All Who Dream (Letting Go)

by Deese, Nicole

  Though I can pinpoint the poor decisions I’ve made, the ones that led me straight into the mouth of the lion’s den, I am no longer a prisoner of shame. My wrong does not negate the wrong done to me and does not excuse it. That was a sentence that took me years to say.

  I want to be more than a survivor.

  Survival was once my only goal. If I could live to take another breath, if I could keep my son safe from abuse, if I could hide under the radar…then I had met my goal. But I realize now, surviving is not living. Life is more than just a beating heart; that is only where life begins.

  To overcome is to live beyond the fundamentals of survival. In my case, overcoming meant finding hope for something more—something outside of my shadow. I do not pretend to know all the answers, or to have walked the path of every victim of abuse, but I do understand what it sounds like to lose your voice.

  To liberate those lost to silence is the legacy I want to leave behind.

  I know I cannot do it alone. The statistics are far too daunting, but I can share my story. I am but one daughter, one sister, one mother…yet I am the voice of many. My story may not look exactly like yours, but the faces of oppression are all around us.

  I am no longer a victim of domestic violence. I am no longer lost to the darkness of isolation, lies and hopelessness. And though the details of my past are grim, my future will not be marked by the same fate.

  My name is Angela Flores, and I hope my story will be one that reminds you to fight, to live, and then to dream anew.

  Progress is made one brush stroke at a time. May we never stop painting.

  Angie

  Jackson had spent the majority of the evening on the couch reading after we ate. I wrote and wrote…and then re-wrote. When he finally heard me lay down my pen, he sat up and reached out his hand. I worried my lip at him, unsure.

  “Let me read it, Angie, come on,” he said. “I’ll even say please.”

  I lay my hand on top of the journal, hesitant to release it to him. “It would be a lot easier if I didn’t know you were a best-selling author.”

  “Well, then pretend you don’t.”

  “A little too late for that,” I said.

  He beckoned me again with his hand, a glint of mischief in his eye. I’d seen that look on the paddleboat, right before he pulled me into the water. I decided that it would be best to give in now rather than have him kidnap my journal by force. I was way too ticklish to win that contest.

  “Fine.”

  I handed the volume to him and then started to pace as the soft tick of the clock in his dining room reminded me to breathe. I glanced at him only once before the roll of nerves forced me to look away. Posting a blog was so different than writing for an instant critique. It wasn’t the first time this evening that I wondered if I was crazy for taking on this task.

  After several minutes had passed, Jackson put the journal down on his lap and held out his hand to me again. With a crooked finger he gestured me to come closer. I swallowed. Is this how he was going to break it to me gently? As I crept nearer, he took my hand and pulled me down next to him on the arm of his chair.

  “This is perfect, Angie,” he said, his voice thick.

  I bit my lip again, hiding the smile that wanted to break loose.

  “Really?”

  “Yes…this needs to get sent to Sally, the editor, tonight. Don’t change a word.”

  I turned the smile loose with, a feeling of accomplishment swelling in my chest. Jackson smiled back, but this time when we made eye contact one question surfaced to the forefront of my mind: How could he believe in me without hesitation, yet abandon his own talent so easily?

  As I stared at him, my heart ached for the hope he’d given up, for the dreams he had deserted. And in that moment I knew with full clarity why he was so passionate about my future.

  Because he had given up on his own.

  There were so many should haves and could haves that hovered in the space between us, so many past regrets, hurts and losses—whether due to pride, circumstance or guilt. But in the end none of that mattered. The truth was: we were not so dissimilar.

  Beyond the wealthy CEO who sat beside me now, was a young man who had dreamed of influencing the world and sharing a voice of his own. I wanted to know him.

  “What about you, Jackson?” My voice was soft, but the passion that surged through my veins was strong.

  If Jackson was allowed to want for my future, than I was allowed to want for his.

  “We’re not talking about me right now, Angie,” he said, a shadow crossing over his features.

  “But I want to.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Why are you so willing to see in me what you won’t see in yourself?”

  I slipped off the arm of his chair and perched on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of him. We needed to have this conversation—sooner rather than later. Neither of us knew what later held.

  “My course has already been set, Angie. This is my life now; my responsibility is to this company. I’ve accepted it. You should, too.” His gaze was penetrating.

  I picked up his hand, lacing my fingers through his. I needed him to see me, to hear me, to stop whatever pretense of denial he’d been living under for the last two years. His breathing changed as my pulse echoed loudly in my ears.

  “I won’t accept that statement. Your life is more than a responsibility—especially one that’s formed from a guilty conscience.” I took in an unsteady breath, pushing myself to continue. “I overheard you talking with Jacob in the library. I know he’s not going to get better, Jackson.” I leaned in to touch his face with my free hand as his eyes continued to burn into mine. “I know you’re grieving over his decision to stop treatments, and I know you must be hurting…but giving up your dreams won’t fix anything.”

  Jackson’s body tensed at my words, his chest rising and falling at a faster rate than seconds before. His eyes were a fusion of torture and beauty. They called to me, squeezing my chest like a vise. His hands gripped my bare knees gently, anchoring me as he leaned in close. “I don’t have any dreams, Angie. They expired the day Livie died, and they were buried six feet under the day that Jacob told me he was stopping treatments.”

  The air was pushed from my lungs as I let his words sink in. There was a part of me that still hoped it was all a misunderstanding, that I had overheard wrong. I wanted to reach for him as he slid his hand over his face, as if trying to clear his mind, but I kept my hands to myself, for the moment.

  “Help me understand, Jackson,” I whispered. “Does Jacob expect you to—”

  “It doesn’t matter what he expects me to do. What matters is what I should do, what I should have done a long time ago.”

  “But it didn’t sound to me like he wanted you to give up your-”

  “Well, it sounds to me like you already know everything.” His eyes dared me to challenge him.

  So I did. I knew he wanted to argue so that it would deflect from this conversation, but I wouldn’t engage him in that. I wanted answers, not a battle.

  “Hardly. A three-minute conversation outside the library door is not everything, Jackson.” I reminded myself stay calm. “Tell me about Jacob.”

  “He’s dying.”

  And with that, the tender-Jackson I had seen glimpses of was gone. His curt response stung, as did the truth behind his words. It took me more than a second to recover.

  I did my best to keep the emotion I was feeling out of my voice, but I doubted my acting abilities were that good. “How long…how long does he have?”

  He shrugged. “Could be as little as six months or as long as five years. No one knows for sure.”

  An icy shudder went through my core as I watched his face, and the lie of his indifference stared back at me. I knew the unnatural calm was a coping mechanism, but still, it broke me to see his resolution. He felt far more than he was letting on. I’d heard his voice when he
spoke to his brother that day in the library.

  “Do Peter and Pippy know?” I thought of my sweet friend who I’d come to love like a sister and pushed the threat of tears down again.

  “Yes. They knew before I did—they made the decision together, as a family.”

  This stopped my heart mid-beat.

  Oh, Jackson.

  I closed my eyes, feeling the heaviness of his guilt. His opinion hadn’t been heard…possibly because he hadn’t been there to say it. The dots were connecting again. Were those calls he hadn’t taken from his brother, the ones he had ignored for months, about that? I felt sick to my stomach. By the time Jackson had shown up at the company to take on his brother’s position, Jacob had already decided. I wanted to be wrong, but deep down I knew I wasn’t.

  “Jackson-”

  “Angie,” his voice was soft, but his eyes were not. “I know you’re only asking because you care about him and the twins, but rehashing his decision isn’t going to change anything for me.”

  “That’s not the only reason I’m asking, Jackson. I do care about them, but I care about you even more.”

  The truth slipped out without thought. His eyes grew wide at my admission. It was the closest I’d come to saying it all—baring my heart completely, my heart that now beat wildly against my chest. It surprised me again how strong my feelings were for him. And I knew in that moment that they weren’t going to lessen with time, in fact, the force that pulled at my desire for him only confirmed the laws of gravity.

  He pulled me into his lap, and the next instant my hands were in his hair, my hip twisting against him. He kissed me hungrily as if afraid I’d disappear. I was aware of his hands on my back as I pressed into his chest, equally aware of the heat that built between us with each passing second. I wasn’t sure who would have more self-control—but I hoped it was him. No part of me wanted this to stop.

  I craved his kisses more than I craved my next breath.

  My lips felt swollen and hot when Jackson pulled back, his hair a disheveled mess between my fingers.

  “Angie—I need to take you home, sweetheart.”

  I nodded, my breathing heavy and ragged.

  With a groan, he gripped my hips and pushed me back onto the coffee table opposite him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he scrubbed his hands over his face again and again. Heat radiated off my body as my gaze remained focused on his lips. He caught my eye and gave a short, breathy laugh in response. My face exploded into flame.

  “You can’t look at me like that, Ang. Not when I’m trying my best to be a gentleman.”

  I bit my lip. “Sorry.”

  He nudged my leg with his playfully. “Thanks by the way.”

  “For what?” I asked, my scalp tingling under his gaze.

  “Caring.”

  If he hadn’t stood up to grab his car keys, I would have kissed him again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The following morning, my book forward was posted on several online sites, including the front page of Pinkerton Press and my blog, along with a new profile picture. The response was overwhelming. Emails filled my inbox, so much so that Pippy had to manage them for me so I could write.

  And write I did.

  For the next three days, I did nothing but eat, sleep and write. I was holed up with the Senior Editor, Sally Miller. My days started before eight and ended sometime after the midnight hour. We outlined the inserts and additions that would need to be added to my book. The work was exhausting, but strangely gratifying. Seeing the pages of my blog in book format, each entry with its own chapter heading, caught me by surprise.

  On those pages, the stories that made up my life were written.

  That thought was absolutely surreal.

  The only breaks I had were when Jackson brought me food or when I called Cody—twice a day. His voice made my heart ache to be with him, yet his happiness was obvious. He said he missed me, but I knew he was not counting down the hours, nor did I want him to be. He was having fun at soccer camp and visiting with Briggs and Charlie.

  At the end of the three days, I talked to Rosie during the car ride back to my building and then I slipped into my covers just after 2:30 a.m.—barely coherent. She had helped with Cody’s pick-up earlier that day since his soccer schedule was tricky to orchestrate with Briggs and Charlie. She’d asked about the latest with Jackson—as if she had some sixth-sense that more had happened between us, but I didn’t have the energy for that conversation. Instead, I yawned, and promised her a rain check convo. She, of course, was not satisfied with that answer, but when I fell asleep with the phone still to my ear, I could only hope she understood.

  I don’t even remember hanging up.

  BAM.

  BAM.

  BAM.

  I sat straight up in bed, confused at the sound that seemed to echo through my dark room. I rubbed my eyes and threw the covers off, straightening my tank top and sleep shorts as I walked to the front door. The strong, pounding rattled the chain at the top of the panel.

  As my fingers unlocked the last of the bolts, a cold chill ran the length of my body. In my delirious state, I hadn’t looked out the peephole. I hesitated as my hand hovered over the doorknob, but it was too late.

  The door flew open.

  I opened my mouth to scream as his face registered a second too late. His hands were around my throat before any sound could escape my throat. He pressed his thumbs into my trachea. Black spots blinded my vision in a way that was much too familiar.

  “You should have kept you mouth shut, you lying wench. Nothing happened to you that you didn’t deserve. You’re the one who thought you could keep him a secret from me—hide him from me—but that just shows how stupid you are. How stupid you’ve always been. No one believes you, Angie. You’re pathetic.” He dug his nails into my skin. “It’s your fear that gives you away every time. It’s how I found you—it’s how I’ll always find you.”

  I pushed at him, twisting under the pressure and pain trapped inside me. Tears squeezed from my eyes as his hands tightened around my neck. My body sagged limply as his strength overtook me.

  This was it.

  He was killing me—again.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  Bam.

  I jumped up, my body shaking so violently I feared my bones might crack as I gasped for breath. I touched my face, wet with tears. Then I heard the sound again.

  It was a dream—just a dream.

  Yet somehow, it was more than that. I walked dizzily to the front door, hesitant to even look out the peephole. I pressed my palm against it, trying to take in a full breath.

  Dirk’s in prison. I reminded myself. He can’t be here.

  I peered out—fear still clinging to me like a wet, sticky substance.

  I took in a shaky breath in recognition of the face that stood on the other side of the door.

  I undid each lock with hands that trembled so hard they missed the chain latch—twice. The knob turned and opened, and a very agitated Jackson stepped inside an instant later. I crossed my arms over my chest, not realizing until that very second that I was still in my camisole and sleep shorts.

  “Angie, I’ve been calling you for over two hours,”—he started gruffly, but stopped mid-sentence. “What’s wrong?”

  His eyes scanned my face, concern etched onto his every feature.

  As his arms reached for me, I took a step back, trying to get my bearings through my sleepy delirium. The image and feeling of Dirk’s choking hands around my throat blurred the lines between reality and fiction. Jackson’s gaze sharpened as I retreated, but his voice calmed considerably as if he was trying to talk someone down off a ledge.

  “Angie, why are you shaking like that sweetheart? Talk to me—please.”

  I nodded, blinking several times as if to convinced myself it was really Jackson that stood before me now and no one else.

  “I…I had a nightmare,” I whispered. “It was…so real.” I
shuddered again..

  His arms encircled me, holding me tight for several minutes. Neither of us spoke a word. Finally, he moved me over to the couch then grabbed a thin blanket off my bed and wrapped it around my shoulders as he pulled me close. I covered my face with my hands as I rested against his chest. I breathed deep as the details again invaded my mind like images of a horror movie—one that was much too close for comfort.

  “Can you tell me about it?” Jackson asked softly.

  I calmed myself, as his hand rubbed my arm in gentle repetition. “Dirk was here—at my apartment. I heard knocking and opened the door without checking to see who was there. He choked me, before I could even scream or cry out. And then he…” I shook my head as another shudder went through me.

  “He what?” Jackson said, anger lacing his tone.

  “He said I should have kept my mouth shut—that I’m just a weak, pathetic liar that no one will ever believe.”

  Jackson’s arms tightened around me as he kissed the top of my head. “Sweetheart, he’s the one who is pathetic, not you.” He kissed my head again and smoothed out my hair as it hung loosely down my back and around my face. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  If only that were true.

  He still lived inside me somewhere—within every fear I owned.

  “Do you have these nightmares often?”

  I shook my head. “I used to have them almost every night—but they’ve only just come back recently.”

  “You’ve been working too hard, Angie. What time did you get in last night?”

  I bit my lip, not wanting to answer him. Jackson had left around ten, only after I assured him that I would be leaving as soon as I finished up my last couple of paragraphs. Sally had gone home hours earlier, yet somehow in the quiet solitude, I’d found my second wind. Jackson had already stayed hours later that normal, waiting around for me, but I knew he was tired. He had kept the same hours I had all week, attending more meetings than I could even keep fathom.