by Matayo, Amy
“I am. She wandered in alone the night after the storm. She was hungry and told me she loves chocolate, so I fed her chocolate ice cream, chocolate cupcakes, pretty much whatever she wanted to get her to talk. It’s nice to finally see you. And this is Chad,” I say, but he’s bent down, arms wrapped around Bella in a hug. She hugs him back, and the sight of her clinging to him does strange things to my heart, knots it in ways it’s never hurt before. It’s a beautiful ache because Chad Gamble is a good man. Chad Gamble sticks around. He keeps his promises and doesn’t abandon people when they need him most.
All at once I know…the answer to his earlier question is yes. I’d be an idiot to say anything else.
I clear my throat, tight with emotion. “Anyway, this is Chad, and obviously he and Bella have a bond already. He’s the only one who could get her to talk that night. No matter how hard I tried, she would only respond to him.” He stands up to join me, but Bella doesn’t let go of his hand. “Annoying, that one,” I say, bumping his arm. “All the girls seem to like him best, even the tiny ones.” Even Bella is looking up at him, adoration in her eyes.
“What can I say? When you’ve got good taste…”
A retort is on the tip of my tongue when I feel a tiny, timid tug on my arm. I look down at Bella’s sweet face staring up at me.
“I want chocolate.” She hasn’t outgrown it, the sweet way she adds a W sound to the word. I smile wide because really…life is pretty perfect.
“I’ll get your chocolate. All the chocolate you want. If…” I look into her grandmother’s face, and the woman nods.
“If the girl wants chocolate, give it to her. Lord knows she’s lost a lot in the past few months. We all have. I certainly won’t begrudge her any happiness.” She dabs her eyes with her fingertips. “In fact, I’ll take some chocolate too. Whatever kind you’ve got.”
I laugh, then lead the way across the bakery, a trail of four people following me as we go in search of cupcakes.
Chad
An hour later, Bella is headed home with her grandparents, who promised to come back Monday afternoon for another cupcake—a princess one as requested. She would undoubtedly make dozens of princess cupcakes without complaint if it got Bella back here on a regular basis. Losing someone and finding them again brings quite the high, something I discovered months ago with my brother and rediscovered tonight. A person could get used to the rush.
The crowd has dwindled a bit, but Teddy is still signing autographs, and Liam is distracted with some chick at the bar who won’t leave him alone. He keeps checking his phone, hoping she’ll get the hint and leave. When that doesn’t work, he implores me with his eyes. Help me. Get over here right now. I just shrug and smile, leaving the poor guy to himself as I wander off to find Riley. I can feel Liam’s glare on my back as I go, so I turn and wave at the last second just to tick him off.
Riley disappeared to the back a few minutes ago to “wash her hands,” as she claimed. I didn’t believe her then, and I don’t believe it now. I expect to find her sitting on the floor as I have before, tears streaming down her face faster than she can brush them away with her fist. Instead, she stands at the counter, surprising me with an over-the-shoulder smile that could melt every heart across the southern region—case in point, mine.
Still, I don’t miss the way she readjusts her position to hide whatever she’s doing, her back fully to me. Not that I would complain. The view of Riley’s backside is a sight to behold. An eighth wonder of the world on display just for me. Scientists everywhere are green with envy.
“Get out of here, Chad. This is private. And stop staring at my butt.”
“I’m not staring,” I lie, and stare a little longer before reluctantly dragging my eyes away. “But I’m not leaving until you show me what you’re doing. This place is filled with people wanting to talk to you, and you’re…what? Examining your fingernails? Digging for a splinter?”
“Stay back, Chad, and stop fishing for hints. If I wanted you to know, I would turn around and show you.”
At this, I pause. But only for a second. “So it’s something you could show me? Like, something I might want to see?” I make a loud show of trying to think.
“Knock it off. And remember, I’m holding a knife if you’re tempted to walk over here.” Her head bends lower, her arms bent and moving back and forth.
“Ah, threats will get you everywhere, Miss Floss. Let’s see, are you making…a life-sized bust of my head from clay and rare black diamonds?” I lean against the doorway. She laughs under her breath, but I hear it.
“Not a chance. But if it were, I would bust it. And then I’d sell the diamonds and keep the money.”
“Cute. I see what you did there. Now…are you playing with a pet hamster and you don’t want anyone to see since you’re supposed to be mature by now and not actually have a pet hamster?”
“I don’t have a pet hamster…anymore. And I see what you’re doing.”
“What it is that I’m doing?”
“You’re playing the same guessing game you played with Bella, but I’m not going to fall for it. I’m way smarter and more mature than that.”
“Yes, we’ve already established your maturity level with the hamster thing.”
She giggles. Even if I lose this game, the sound of her laugh makes me the winner of everything else. I smile.
“Alright, then. Is it…a cupcake?”
Silence.
“Have you finally decided I deserve something more than plain vanilla?”
More silence, and I grin. Jackpot. The self-congratulations I dole out inside my own head are obnoxious.
“Riley…” I sing her name.
“Stop guessing. I’ll be done in a second.”
I keep my mouth shut and take a moment to look around the kitchen. The one at her last bakery was nice, but this kitchen is no less than stunning. Everything is shiny and state-of-the-art, orderly, and well-stocked with supplies. It’s the workspace of dreams if you cook for a living. I hate to cook, and I could happily move in. Helping her choose everything was the fun part, even more, fun than seeing the look on her face when Teddy handed her the check. As much as she cried that day, the waterworks doubled with every new appliance purchase. Watching someone you love stand at the culmination of their dreams is something I will never forget.
And yes, I said love. I’ve known it for a while now.
I haven’t told her yet, but I will in time. If disaster has taught me anything, it’s that life is unpredictable and there’s no need to rush it. Sure, tragedy could be right around the corner, and we could lose it all in a blink. But instead of scrambling to accomplish the next big thing, we should learn to enjoy the here and now.
The here and now is where all the magic happens.
Riley turns around to face me. It’s quite a sight to behold.
“Fine, you were right. I made you a cupcake. And it’s an upgrade from plain vanilla.” She holds it out with two hands like a child presenting flowers or a prized bug to a parent. One look nearly brings me to my knees.
It’s chocolate topped with peanut butter frosting, and written across the top in white letters are the words World’s Best Man. It’s a case study in finding someone’s sore spot and healing it.
“World’s best man, huh?” My attempt at casual is thwarted by the emotion in my words.
“The very best.”
I take a step toward her and slip the cupcake from her hand, examining it. I swallow, setting it on the counter behind her. I move closer and slide my arms around her waist. Closer still.
“That might be the best gift anyone has ever made me.”
She looks up at me, vulnerability taking up space in her eyes. “Are you sure about this? Because you don’t have to—”
“Do you want me to?”
She nods, a small flick of her head. “More than anything.”
“That’s good. Because I’m one hundred percent sure. I’m staying.”
And I am. I�
��m moving to Springfield to help her run this bakery, in addition to working on the new career I’ve been dreaming about.
I’m going to become a paramedic. I’ve applied to the local community college and start next week. The program will take about a year to complete, but in my off hours, I’m going to work with Riley. I asked God for a purpose a long time ago, and He gave it to me in the form of tornado survivors and cupcakes. And in the beautiful brunette standing in front of me now. The pink is gone, but the color she’s brought to my life is still around.
“I miss the pink,” I say, running a few strands through my fingers.
She rolls her eyes, unable to keep the smile off her face. “Then you’ll be sad to know I’m thinking about adding some blue.”
I tighten my hold on her. “Blue, pink, yellow. Light it up like a freaking rainbow if you want. You’re beautiful, and it has nothing to do with the color of your hair.”
Her smile softens, and her gaze drops to my mouth.
It’s all the permission I need. I lean in to kiss her, relishing the feel of her mouth on mine. No matter how many times I kiss her, it never gets old. Something tells me it never will.
Her lips part, mine go deeper. Teeth bump and tongues touch, and she tastes like sugar and everything good. It’s a kiss to stop hearts. Mine just did. Or would if it weren’t thumping so painfully in my chest.
I lift her to the counter without breaking contact, then step between her legs and kiss her harder. Her legs wrap around my waist, her hands fist my hair, and she lets out a little groan. I’m not going anywhere, because this is what we’re going to do for the rest of forever.
“Where the hell is Chad?” I hear Teddy yell from the other room.
But I ignore him. It’s such an insignificant question anyway.
Because I’m here. Kissing Riley Mae Floss in a Springfield bakery.
Of course, I’m here.
I finally found the place where I belong.
THE END
Please consider leaving a review of The Aftermath on Amazon and Goodreads.
Other books by Amy Matayo:
The Waves (Love in Chaos book 1)
Lies We Tell Ourselves
Christmas at Gate 18
The Whys Have It
The Thirteenth Chance
The End of the World
A Painted Summer
In Tune With Love
Sway
Love Gone Wild
The Wedding Game
Amy Matayo
amymatayo.com
Amy Matayo is an award winning author of The Wedding Game, Love Gone Wild, Sway, In Tune with Love, A Painted Summer, The End of the World, The Thirteenth Chance, The Whys Have It, Christmas at Gate 18, and Lies We Tell Ourselves. The Whys Have It was a 2018 RITA Award finalist. She graduated with barely passing grades from John Brown University with a degree in Journalism. But don’t feel sorry for her—she’s super proud of that degree and all the ways she hasn’t put it to good use.
She laughs often, cries easily, feels deeply, and loves hard. She lives in Arkansas with her husband and four kids and is working on her next novel.
Twitter: @amymatayo
Instagram: @amymatayo.author
Facebook: www.facebook.com/amymatayoauthor
The Waves
by
Amy Matayo
CHAPTER 1
Dillon
I’m drowning again. Not literally, of course. To be literally drowning, I would have to figuratively pull my face and my spoon out of this carton of Cherry Garcia and head for the bath, and I have no intention of doing that anytime soon. Maybe later. Maybe I’ll fill the tub to overflowing, hold myself under water, and slowly count to a thousand. That ought to do the trick.
Three boyfriends in six months. No serious boyfriend ever. Why do I keep winding up here? Is this the obvious route for a therapist who analyzes people for a living, but doesn’t like to let anyone get too close to her? This sort of self-analysis has become secondary to me. It might be nice to find an answer that doesn’t involve me eating my feelings.
A line of melted ice cream slides from my lip to my chin, so I stick my tongue out and swipe left to lick it off. The rest comes off with the heel of my hand. I don’t have a napkin, so I wipe the mess on my shirt and groan. Chocolate is so hard to remove from white cotton, but even the idea of a ruined top can’t motivate me to care. I’ll buy another shirt later when I have a reason to live.
I push off the sofa and shuffle toward the kitchen.
This carton of ice cream is empty. I flick the container onto the counter and open the freezer, knowing for a fact there’s an emergency stash tucked behind the bags of frozen blueberries and Eggo waffles. Out of sight, out of mind was my thought process when I put it there. Today my thought process includes eating another carton and maybe another, then pulling Kirk’s heart out of his chest, dangling it from my fingers, and dropping it from a boat Titanic style. It might be fun to watch it sink to the bottom of the ocean while Celine Dion sings “My Heart Will Go On” in the background. Except Kirk’s heart won’t go on because he’ll be dead.
Just like Jack in the movie; no happy ending for either one of them.
I grab the emergency carton of Rocky Road, then shrug and shuffle back to the sofa, pulling off the lid and dropping it on the ground as I go. I have a fleeting thought about carpet stains but dismiss it because I don’t care. I glance at the lid one more time to make sure. It’s ice-cream-side down and undoubtedly leaving a permanent mark.
But no. I don’t care one bit.
My phone buzzes beside me, and I glance at it. I know better, but I’m weak and stupid and apparently there’s no immediate cure for either of those deficiencies.
It doesn’t mean anything, Dillon. How many times do I have to say that? Please call me so I can explain.
Sure, explain it.
By all means, explain what happened when I was sitting in my counseling appointment earlier this afternoon, listening to a bride-to-be recite her pre-honeymoon jitters. Will I be enough for him? Will he be happy with me for the rest of our lives? Will he get bored eventually and move on to someone else? Explain how, while I was thinking of super-reassuring responses to assuage her doubts, she drops a casual: Kirk thinks I’m ridiculous for worrying. And then all of a sudden I’m the one plagued with doubts.
My mind stumbled on the name Kirk, silly as it seemed. Lots of people are named Kirk. Even in tiny Franklin, Tennessee. That’s what I said to myself, my red stiletto swinging from my foot back and forth. At least they look nice against my spray-tanned legs, making me appear like the well-put-together professional I am. A master’s degree in psychology didn’t make me all kinds of crazy, no sir.
Until she said this: Mrs. Kirk Donahue. Can you even imagine?
Could I? Could I even imagine?
Even as she squealed and bounced in her seat a little, I just could not imagine.
But here’s a better question.
Can you imagine my shock at hearing his name? Or the way my head went light and spun until I, not the bride, suddenly felt faint with impending doomsday jitters? Or the way I politely excused myself from the session and threw up in the bathroom down the hall? Or the way my tears came hard and fast and were immediately followed by embarrassing wails of anguish? Or the way my co-workers knocked on the door out of concern because they could hear me? Apparently, the entire waiting room full of clients could hear me.
Explain that.
I jam my spoon inside the carton and drag out a mound of chocolate and marshmallows, then get a brain freeze in the seconds that follow. I rub my temple and glare at the room, particularly at the sofa I’m sitting on.
I was kissing Kirk Donahue just last night in this very spot, the sofa now littered with wadded tissues and dotted with chocolate ice cream from the spoon I dropped ten bites ago. How did I never see the signs?
She said in our very first session that she was marrying a veterinarian. She said he’d graduated
from Texas Tech more than five years ago. She mentioned he had brown hair, and was a bit shorter than her, and had a crooked front tooth that hit her tongue just right when she kissed him.
She never mentioned his name. Not his first or his last. Thinking back, it’s so painfully obvious, I should probably lose my license. Counselors are supposed to be more perceptive than that.
I pick up my phone and type. Cheaters never prosper, Kirk. Go tell your lies to some other woman who believes them. Like your fiancé. For all I know, you have more than one.
It takes three seconds to get a response.
Don’t be that way, baby. I know we can work through this. I need you in my life.
I roll my eyes and delete his number from my phone.
Kirk’s life—if not his cold dead heart—will have to go on without me.
Ben and Jerry are the only men I’m interested in now.
I’m also interested in the doorbell. Specifically, I’m interested in bashing it with a hammer until it breaks into a thousand silent pieces. It’s been ringing nonstop for a solid two minutes, along with my phone. My mother wouldn’t know subtlety if she ran into it on the street and it asked her out for drinks.
I drag a fistful of blonde curls off my face and roll toward the sound.
“Go away!” I shout this from the same trusty spot on the sofa where I’ve remained all evening. It’s dark outside. The tissue pile has doubled, and I’ve added a frozen pizza box and crust remains to the growing pile of junk food around me. Melted ice cream seeps from a nearly-empty cardboard carton, leaving a ring on my coffee table that I don’t have the energy to clean. Heartbreak, coupled with the two carpet stains and random sofa splatters, comes with an expensive price tag.
“Open the door right now, young lady. I’m not leaving until you do.”
I’m twenty-eight. Not all that young and definitely not very ladylike at the moment unless all ladies walk around in men’s boxers, mismatched socks, and oversized t-shirts worn backwards with a tag sticking out under their chins. The thing has been scratching at me all afternoon. I’d look for scissors to cut it off, but I’m afraid I might accidently-on-purpose slit my own throat just to end this miserable day.