The Aftermath

by Matayo, Amy

  I’ve filed nearly seven hundred insurance claims in my life, handed out half as many settlement checks, have double that amount in clients, and if you multiply those numbers times five and divide the total by three…I’m pretty sure that’s how many cupcakes I’ve boxed up and loaded into Riley’s van in the last half hour. I smell like sugar, probably even taste like it too. I’ll leave that thought in the theory category considering I still haven’t showered and am sticky in places I’d rather not think about.

  I set another box in the van and head back inside. She meets me at the door, another armload weighing her down.

  “Is that the last of them?” I ask, taking it from her and stacking the box on top of the one I’ve just deposited.

  “Nope. There’s one more box next to the sink.”

  “I’ll grab it.”

  I leave her to rearrange them to her liking, stepping back inside the shop in search of the last box. The entire place smells like sugar and baked bread with an underlying hint of lemon. There’s that bed and bath store at the mall, and every time I pass it, I want to bottle up the scent and release it on my own apartment. If you lived with two other questionably clean dudes, you would want that too. Riley has accomplished that aroma all by herself. No wonder she wants to franchise. I’d buy one myself if I knew how to bake.

  I reach for the last box, then remember my phone and keys still sitting on a table in the front room. I left them there this morning and haven’t thought about them since; the sign of a life so enjoyable you don’t need a distraction. I smile to myself. It’s a new experience, at least for me.

  Just as I reach for my phone, it lights up with a text from Teddy. I laugh to myself, knowing he must have gotten my message.

  I called him at two a.m.—halfway through the cupcake-decorating songfest marathon—and left a long, laughing, rambling message telling him about her bakery, what she’s doing for the local townsfolk, how she’s making personalized cupcakes for the sole purpose of lifting people’s spirits in the middle of national disaster hell, and how she doesn’t like his music or think he’s all that good looking. I emphasized that last part, making sure to say it a few times so it would stick.

  Aside from my brother, Teddy is the best guy I know.

  Riley is now the best girl.

  She’s the only woman in the history of my friendship with Teddy Hayes not to think of him as a musical powerhouse slash sex god slash master of everything. “OmigoshyouknowTed­dyHayes?” has practically been my middle name since college, about the time his star began to rise.

  Riley has no idea how refreshing she is.

  I open the message and listen, my laughter dying away as the feeling of wanting to crawl through the phone and grab him by the neck takes its place.

  “Hilarious.

  Real freaking funny.

  Hope you don’t mind, but I made a few phone calls.

  Can’t have your girl thinking I’m not the Sexiest Man Alive, because—you know—according to People magazine I’m number twenty-three.

  Enjoy my gift to you both. It should be there early this afternoon.

  This is what you get for waking me up in the middle of the night while I’m on tour.

  When are you coming home?

  Love you, bro.

  Have a nice daaaaaayyyy.”

  That last word is stretched into twelve syllables and leaves me with chills and a slight headache if slight means raging and head splitting.

  What the heck did he do? Worse, why the heck did I call him? Gloating has never worked in my favor with my brother or Teddy, so what made me think it would work now? Worse, how do I dodge his “gift” when I don’t even know what it could be?

  It’s a question I often ask myself with an answer I always forget.

  You can’t dodge a gift from Teddy.

  His reach is longer than you think.

  I spot Teddy’s gift right away, though Riley is so busy unloading the car, carrying boxes, depositing them on the ground, and rearranging display-table linens that she is blissfully unaware. I leave it there for now and help her as best I can, which isn’t much. I’m limited because I’m unskilled in the art of what ribbons go where and how long a cloth covering should hang to the ground before it’s considered tacky and inappropriate. Turns out it should barely “puddle” to the floor, an odd term that has me looking around for water but seeing none. No puddles here, thank goodness. The grounds of the Crown Hotel are blessedly dry, though stray leaves and broken tree branches dot the ground with evidence of the storm.

  I keep watching the commotion behind us, which is more like a silent flurry of activity that encompasses the bride’s family, the groom’s family, and few early-arriving guests, and of course…the reporters.

  Teddy, what have you done?

  The wedding is over, and reception guests are beginning to arrive, which gives us approximately one or two minutes to finish getting things ready. Riley keeps reminding me we’ve done this for free and out of the goodness of our hearts. She’s right, but it doesn’t calm my nerves at all.

  “What else can I help you with?” I ask to distract myself. And let’s be honest, to distract Riley. Maybe I can get her out of here before anyone has a chance to approach us. I rub my hands together and look backward, heart sinking and pulse racing when cameras are placed on tripods and microphones are strapped to belt loops. “Give me a job so we can speed this up.”

  Riley sends a sharp glance my way, then begins placing cupcakes on a four-tiered stand, moving as slow as humanly possible and keeping colors separate as she goes. She seems to think we have all the time in the world.

  I plunk a box on the table and start on the adjacent stand; yellow on the top, pink in the middle, red on the bottom. I make quick work of it.

  “This is a wedding reception, Chad. Not an Olympic sport. No one gets a prize for winning, but I will get very publically yelled at if these cupcakes get ruined. Slow down, and make sure all the roses are facing outward.” She rolls her eyes and places more cupcakes on the top tier. In the time it’s taken her to fill half the plate, I’ve finished all four of mine. But now I have to turn most of them around because my cupcakes are facing everywhere. I attempt to turn one and get icing on my knuckle. I rotate the cupcake another turn to hide the flaw and suck icing off my skin.

  “People are arriving already, and I’m ready to go.” If we’re not here, Teddy can’t finish whatever the heck he started.

  “I’m doing this for free. No one will fault us for not being quite ready, and we can’t leave. Now could you please use one of those napkins? Free or not, no one needs to see you licking your fingers.” She nods her head toward a stack of them on the table next to us. White with more roses. I feel like I should be in a New Year’s Day parade. I swipe a napkin off the top and run it across my hand, then keep turning cupcakes.

  “Why can’t we leave?” I glance at the reporters, still hanging back a few yards away. I wouldn’t be so on edge if I hadn’t seen it happen a hundred times before. When Teddy and I are out to eat. When Teddy and I are playing basketball in the park. When Teddy and I are walking from the apartment to the car. Even when we were in a cab on our way to the cruise ship a few months back, reporters are always nearby. Excited fans are always around the corner. It’s a standard part of his job, which makes it—by design—a very big part of my life. I’m so conditioned to it now. I know what exactly to look for, even if they drive me insane and even if I often tell them to back the heck off. I can’t help it. You try living with cameras following your every move and see how you like it.

  I’m still not entirely sure why these reporters are here, and since Riley won’t let us leave, the new plan is to stay right here and hope they go away instead.

  “We can’t leave because it’s my job to stay and oversee this table. Her caterer backed out, and the bride’s family had to do all the cooking instead, so I offered to help keep things organized so they could enjoy the reception. Which makes you…” she twirls
a finger my direction, “…my assistant. And your first job as my assistant is to find out why all those reporters are here. As far as I know, the bride isn’t famous. And if they’re here to cover a post-tornado wedding, please tell them to leave. We’ve had enough reporting around here lately, and I don’t want them messing things up. No bride wants to be asked about the bad state of her life on her wedding day.”

  I pause to consider her request, then feel myself relax because I hadn’t considered that aspect before. Of course, a tornado wedding. As far as I know, this is the first wedding since the disaster hit, so why wouldn’t reporters be covering it? I take a deep breath and let myself relax. Sometimes I can be too suspicious for my own good.

  “Sure thing, boss.” I give a sarcastic one-finger salute, but before I can walk away, the bride wanders up to inspect the table. When she gives a dramatic squeal, I take it as a sign we did something right. And by we, I mean Riley since all I did was feed her coffee, try to keep her awake and help load boxes. Still, a strange sense of pride fills me up. I enjoyed making her coffee. I enjoyed staying up with her all night. And I especially enjoy seeing her get the appreciation she deserves.

  “Thank you so much for doing this.” The bride says into Riley’s hair, rocking her back and forth inside a giant bubble of white tulle before releasing Riley’s shoulders and dabbing the corners of her eyes. “We almost canceled the whole thing and might have if you hadn’t offered so much of your time. Thank you, Riley. You’re a life-saver.”

  Riley smiles at the compliment, and my chest inflates. She is a life-saver. She’s saved so many this week, people like Floyd and Mr. Joyner and Amanda—who still hasn’t uttered a single word of thanks or anything else as far as I know. The most refreshing thing is, Riley doesn’t need it.

  To see someone so thoroughly thanking Riley now fills me with so much pride that I simply watch and take it in. Until she looks over her shoulders and frowns. I follow her gaze and see that one of the reporters is walking toward us. Something inside me, a tiny slice of anger, straps on boxing gloves before setting them down again. I’m not a fighter, but I am a defender.

  I hold up my hand as if to say I’ve got this and meet the reporter halfway.

  “Good afternoon. What can I help you with?”

  “I wondered if I could—”

  “Get a story on what’s it’s like to get married in the middle of a disaster? Maybe speculate on what kind of people have parties when so many are suffering? This isn’t the time, man. Why don’t you pack up your things and—”

  “Back the heck off?” The reporter sends me a knowing look and laughs like we’re in on a shared inside joke. One I don’t like.

  “Excuse me, what?”

  He laughs harder. “He said you would say that.”

  “Who did?” But I already know who. I just don’t know why.

  “Teddy Hayes, of course.” The man sticks out his hand, and I reluctantly take it. Dread makes my arm go slightly limp; it’s an embarrassing handshake. “Scott Gallagher from People magazine. He sent me here to interview your girlfriend. He told me all about what she’s been doing for the town this week. My magazine is going to make her—and her little cupcake shop—famous.”

  I look over my shoulder at Riley and feel my heart sink, then turn to face the reporter again.

  “You came all this way because Teddy told you to?”

  He laughs. I’m thrilled he’s in such a wonderful mood. “I came all this way because he promised me an exclusive on his dating life in return for this story.”

  This time I’m the one laughing, though I try to cover it with my hand. Teddy hasn’t dated anyone in over a year, so that will be a short and disappointing exclusive.

  “What?” The reporter loses the gleeful smile, a worried expression taking its place. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  I roll my eyes at this. “I know a lot of things you don’t.” I’m resigned. There’s not a single thing I can do but walk the guy over to Riley and hope to God he’s discreet. Of all the things I imagined Teddy might do, this was absolutely not it.

  Worse, I have no idea how she’ll take it.

  “Just do me a favor, though. Can you please keep Teddy out of it?”

  Later that night, however, I’m on the phone once again.

  Bringing Teddy squarely into the middle of it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  This is how she took it, but her reaction has nothing to do with the reporters. We came back to the shop hours later than anticipated and found the electricity shut off. Her supplies are ruined, all the frozen food, the milk, the eggs, everything. My first instinct was right, though I could punch myself for saying nothing about it. This place was in worse shape than I thought.

  A notice to vacate the premises was taped to the front door.

  The building has been condemned.

  What the tornado didn’t destroy, this new decree has. Riley’s countenance is defeated and resigned. She hasn’t shed a tear, but I’m certain she will later when reality comes crashing around her. She hasn’t said a word since reading the notice, and even now just silently pours another gallon of milk down the kitchen sink, every glug glug a loud reminder of a dream spiraling downward. She’s wanted to franchise this place for years. Now there’s nothing to expand, nothing left to build on. Dreams keep us going, give us something to aim toward, to strive for. In the past week, I’ve been more aware how fast they can die, how quickly they fade from our grasp. It’s a helpless feeling watching it happen. Almost like she knew it would happen and was simply waiting for the final shoe to drop.

  “Is there anything I can do?” It’s a lame question, but the only thing I can think to say right now. I wring out an ice-cream-soaked rag and rinse it under the faucet.

  “No. There’s nothing anyone can do.” After a long day seeing a lot of good things happen, it’s hard to watch it all come down to this. “It’s over, Chad. The only thing to do now is to gather up my things and close the door.”

  “Well, what if I try—”

  “Would you mind too much if I finished up here alone? I think this is something I need to do by myself. And then I have to figure out a way to tell my grandma about this too…” Her words trail off to the same dejected location as her spirit. Riley mixes with sadness like oil mixes with vinegar; no matter how much you stir, they refuse to come together. Seeing her sad now is nearly unbearable. Still, leaving her alone seems like the worst possible idea, not to mention entirely heartless. Images of that neighbor kid on my front porch rise once again. I can’t leave. A real man wouldn’t.

  “I won’t leave you here alone, not when—”

  “Chad, please. Just for tonight. You can come back in the morning and help me finish up. I just need a little while now to figure out what I’m going to do.”

  “I can help you figure it out.” I’m desperate, unwilling to be the type of guy who ignores the pain of someone else. I hated myself years ago; I won’t endure that sort of self-loathing again.

  “You can’t help me think. Right now, I just need silence.”

  I release a deep breath and study her. She means it. Solitude is something she’s asking for, not because she’s concerned about being a nuisance or worried about being an inconvenience, but because she needs time.

  As long as she’s okay, I can give her time. This time, leaving someone to their own grief is a good thing.

  “Okay, but I’ll come back in the morning?”

  She nods. “Come back in the morning.”

  I assure her that I will, and then let myself out the front door.

  It isn’t until I’m well inside the lobby of my own hotel that I remember she lives there and turn on my heel to demand she come stay with me. Riley is homeless now in every sense of the word. Over my cold, dead body will she wander the street alone looking for a place to sleep. There’s not a chance—

  “Are you Chad Gamble?”

  I turn to see a younger man of about twen
ty-two coming toward me. His light brown hair has a deep side part, and there’s a faint trail of acne across his forehead. He’s wearing navy dress pants and a cream-colored button-down, and I remember him from the front desk. I’ve seen him nearly every morning since I arrived, but we’ve never exchanged more than pleasantries. I’m surprised he knows my name, and that he’s working this late.

  “Yes. I hope you’re doing okay tonight. Can I help you with something?” He doesn’t smile, and an uneasiness descends, one without cause or reason. Never once in my travels has someone sought me out in a hotel lobby, especially not someone who works here. I let the door fall closed.

  He quickly nods, overcome with relief. “Your brother has been trying to get ahold of you all evening. He says he needs you to call as soon as possible.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket, and sure enough, I’ve missed more than six calls from Liam, and two “answer your freaking phone,” texts—one in lowercase, the other in all caps. My stomach flips when I see the time; Liam began calling three hours earlier and sent his last text only ten minutes ago. I silenced my phone for the wedding and then forgot all about it. Uneasiness clones itself a dozen times and runs circles inside my brain. I look up at the hotel worker, still standing inside the door. “Did he say why?”

  “No, he just asked me to locate you as soon as you walked in and tell you to call. He sounded impatient, but that’s all I know.”

  I nod, dread breaking free and rolling around like a loose cannon inside my gut. My brother wouldn’t ask someone else to intervene unless there was a real problem. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

  I thank the man and close the door, then dial Liam. While it rings, I remember his text from yesterday: “Don’t forget to order your tux.” I sigh, certain that’s all he wants, to remind me once again to get it done. His fiancée’s mother is high-strung and probably on him to make sure I stay on schedule. There’s a laugh rising in my throat ready to burst forth and tell him to settle down when he finally answers.

  It took four rings. Of all the details I’ll remember from this moment, that’s the one that sticks with me the most. He doesn’t even say hello.