown at the red skin peeking out from under the towel. “That lightning strike was loud. I’m glad the lights didn’t stay off.” I wave a finger in the air, and she relinquishes her wrist. This isn’t the first time my grandmother has hurt herself at work; she knows the drill. When I pull the cloth off, it’s worse than I imagined. “Did you hold your wrist to the coils just to see how much pain you could take? You really burned it.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. It took a minute for the light to come on, and I got confused for a second. Instead of jerking my arm back, I went up and accidentally pressed it against the heat.”
The image rolls my stomach. “Stay here. I’ve got a first aid kit in the office, and I’ll doctor it right up.” I flip on the light in the small make-shift office and rummage through the metal desk drawers for bandages and ointment. I bought the desk at a re-sale shop two years ago and never oiled the hinges like I intended to. Consequently, the drawers squeak loudly every time they open and close. Imagine chewing tin foil during a particularly grueling toothache. That’s what it sounds like.
“Are you ever going to oil that desk?” my grandmother calls. “It makes my chest hurt every time I hear it.” It’s the same conversation every single time, and she already knows the answer. Yes. No. Probably. Maybe.
“Yes, when I remember to buy WD-40, which we both know I’ll never do. Keep up with my personality, grandma.”
She laughs, and I’m relieved. At least the pain hasn’t cut her sense of humor. I lean in close and pull back the cloth to carefully examine her wrist. It’s disgusting. I used to think about becoming a nurse, but it’s a good thing I didn’t. Burns and splinters give me full-body chills, and right now is no exception. At least three layers of skin are burned though, maybe even four. I squeeze antibiotic ointment onto a bandage and smear it around with my finger, then secure it to her wrist, making sure the burn is completely covered. Burns are more common than you might think around here; the last thing anyone needs is an infection.
“Maybe you could get Paul to do it. You know, if you promise to go out with him or something. If nothing else, it would give him a reason to buy oil.”
I raise an eyebrow because surely she didn’t mean…
<
br /> She did. Her wicked grin practically screams it. “Gross, grandma. I don’t need Paul to take me out or something, and I definitely don’t need him to oil my…desk. So, get your mind out of the gutter.”
I twist the cap back on the tube of medicine a little too roughly. “Do I have to remind you he’s a child? And my employee?”
“He might be younger than you, but he’s hardly a kid. He’d go out with you in a heartbeat if you’d show him some interest.”
“He’s Julia’s grandson! She would kill me, or is that part of your master plan?”
At this, she laughs again, finding way too much delight in my impending demise. Sometimes I wonder what life is like for ordinary people, ones whose grandmothers aren’t so invested in their love lives. Shouldn’t she have taken up knitting by now? Joined a bridge-playing group? Maybe you don’t do that sort of thing when you’ve never mentally matured past age seventeen. More likely, you don’t do that sort of thing when you’re left with the task of raising a granddaughter as your own child. She didn’t ask for that task, but she stepped up all the same.
She pokes me on the arm. “Oh, lighten up. I guess it is a little weird when you put it that way. Fine, you don’t have to date Paul. But could you at least date someone before I die and never get to see you happy?”
There are so many things I could say to this, but I swallow them all and simply say, “I am happy. I don’t need a man for that.”
“I wish someone had told me that when I was younger. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.” She means it as a joke, but I hear the deep regret buried in her words. Her good hand reaches out to stroke my hair in a rare display of seriousness. “Pink. I’m still not used to it, but I have to admit the color looks good on you.”
I smile at the unexpected compliment. “It’s temporary and will probably fade fast, but thank you. I’m glad I finally did it. Took me a while to get brave enough.” I’ve studied every shade of unnaturally-colored hair for months now, desperate to branch out and try something different. Life can get monotonous in a small town for a girl who’s married to her job. This place doesn’t offer much in the way of excitement or social life, not now or in the two decades since I showed up. It came down to skateboarding in Nathanael Greene Park or dyeing my hair a weird color.