The Aftermath

by Matayo, Amy

  My spirit dies a bit. Optimism can only get you so far before reality slips back in. As for Bella, she only blinks.

  “Here you go,” I say, forcing excitement into my tone. I hand her a foam to-go container with two cupcakes tucked inside—one decorated with a unicorn and the other with Barney the purple dinosaur. It seemed fitting, given the night we’ve had. “Don’t eat them all at once. You don’t want to get sick. And we’ll come see you tomorrow.” After one last hug, I let her go.

  My throat squeezes at the sight of her small form being carried out of the store in the arms of one of two imposing, uniformed men. Some things in life you shouldn’t have to witness. Death. The aftermath of catastrophe. An innocent little girl on the brink of a drastically devastating life change. Those things can break your heart if you let them.

  I should know. Mine broke a long time ago and never glued itself back together.

  I’m cleaning ice cream residue off the counters and secretly observing Chad as he sweeps broken glass away from the corners of the room. The wind is barely blowing now, making the chore easier than it was this morning, considering the still-broken picture window. I need to get some plastic to keep the elements out, but that requires shopping, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.

  That’s when it hits me.

  “You look like Ed Sheeran.” I blurt out the words before I can stop them. He does, except he’s leaner and taller with stubble and darker, more auburn-colored hair. Not in his overall appearance, mainly around the eyes and mouth. This is not a bad thing. I cried buckets of tears the first time I heard Photograph, though if anyone asked, I would flat-out deny it. If Chad starts singing anytime soon, I would also fall flat-out in love. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Only every third person since Photograph came out. It was worse before I lost weight. Now I only hear it once every few days.”

  “How much weight did you lose?” Too late, I wonder if the question is too personal. He’s trim, built like a man who has nothing to lose and everything to gain if you know what I mean.

  “Fifteen pounds, all in the last couple of months.”

  I don’t respond, because saying you look fantastic seems as wildly inappropriate as my current thoughts. I switch gears.

  “How many kids do you have?” Also inappropriate, but seeing Chad as a dad helps to put me back in check. You can’t be attracted to a dad, right? It’s wrong, somehow.

  Chad sweeps more glass into an existing pile and begins to work on another corner. He didn’t have to stay, but he offered and I didn’t turn him down. Help is currently hard to come by, and there’s that whole thing about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

  “I don’t have kids,” he says.

  This surprises me. He seemed like an expert earlier. “Nieces or nephews?”

  He bends to brush a pile into a dustpan. “Nope. But my brother is getting married soon, so maybe someday.”

  “Are you a teacher?”

  “Nope. Insurance adjuster.”

  Red flags go up. No wonder. “Is that why you came to my store tonight, to see if I needed help with insurance? Because I already have an agent.”

  He shakes out the pan into a garbage bag and walks back toward the wall for more. Sweeping broken glass is tedious work; there are still flecks of glass glimmering all over the room.

  “No, I came in for coffee, not to sell you anything. My plane landed a few hours ago, and my hotel is across the street. Coffee and a shower, that’s what I had on my agenda for this evening. I certainly didn’t expect to get pulled into a drama that I won’t be able to climb out of.”

  Positive assumptions aren’t my strong point. A history with bad eggs doesn’t make all of them rotten. It’s a lesson my grandmother taught me, and the one I forget most often. I wouldn’t blame Chad if he tossed the broom down and walked out, but he keeps sweeping. He’s just helping a stranger, and it’s not the first time tonight. I’m guilty from my forehead pores to my toenails and let me tell you that is not a good feeling.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough week, but I should know not to assume things about people.”

  “You’re forgiven.” He stops sweeping and props an arm on the broom. In his dress pants and fitted shirt, he looks a little bit like a musician resting against a microphone stand. Of course he does. “But do you think she’ll be okay?”

  His genuine concern fills me with a fondness that shouldn’t be there. It’s a rare emotion for someone I’ve just met.

  “Honestly, no. Not if you’re asking how I think things will end for her as far as her parents are concerned. But ultimately she’ll be okay. I can attest—” I stop talking, unwilling to go all Dr. Phil on him. There’s a time and place for unloading history on someone, and I like to keep that place confined to my counselor’s sofa every Thursday afternoon at three o’clock.

  Chad studies me. “Speaking from personal experience?”

  I focus on the counter. It’s almost clean except for a line of cupcake crumbs piled next to the coffee maker, and those crumbs are suddenly the most important thing in the room. It’s silent for a few moments, mainly because I can’t think of anything to say. My past life isn’t something I want to discuss, not now and possibly not ever. I think of something and blurt it out.

  “Do you still want coffee? Because I can make some. As for the shower, you’re on your own.”

  He laughs and runs a hand through his hair while I wonder what in the world possessed me to say that last part. My face is on fire, but I’m praying he’s standing too far away to notice.

  “Changing the subject, I see. Yes, I still want coffee. And for the record, that’s too bad about the shower.”

  I turn away and blindly search for coffee, too mortified to notice anything but my hot skin. The images running through my mind are illegal in twenty-six states. I mentally search for something…dear God anything…to bring me back in control. I lose it so often that I’m surprised I manage to run my own business.

  “Yes, I’m changing the subject. Here’s a new one: how is it that someone with no kids can be so good with them? You sure you don’t have one or two tucked away somewhere?”

  He props the broom next to the counter and slides onto a barstool to face me while resting his elbows on the bar and exposing corded forearm muscles, I wasn’t aware he possessed. At first glance, Chad What’s His Name seemed a little unassuming and nerdy. Upon further inspection—with the well-defined arms and a soft spot for forlorn kids—he’s nerdy in the way Matt Damon is nerdy. Like oops, my first impressions suck.

  “I am positive there are no kids in the picture. I’m pretty sure there aren’t even any pissed-off ex-girlfriends, though I can’t be entirely sure.” He shifts in his seat and reaches for a packet of sugar, fiddling nervously with it while he waits for the coffee to brew.

  “Well, lucky you. Some of us aren’t that fortunate.”

  He smiles. “Breaking hearts across the Midwest, are you?”

  “Only one or two. Maybe three tops.”

  “Let me guess. They like blue hair but you went for pink?”

  I force my face into a scowl. “What is it with you and my hair? Do you really hate the color?”

  He shrugs unapologetically. “In the past, yes. Now, not so much. It somehow looks okay on you.”

  “Wow, what a touching compliment.” I should be offended by this, but I’m oddly not. It isn’t often that a guy tells you you’re the exception to something he normally finds repulsive. It seems only one step down from declaring undying love and devotion. Ridiculous maybe, but no one ever accused me of being sensible. I have the hair—and a tattoo across my rib cage that Chad will never know about—to prove it. The ink says “tomorrow is another day.” It’s my private motto for living: mine and Scarlet O’Hara’s.

  I pour coffee into a mug and slide it toward him. “So are you going to see Bella tomorrow, or was that just something you said to make her feel better?”

/>   Without answering, he picks up his phone, opens a message, and slides it across the counter to me. I pick it up and read the screen.

  “What is this?”

  “The name and number of one of the officers here tonight. I’m supposed to call him first thing in the morning, and he’ll give us whatever information he can.” He takes a long sip of coffee, unfazed by the heat. “Yes, if there’s a chance to see her, I will. I don’t do many things well, but I do keep my promises.”

  Something in my chest snags at the way he describes himself. The way he treated Bella, I have a feeling he does a lot of things well but doesn’t see it in himself. But a man who keeps his promises is worth all the world’s riches times five. I read that quote on Pinterest. I could have written it myself.

  “If you go to the police station, I’d like to come with you.”

  He takes a sip of coffee and talks over the rim. “I’ll pick you up at ten.”

  I smile, working not to let it grow too big and betray my excitement. Not to worry. My phone chooses that moment to light up, and I gasp at a message from my grandmother’s nurse.

  She’s awake.

  “Something wrong?”

  I rush to grab my keys, my purse, turn off the coffee pot and the light in the kitchen.

  “Nothing, I just need to leave.”

  I’m at the front door when I realize Chad is still sitting at the counter, watching me. Running out on him seems rude, but staying here with him will get me disowned. As much as I hate being inhospitable, the thought of my grandmother being awake and alone makes me nervous.

  “Can you lock up? There’s a key in the blue jar behind the register.”

  Chad startles, staring at me like I’ve grown two heads. Maybe I have.

  “You want me to lock up? There’s a giant hole in your window. You think a locked door will keep people out?”

  I sigh because he’s right. “Okay, forget locking it. I haven’t had time to cover the window yet. All my things will probably be gone tomorrow anyway. Just take the mug with you and bring it back in the morning.”

  “Okay. But did you at least remember to empty the register of money? I’d hate to be tempted to rob the place. It might be difficult because I could really go for a steak dinner and a few glasses of wine right now.”

  I plunk a hand on my hip. “Rob me, and I’ll murder you when you aren’t looking.” When he smiles, my night brightens a bit. “Thanks for everything. See you in the morning.”

  I step through the broken window and run toward my car, my bad decision-making trailing behind me like Peter Pan’s shadow. A broken window or not, I don’t normally trust people that easily. But nothing is normal right now, and I don’t have time to second-guess myself.

  My grandmother is awake. Life doesn’t look quite as bleak anymore.

  CHAPTER 8

  Chad

  Given the fact that I woke up yesterday wanting only to fly to Springfield and volunteer my services the same way I’ve done multiple times in the past fifteen years, my confusion shouldn’t baffle me. But it does. How did I go from being a matter-of-fact, suit and tie wearing insurance dude to facing an impending date with a pink-haired chick I met at a bakery?

  Okay, maybe date’s a stretch. But that’s the word I used when describing it to Liam. I have a date with a girl I met downtown. The word sounded better than appointment. Since I’ve spent so much time inwardly brooding about my brother’s fiancée, Dillon, date seemed like a good word to use.

  So, date it is.

  I never even told him about Bella. He would pepper me with questions, and I have no answers to give.

  I stand in the lobby of my hotel, staring across the street at Riley’s little bakery. The pink sign above the picture window reads “Mae-ke Me A Cake” in swirly letters with white and yellow polka dots scattered on both sides. Cute and appropriate, despite the sign being off-kilter and peppered with broken bulbs. The bakery lights are on, and she works behind the counter, though it’s hard to see her clearly through the heavy plastic I used to cover the window after she left last night. I’m not sure I taped it right. There’s a small hole in the top corner, and I could have straightened it better. But it was dark, I was tired, and wanted to help. Riley has a long list of repairs facing her, none of which will matter if another storm hits and floods her store with water.

  It’s raining again now. The plastic seems to be keeping it out so far, though it’s seriously hampering with my spying skills. My view of Riley is relegated to what I can see through the mud-and-dust-covered glass front door, but that doesn’t make it less interesting.

  Surprisingly, she isn’t cleaning. She’s serving. From here, I can see an elderly man sitting at the bar and a young college-age female sitting a few feet away from him reading a book. Both dine on something I can’t quite make out, and while they eat, Riley Mae refills their water glasses. It all looks oddly normal in this upturned and shaken downtown—one dotted with the homeless, displaced, and wounded. Just outside the door, two people sit and stare as passersby walk around them. Search equipment, bulldozers, trained dogs, and random workers mill around everywhere. I’ve never been to Springfield before now, but even I know that everything has changed.

  Riley’s bakery is pleasantly unexpected amid the chaos.

  Admittedly, I’m curious.

  Her store was supposed to be closed, so who is she serving this morning?

  Unsure of what to say after yesterday, I walk through the revolving hotel doors and make my way across the street. I could use some coffee, and it’s a convenient excuse to see her. I’ll work the rest out as I go. My steps falter when I remember her mug still sitting in my hotel bedroom, but I decide to leave it. I’ll give it to her tomorrow.

  The excuses to see her are pleasantly piling up.

  A piece of paper blowing in the middle of the street hits my leg as I walk over a pile of broken bricks. Looking up, I notice the storefronts initially appear picturesque, like a scene from small-town Americana that Hollywood might converge on for a period drama. It isn’t until you look closer that you see corners of buildings chipped away, doorways broken, one entire store crumbled into nothing. Moving figures and prone bodies line the sidewalks—a mixture of those trying to help and others displaced and possibly homeless. Sirens sound right along with alarms—warnings, reverse signals, horns honking against the difficult task of simply trying to navigate the streets. A FEMA truck drives down the street, likely delivering supplies to food stations set up down the block. Last night the lines were astronomical. After I taped up the last bit of plastic, I followed the scent of fried food down the street and stopped to observe once I rounded the corner. Relief had come in the form of dinner, but it would take hours upon hours to serve everyone. Springfield is a relatively small town. No wonder New Orleans had been such a nightmare all those years ago.

  Just before I reach the bakery door, I spot a man out of the corner of my eye. He’s sitting against the entryway next to the bakery, tucked inside an alcove with a blanket wrapped around him, a pair of high-shine leather dress shoes poking out in front. It’s a juxtaposition of affluence and displacement.

  I’m not sure if Springfield had a homeless population before, but they have one now. A fist squeezes my conscience in an immediate grip. This could be me. This could be you. This could be any one of us at any given moment if the situation were ripe for unexpected destruction. Not everything in life is controlled—just ask my brother, the guy who spent five days lost on an island when all he wanted to do was join a girl on a typical cruise-ship excursion. That trip went wrong in every way possible, even though it started out picturesque and beautiful.

  Nope, we can’t control when and if bad things happen. We can only control how we respond, whether we welcome people or push them away.

  And we can control how harshly we judge.

  There’s an empty milk jug set out in front of the man, put there to collect money. At home in Nashville, the unspoken rule is to keep walking,
to ignore the situation in the hopes that the homeless population might drift to another location. But Nashville wasn’t just hit with the largest tornado in recent history.

  Here, people who had homes two days ago don’t have them now. People who had loved ones then no longer have them either. I think of little Bella and her tiny breaking heart. The least I can do is give this guy some money. Slipping a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet, I drop it into the bucket. It won’t help for long, but maybe it’ll help for now. Thinking the guy is asleep, I turn to leave.

  “Thanks, man,” he says, catching me by surprise.

  I turn and meet his gaze. So tired, defeat already pulling at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

  It’s times like these I wish I could do more. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To do more. As soon as we finish checking on the little girl, I’ll start. It’s what I should have done with my brother the moment he was rescued; helped. Instead, I spent my time whining about his newfound relationship status and doling out the silent treatment to make him feel guilty. Not my proudest memory.

  You don’t have your brother’s looks. You’ll have to make your mark another way. A hot girl wouldn’t hurt…

  It’s always there, in the back of my mind, holding power over me I can’t seem to shake.

  When I push through the doors of the bakery, I’m greeted by the same bell I heard yesterday but am only just now alert enough to recognize. I laugh at her choice of music. The song Candy by Mandy Moore will be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Bad memories of junior high dances, acne, and bubble gum flash through my mind like overdeveloped Polaroids, and I shake my head.

  “Someone didn’t just lock up last night,” she says with a nod toward the picture window. The sound of her voice could cheer anyone up. “Thank you for that. I didn’t even notice it until this morning, no surprise considering how tired I was.” She presses her lips together as though she’s said too much.