All Who Dream (Letting Go)

by Deese, Nicole

  At the sound of her name I wanted to vaporize. Why—oh, why—couldn’t I control my thoughts and mouth around Jackson Ross?

  “Sure. Cody, stay right here with Peter.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  My black slacks swished around my legs and ankles as I rushed to a stall in the restroom and closed my eyes.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” I chanted to myself under my breath. “This is why you shouldn’t make assumptions!”

  I went to the sink and ran the cold water over my hands in an attempt to bring down my body temperature, which seemed to be roughly the same as molten lava.

  I cannot face him again—ever.

  I opened the door to the restroom and turned in the direction of the elevator, took a step, and smacked right into the fancy dress shirt of one Mr. Jackson Ross.

  “There you are.”

  I glanced up at his face, and then immediately wanted to die. Again.

  Shaking my head, I searched for the words to make this right. “I…can we…I’m so sorry—”

  “Ah, and there it is. I had a bet going with myself that I would hear one of your famous apologies.”

  I took a deep breath, no anger left within a hundred miles of me. I was far too ashamed of myself to feel angry. “Well, I mean it. I was wrong to make an assumption like that. I feel so stupid.”

  The atmosphere shifted, almost like there was a physical charge in the air around us.

  “You aren’t stupid. The idea that my niece could have feelings like that is fairly disturbing and downright comical, but you aren’t stupid.”

  Though the inflection in his voice was unchanged, his overall demeanor seemed…softer.

  “I don’t know why I’ve felt it my place to be so outspoken with you, but you have my word that it will stop. I am not usually like this—that’s a lame excuse, I know, but it’s true. I hope we can move on. I can be professional. I will be professional.”

  He stared at me, and a sensation like fizz bubbles floated throughout my body.

  “Please, don’t,” he said, softly.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t stop. No one ever tells me what they really think anymore. I like your thoughts, and I like your words—even if they’re not always accurate.” A lopsided grin teased at the corners of his mouth, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to feel those lips pressed against my own.

  My heartbeat went staccato as my eyelids blinked in echoing pattern. He stepped closer.

  “That’s…surprising,” I said, his minty breath wafting in the narrow space between us. I bit the insides of my cheeks.

  “What’s surprising?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think you noticed much of what I said or did.”

  His gaze roamed my face intently as I swallowed. “I notice everything, Miss Flores.”

  At the simple, heartfelt tone of those words, the bottom dropped out of my stomach like the elevator had just shot upward a dozen floors.

  Chapter Nine

  Pinkerton Press in NYC was a mirrored replica of the branch in Dallas that I had visited a month earlier when I met with Dee Bradford. The only difference was, this time, I was walking next to Jackson. People seemed to stop what they were doing to greet him. Why was a man who didn’t seem interested in the pleasantries of life so popular amongst this crowd, but it was as if the Prom King himself had just made his entrance into the café.

  His facial expression had changed a tad since we entered—it was softer, and for the first time I could see how much he cared about these people. This company. I watched the transformation, intrigued. The café was buzzing with people, tables full of lunch trays with a large variety of food to choose from: Chinese, American, Indian, Greek. Several chefs along with a gourmet salad bar were stationed at the far end.

  Cody and Peter were laughing when we reached their table near a window. I had a million questions running through my mind about Jackson, but none seemed appropriate to ask in public. Given my most recent lack of restraint, I decided it was best to do as Rosie did—Google him. I was already planning a date with my laptop as soon as I got back to my apartment.

  Pippy joined us about thirty minutes later and filled us in on the adoption interview. Sue had almost passed out from nerves, but Brian had coached her through it. As soon as Pippy said Brian’s name, Jackson looked at me, as if waiting for me to announce an engagement.

  I did not oblige him. I picked at my salad, instead.

  “Mom, Peter said he would practice some soccer with me in Central Park.”

  “Oh, that’s sounds great. You could use some good exercise other than the sports games you play on that iPad—speaking of, I never thanked you for that basket—”

  Jackson looked at his plate. “No need.”

  “Well…it was a very nice thing to do for Cody.”

  He nodded and picked up his hamburger. Discussion apparently over.

  Pippy beamed at me, her eyes sparking like the noonday sun. The girl was positively giddy just to be alive.

  I took in the three of them now: Peter, Pippy and Jackson. Their family resemblance was remarkable. Again, I found myself wanting to ask more questions in regard to my recent discovery but chickened out. The lines were all blurred now. I didn’t know my place—or my level of access to such personal information.

  Was the family relationship supposed to be a secret? Or were they just trying to maintain professionalism within the workplace and not discuss it with outsiders? I suspected the latter. If only I had picked up on that tid-bit-o-information say… last week.

  Hindsight always mocked me.

  Just as I stood up to dump our trash from our lunch, a woman with long, dark hair, dark skin, and legs that seemed endless, approached our table. I plopped down with a thud. It was her—the woman who had so openly kissed Jackson on the cheek at the dinner last weekend and pulled him to her table.

  “Hello, Jackson.” Her voice sounded like a recording from one of those risqué perfume commercials where every model spoke French and wore an eight-inch piece of lace. I almost laughed at the less-than-subtle nature of her voice, but I was far too busy staring at the red silk blouse plunged to the middle of her chest, unbuttoned. I diverted Cody’s eyes, handing him my phone to text an update to his Uncle Briggs.

  “Hello, Divina.” Jackson turned toward the woman. “What brings you here, today?”

  I stared at Jackson’s face, trying to pick his closed expression like a lock. Nada. The bolts were impenetrable.

  “Oh, you know.” She laughed breathily. “A little of this, a little of that. Always working to get on top.” She winked at him and smiled. Her long black lashes teased as they opened and closed slowly, her lips forming a permanent pout.

  I decided I’d rather be elbows deep in a trash can then stay for this brazen attempt at seduction. I stood and gathered our plates, catching Jackson’s eye in the process.

  He cleared his throat. “Divina, have you met our newest addition to the family tour?”

  Her gaze swept over me as if she could identify each cheap thread used to make my second-hand clothing.

  She extended her perfectly manicured hand toward me—bright, red polish on her nails. I put the plates down, and shook the slender cold fingers, not missing the way she positioned her hand in mine: as if she was the Queen of Sheba, and I the lowly servant.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Divina.” I forced my tone to sound kind, but saccharine never could pass for the real thing.

  “Yes. I have heard so little about you, but it looks like that will change soon enough. I will be interviewing you in two weeks.” Her tone took on an irritated edge as her narrowed eyes traveled from me to Jackson and back again.

  “Oh, are you in radio?” I asked.

  She threw her head back as if I had just slapped her flawless face.

  “No,” she spat. “I’m an anchor on The Eastman Morning show.”

  My face flamed at the look she gave me, one that screamed disdain for
my ignorance like a siren.

  “Oh…I’m sorry. I’m not from around here.”

  “Yes, obviously. It’s quite alright.” Divina looked me up and down again, smirking.

  Working to steady my quivering insides, I cleared the table. Cleaning was a good excuse to leave that woman’s company—Divina: exotic goddess of television.

  “It really is in your DNA code, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry—what is?” I asked Jackson. He stood over me as I dipped a napkin into a water glass and began wiping the crumbs off the tabletop where we had sat—once a mom, always a mom.

  Peter and Pippy were getting a drink refill with Cody.

  He laughed. “You don’t even realize how often you say it, do you?”

  My face reddened, I had said it to Divina. Dang. “Okay…so I have manners when I speak to people.” I let my tone suggest that he didn’t. He laughed again.

  “No, you have a compulsion when you speak to people.” His eyes twinkled at me like stars in a desert.

  I glared at him. “There are worse things than saying sorry, Mr. Ross.”

  “I disagree. The travesty is not in the words, Angela, but in the mindset behind them.”

  A cold, chill washed down my arms as I heard my name spoken from his lips, goose bumps left in its wake.

  “And what mindset is that?”

  He shook his head. “That’s a question you must ask yourself.”

  I sighed as he strode away toward Cody and the twins at the drink machine. Meanwhile, I was still bent over the café table starring into my own version of Cinderella: The Mom Edition.

  I threw the wet napkin away and followed behind the family-tour-parade, pondering his question.

  **********

  Later that evening, after Cody showered, talked with Uncle Briggs and Auntie Charlie via phone, and said his evening prayers…it was time for my Google-snooping to commence. Pushing my guilty conscience aside, I scrolled through /articles and pictures like a history timeline.

  Rosie does this all the time; it’s not wrong.

  And then I stopped, hovering over an article link with my cursor.

  Click.

  Jackson Ross—prodigal son—steps into CEO position at Pinkerton Press.

  After four generations of Ross men filling the seat of CEO at Pinkerton Press, the baton has been passed yet again. This time to Jackson Ross: the younger of two sons in the Ross family legacy. He is described as a prodigy in his own right, with a quiet, yet defiant nature. However, at twenty-eight, his past remains almost as much a mystery as his claim to bachelorhood.

  Ross is said to be well-traveled and well-versed in the publishing world. After his father, William Ross passed away nearly eight years ago, the position of CEO fell to the eldest Ross brother—Jacob Ross. It is rumored that the elder brother has stepped down due to a serious illness. There are no updates on his current condition.

  “Transition should be motivating. If it doesn’t create an atmosphere of unity—one that pulls people together—then the issue is not in the company’s change of command, it’s in the morale,” Jackson Ross said at the press conference last Friday, May 6th, 2011. He says he is determined to take the company onward and upward and follow in the footsteps of the “wise men that have gone before him.”

  “Wow…” I said aloud.

  So Jackson Ross became a CEO two years ago at the age of twenty-eight, graduated with honors from NYU, and was now a smart, sexy, successful bachelor. I could think of a thousand worse resumes than that one. I gulped, closing my laptop lid and laughed out loud. Mine was at the top of that list.

  Here I was: a single-mom at 29. No college degree to my name, no shining career to claim. My only note-worthy accolade was a blog.

  I called Rosie. And though I tried at first to divert the conversation away from Jackson, it went there anyway, talking at length about our recent conversations along with my own Google “research” findings. The girl had a one-track mind, and apparently so did I. As soon as we ended the call, I grabbed my black journal and wrote an entry.

  **********

  My hands shook as I made my way onto the stage at the Anthem church in Philadelphia. I’d been invited as a guest speaker to join a small panel of mothers discussing parenting questions and concerns. Pippy stayed back at the apartment with Cody to watch movies and eat Pizza, while Walt drove me to the church in the town car.

  I sat on a stool, a microphone wired to my blouse, as Mrs. Dyson, the Pastor’s wife, spoke to the large gathering of women, introducing the panel while I looked around the spacious room, wishing Rosie’s face would suddenly appear in the crowd. I could use a friend right now.

  “And this is Angela Flores. She’s a single mother of an eight-year-old son, and currently on a family tour with Pinkerton Press. Her blog, A Lone Joy, has just been picked up for publication, releasing this fall. Let’s give her a warm welcome. Thank you for coming tonight, Miss Flores.”

  “It’s my privilege. Thank you for having me,” I replied.

  The audience applauded as Mrs. Dyson went down the line, introducing each of the four panelists on stage.

  Question after question was asked from the note cards provided to each attendee as they entered the church, and so far, my responses were similar to the ones I’d given during radio interviews.

  “This question’s for you again, Miss Flores.” Mrs. Dyson read the notecard. “I’m a divorcee with two school-age children. I’ve recently started dating a bit and I’m wondering what your advice would be on talking to my kids? Do you tell your son about every date you go on, and if so, have you prepared him about the possibility of marriage in the future?”

  My heart beat wildly in my chest as the panelists and host turned to me for an answer. Was it just me, or had the temperature risen to about a thousand degrees in the last thirty seconds?

  I cleared my throat and took a sip from my water bottle. Plastering a smile on my face, I peered out into the crowd. “Although I’m an advocate of open communication with children, this is one category I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of experience in. I haven’t dated since I’ve been a single mom, but that’s not to say I have a stand against it, I don’t. It simply hasn’t felt like the right timing for me, personally.” I glanced around the room, straining to see the faces in the audience as the lights blinded me from above. “However, I think if there’s ever a time when a man comes into my life who changes that…” I nearly gasped when I saw a figure I recognized leaning against the sidewall. Though I couldn’t make out his expression, I knew him. A second or two passed before I was able to continue, recovering the best I could. “My advice…would be to give a new relationship a bit of time before talking about possible future scenarios with your children, but it might be wise overall to share your desire for remarriage—to open the lines of communication.”

  Mrs. Dyson nodded and then opened the question up to the other panelists. My gaze shifted once again to the man who made my pulse race and my cheeks burn. A man who had singlehandedly reminded me that I was a woman with desires, wants, and maybe even needs.

  Jackson was here.

  The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur as I remained hyper-aware of his presence. I answered questions on a variety of topics, most having to do with discipline, school activities, and schedules, but Jackson was never far from my thoughts.

  As the audience clapped, signifying the close of the evening, I followed the three panelists off the stage. A small group of women found me immediately afterward, hugging me and asking for pictures and autographs. The group soon swelled into a mass of faces, and I feared I’d lost Jackson in my attempt to be polite to each woman who handed me a notecard to sign.

  But then Jackson was there, at my side.

  I glanced at him, the voices muffling around me when our gazes locked. There was something new in his eyes as he watched me. And though heat sparked in my core, his gaze seemed to calm my anxiety instantly. As his hand pressed my lower back, he whispered in
my ear, “When you’re ready to leave just give me a nod. I’ll stay right here beside you.”

  “I’ll stay right here beside you.”

  His words flitted in and out of my head as I worked my way through the crowd. And when I finally did give the nod, Jackson’s warm hand found my lower back again, his touch sending flurries of delight up my spine.

  Ducking into the town car, Jackson slid in beside me. Walt closed the door after him.

  Jackson was the first to speak, “You have a natural stage presence, Miss Flores.”

  Walt signaled and turned onto the highway.

  I straightened my blouse. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I figured I was on my own.”

  Jackson turned to me, arching an eyebrow. “Is that what you prefer—to be on your own?”

  The question took me by surprise. “No, I…I like people.”

  “You just don’t like men?” Jackson asked, one side of his mouth lifting into a lopsided grin.

  I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I never said that.”

  He chuckled. “We say so many things without ever using words.”

  My throat went dry. “I would have to agree with that, I suppose.”

  His smile dipped as the car went silent.

  “Is it true what you said tonight? You haven’t dated since Cody was a baby?” Jackson asked.

  My stomach tightened. Jackson didn’t usually ask personal questions. He didn’t usually ask many questions to me at all, actually. “Yes, that’s true.”

  Jackson’s gaze roamed my face and then the car lurched to a stop, jerking our bodies forward as the squeal of tires and horns erupted all around us. I gasped, clutching the seat in front of me as Jackson’s hands reached for me.

  Walt apologized profusely, claiming a driver had just cut across two lanes of traffic, which had nearly caused an accident in the lane to our left. Jackson looked me over, the concern in his eyes nearly doubling my already increased heart rate. He gently pushed the hair from my face, and tucked it once again behind my ear.