All Who Dream (Letting Go)

by Deese, Nicole

  Whatever the case, Angie Flores had no more secrets to conceal.

  Divina had been right: Fame didn’t keep secrets.

  No matter how much time I was given, there was no real choice being offered to me. I was smart enough to understand that fact. The decision of my new platform had already been made.

  The minute I had signed that contract, I invited the opinions, advice and counsel of everyone in this room. It was no one’s fault but my own that I hadn’t fully thought through the ramifications of what that signature could mean.

  I may have told my story a hundred times over in the past five years at The Refuge, but that environment was filled with those who shared my same past, history and hurt—at least to some degree. What kind of feedback would there be from the rest of the world? The ones who couldn’t relate?

  “We’ll need an answer by the end of the day, Angie,” Dee said. “One way or another, we need to address the statements made at that interview. You are in contract with Pinkerton Press, so that responsibility is ours as much as it is yours. We’ll support you in whatever capacity we can. We have our most senior editor standing by to help you with any revisions and additions you are willing to make.”

  I nodded, though I was far from being okay.

  Okay was a mindset I had never occupied for long.

  For the next hour I sat silently while they discussed my next course of action as if the decision had already been made for me. I guess the truth was…it had. They knew it, just as I knew it. Jackson remained quiet, watching me the way a parent watched a child who was playing with a ball too close to the road.

  The cross-talk around the table was mild now that Jackson and I were out of the flow of conversation. Dee had given Stewart control over the rest of the agenda as they discussed a new marketing plan.

  The emotional turmoil over what had been asked of me had simply been dismissed—minimized, as if they had asked me to share my favorite cake recipe with the world, and not the intimate details of my life—and near murder.

  As I sank further inside myself, trying to process the steps ahead, Jackson slapped his hands on the table. I started at the noise, and the room fell silent.

  “Everyone out. We’re done here!”

  “Jackson—we have several other issues to discuss before—” Stewart began, lifting his hands in a diplomatic gesture.

  “Issues? Do you even understand what we’ve just asked of Miss Flores? I’m ashamed that not one of you has even bothered to ask her a single personal question since this meeting began, much less how you might support her in it! If my father or Jacob were in this meeting today they would be embarrassed! Here you sit, talking about investment plans and shareholder trends and marketing campaigns when there is a woman at the end of this table who deserves more respect for what she has lived through than everyone in this room combined. So, no, I don’t care about your issues. We’re finished here today!”

  My mouth hung open in shock as I stared at Jackson. Each man stood and left without so much as a sigh of disapproval over his outrage. Dee walked over to him and patted him on the shoulder while she flashed me a pride-filled smile. She strolled out the door last, closing it behind her.

  And then it was just Jackson and me.

  Chapter Thirty

  My mind was working overtime trying to process what had just happened. I looked at Jackson who was standing now and leaning over the table, tension rolling off him with every heaved breath. Finally, he lifted his head, and our eyes locked for the first time since his outburst. My emotions battled each other as I saw the distress on his face. My chest pulled tight like an overextended rubber band.

  I wanted to make this better, to fix it.

  My heart pounded under his gaze. “Jackson, I’m sorry for-”

  He put his hand up, cutting me off mid-sentence.

  Dropping his head, he sighed heavily. “Why…why would you apologize, Angie?” His voice was soft, yet strained.

  “I just—I guess I feel responsible in some way for-”

  Before I could finish, he took three quick steps toward me and took my upper arms in his hands. He squeezed just hard enough for me to switch gears from my own thoughts and refocus on his intense stare.

  “If there was one thing—just one thing I could help you see Angie, it would be your constant willingness to accept blame that isn’t yours. You are not responsible for what went on here today. My anger is for you—not because of you, don’t confuse those motivations.” His eyes roamed my face. “When I asked you to come to the meeting with an open mind, this was not what I envisioned. Please believe that I would never try to manipulate you into telling your story…not for the sake of the tour, or even this company. But with that being said, I believe in you Angie.”

  In a sea filled with unknowns, a wave of relief crashed over me.

  It was then I realized that Jackson wasn’t in the sea.

  Jackson was the wave.

  Letting go of my every inhibition, I broke out of his grip and fell against his chest, hugging him tight. In that moment, there were no words to express what his support meant to me.

  Seconds passed as he held me, his hand pressed to the back of my head. I could hear the steady beat of his heart as I breathed in that perfect scent of ocean and cedar wood.

  I pulled away from him slightly, my eyes misting as his hands slid down my arms. He gripped my fingers and led me to a chair. Once I sat, he pulled another one over and sat across from me. Our knees bumped, creating a flurry of warmth in the base of my belly. My eyes focused on the window in the corner as I processed through the jumble of information in my head.

  “The first time I told my story was about two years after the night Dirk was arrested. Even though I could rationalize that he couldn’t physically hurt me anymore, my mind was still tied to him—controlled by fear. It took every ounce of energy I had just to survive and take care of Cody. But Maggie, my mentor at The Refuge, wouldn’t give up on me. She just kept telling me that someday my story could help inspire hope for someone else—someone who needed to see a light beyond their darkness.” I shifted my gaze to my hands. “One night…the fear subsided long enough for me to open my mouth.”

  “And what happened?”

  I steered my eyes back to Jackson. “A woman found me after group that night. She told me…she told me that I’d given her the courage to confront her past. That she was going to put in the work so she could stop the cycle from continuing.” Tears filled my eyes as I thought of that moment. “That woman is now my best friend—Rosie.”

  Jackson’s smile was tender as he said, “There are a lot more Rosie’s out there, Angie—I know I don’t need to tell you that—but the statistics of abuse are alarming.” He sighed. “Taking this platform could potentially reach tens of thousands of women. Your voice and influence could mean the difference for them, but I need to be sure it’s what you want to do. This is your story to share. Nobody owns the rights to it but you.”

  I dropped my eyes again. “I do want to help other women, Jackson. I have no greater passion in life, but do you really think I’m ready for that kind of exposure? Telling my story is hard enough when it’s told to women who can relate to it.”

  “But why would you limit its impact?”

  “Because I hate my story.” I pushed my chair back and stood up, suddenly needing to move as my voice broke with emotion.

  That was the truth.

  No matter how much work I did to change myself, my story would never change.

  My past was the shadow no light could outshine.

  He leaned forward, hands clasped in his lap as he watched me pace. “Have you ever seen an artist work on a blank canvas?”

  I shook my head, fingering my necklace.

  “There are hundreds of hours poured into a painting before it even starts to resemble the masterpiece it will become. Your portrait—just like your story—isn’t complete yet, Ang. You’re only seeing what’s there now—not the whole vision of what could
be.”

  I stopped in front of him. “I don’t know if I have that vision, Jackson.”

  “Then I’ll have it for you.”

  **********

  Cody called just after lunch.

  The flight had gone well, and they were headed home to rest and get everything ready for camp. He was excited to play with Dillon, especially since he had a cool new iPad to show him. I was glad to hear his voice, even if it was only a few hours since I’d seen him last.

  It was hot outside, but I needed to think—alone. Pippy had told me where the smoothie shop was just a few blocks down, so I walked there. Strawberry/banana blend in hand, I made my way to Central Park. I was incredibly grateful for my wardrobe change into shorts and a tank top. As I found the shade of a large tree, I sat down and crossed my legs underneath me.

  I watched the busy world buzzing past as I pulled out my journal and pen. The scenes of dogs playing, kids running, businessmen and women rushing…were completely chaotic, yet oddly familiar. I may not know this city or its inhabitants, but what I saw before me…was life.

  I took in a deep breath, warm air filling up my lungs.

  Life.

  That was what I had been given back.

  **********

  “Sis?”

  Briggs knocked on the wall before pulling back the privacy curtain. I wanted to answer verbally, but no sound came out. My throat was so dry, like the inside of it had been rubbed with sandpaper and dust. I coughed for a minute straight until I could swallow a drink of water. I’d been awake for a couple of hours, doctors and nurses running tests, and policemen asking me questions regarding the night of the attack.

  Finally though, they had allowed my family to visit: Briggs.

  When he stepped into my room I was surprised. He looked awful, like he hadn’t slept in days—maybe he hadn’t. I was sure I didn’t look much better though. How good could one look when they’d been in a coma for seven days?

  “You look good, Ang,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he walked to my bedside. He sat down on the edge.

  I smiled at his lie.

  “Where’s Cody?” I whispered, trying to avoid another coughing fit.

  “Cody’s perfectly safe and healthy. My Chief’s wife is watching him while I visit you. I wasn’t sure if I should bring him up yet—I didn’t know if you’d be…”

  I nodded, knowing what he meant. Though I ached for my baby, I understood that Briggs was only trying to protect him; it’s what he did best. The doctors weren’t sure of the extent my injuries had on my brain before the coma was induced. There were no guarantees I’d wake up the same person as before. Briggs didn’t want to expose Cody to that kind of trauma. He had seen enough already.

  I grabbed his hand and my brother squeezed it, tears pooling in his eyes.

  They were the first tears I’d seen him cry since he was a young boy.

  “Thank you, Briggs,” I whispered. “I know what you did for me…and for Cody.”

  “When I saw you on the ground—I’ve never felt anything like that before, Angie. I wanted to kill him. I don’t know how I didn’t do it, to be honest,” he said with a shaky exhale. “But he’s gone now, and you’re safe. He’s never coming back.”

  I nodded, the police had told me that, but they also told me what Briggs had done to save me.

  “I’m so sorry, Briggs—for everything. For not listening to you all those years ago, for all the lies and the secrets, for the pain this last week must have caused you.” Tears slipped from my eyes in a steady stream.

  “The only reason you’d have to be sorry—is if you waste the life you’ve just been given back.”

  **********

  I tapped the journal with my pen.

  I’d been staring at it for a while now, waiting for inspiration to jump out and pull me in like Mary Poppins and the sidewalk paintings. So far the page was still blank. There were so many questions swirling in my head: What do I share? How many details do I provide? Do I start at the beginning or work my way back? I laid my head on my hand at the same moment my phone rang.

  It was Jackson.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, where are you?”

  “The Park. Trying to write…something…anything.”

  He laughed. “Been there before. I’m about to leave here...I’d love to help.”

  “That would be nice. I, uh, I called your mom.”

  “She told me. And you’re sure?”

  “Yes. I’m still scared, but I know you’re right. This is bigger than me now. If I stay silent and let Divina have her field day, I give away a huge opportunity to help the cause that’s closest to my heart. That regret would be far worse than my fear of speaking out.”

  Several seconds ticked by. I opened my mouth to ask if he was still there when he spoke again. “You’re amazing, Angie.”

  “I wouldn’t have made this decision if it weren’t for you.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll have Walt come pick you up, and we can head back to my place. We can order out or something.”

  “Or I can just make us dinner like normal people.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll get too spoiled if I let you start that.”

  I smiled. “Good, that can be my insurance policy then.”

  He laughed. “You play dirty, Miss Flores.”

  “Oh, there’s still so much you have to learn, Mr. Ross.”

  He laughed again. “We’ll be there in twenty, sweetheart.”

  The spasm that knotted my insides went wild.. If this difficult day could be saved…he had just managed to redeem it with that one word. Sweetheart!

  **********

  After stopping at the store to grab ingredients for chicken enchiladas, we headed to Jackson’s condo. Rosie had taught me her grandmother’s recipe, and I’d admit, it was goooood. As the enchiladas baked, Jackson repeatedly asked when they were going to be ready.

  “Geesh…you have about as much patience as my nine-year-old.”

  He smiled proudly. “I refuse to think of that as a negative.”

  “Suit yourself. They still have thirty-minutes to go.”

  He grumbled as I wiped my hands on a towel and walked out of the kitchen. Jackson had changed into cargo shorts and a navy t-shirt that stretched across his chest and back in a way that made me flush when I looked at him. He had almost caught me staring, but I was glad I had been at the stovetop. Cooking gave me something to do other than gawk at him.

  “So, let’s sit. Tell me what you have so far. Are you working on your forward—for both the blog and book?”

  “Yes. I thought that would be a nice way to summarize, and then I can go into more specifics throughout. Your mom thought it could also be what I base my interview questions on next week.”

  He nodded, scrutinizing me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You adapted to all this very quickly.”

  I shrugged. “A learned habit, I suppose. But since I have nothing on my page, I don’t think I’ve exactly come to terms with outing myself quite yet.”

  He pulled his chair up close, slid my journal out from underneath my hand, and pushed it out of my reach.

  “Uh, I might need that, Jackson. I thought you were going to help me write.”

  “I am.”

  “Okay?” I looked at him confused.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me, Angie. Close your eyes.”

  With one more look of uncertainty, I closed my eyes and sighed. It was unnerving to know that Jackson was watching me—my face felt hot under his gaze. I tried to relax.

  “Tell me who you are.”

  “Jackson, I don’t see how-”

  “You don’t take directions very well, do you? Why don’t you stop thinking about why my method won’t help and instead use that energy to answer my questions, okay?”

  I smiled. “Fine.”

  “Who are you, Angie?”

  I took a deep breath.
“I’m…I’m a twenty-nine year old single mom.”

  “And?”

  I stretched my neck from side-to-side, drawing the kinks out of tight muscles, but careful to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn’t invite another lecture.

  “I’m a loyal friend and a good sister.”

  “And?”

  “I’m a fighter—a survivor.”

  “And?”

  I exhaled, searching for something deeper. “I’m a believer in second chances, in redemption. I believe that hardships can be overcome and that strength is often built out of weakness.”

  I felt his touch on my hand. “And?”

  “And though I can’t change my past, my future is still unwritten. I’m a work in progress. I want the legacy I leave for Cody to be one of truth, not superficial perfectionism.”

  “Open your eyes,” he said softly. “That’s where you start.”

  I looked up at him, waiting for him to elaborate. But in true Jackson style, he did not. Instead, his challenging gaze held me captive, probing me to think deeper.

  Swallowing the thick emotion in my throat, I answered, “My legacy?”

  He nodded, and then an invisible blanket of warmth wrapped around my shoulders: Inspiration.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  My name is Angela Flores.

  This was not my given name, nor was it my married name. Instead, it was a name I chose, one I hoped could symbolize the freedom I so desperately desired. I hoped a name change could restore every broken promise, every painful memory and every trace of the woman I once was.

  And though there is much to be said for a name, my expectations could never be met by the filing of some simple paperwork. The name changed, but the woman I was did not change with it. She didn’t know how many years of hard work, intensive therapy and consistent support it would take before transformation took root.

  My story is not pretty. It is, in fact, far from pretty.

  The sketches of my life that I hold dear are the ones that are filled with obvious joy, happiness and pleasure. Most of which are shared with my son. However, those sketches are only fragments of a much larger picture, a picture I’ve been afraid to show until now.