All Who Dream (Letting Go)

by Deese, Nicole

  His smile spread wide as his eyes found me.

  “You know, I used to think I was partial to certain dresses you wear, but I’m starting to think my partiality has nothing to do with the dress, and everything to do with the woman who wears it.”

  I finally released the breath I’d been holding and smiled back at him, cheeks heating.

  “You look really…good, Jackson.” I said.

  He smiled and reached for my hand, lacing my fingers through his. “You’re the only thing that will make this night bearable for me—I hope you realize that. These things are the bane of my existence.”

  I laughed as he winked at me.

  We talked for the next hour and thirty minutes, avoiding mention of my pending departure, his secretive work drama or my interview tomorrow. What was left was a lot of hyperbole. We each asked each other a “what if” question that had to be answered. The game made the time go by quickly and taught me a lot more about the man I had fallen so deeply in love with in just six short weeks.

  **********

  The dinner was held as a massive building that looked like a replica of the Coliseum. It was gigantic. There were fountains, gardens and pathways everywhere I looked. It was gorgeous. We were far enough away from the city that I could see the outlines of the stars in the dimming night sky. The amount of people who were there for the event was overwhelming. Close to a thousand at least.

  Jackson linked my arm and walked me into the grand ballroom, where we found our seats. Cocktails and appetizers were served shortly after and the speaker—an elderly gentleman—was quoting out of his favorite books of the year when my phone vibrated over and over. Jackson looked at me with concern as I quietly took it out of my silver clutch.

  Rosie.

  She had left a message. I bit my lip and Jackson nodded his head toward the door, as if signaling me to go ahead and call her back. I smiled, relieved at his sensitivity. Cody wasn’t with Rosie tonight, but still, she knew I was coming to this dinner. We had texted about it earlier this afternoon.

  I excused myself as quietly as could, lifting my dress a tad to walk without stumbling over the hem. As I made my way outside, my phone struggled to find a good signal. Every time I click into her voicemail the call would drop. I walked a little farther around the building, focused on the screen of my phone. Still nothing. I lifted it up and moved several feet back and forth, even though rationally, I’m sure this made no difference at all.

  “Ms. Flores?”

  I turned, startled.

  “Stewart—I mean, Mr. Vargus? Hi, how are you?”

  “Doing about the same as you it looks like. I was trying to return a call, but can’t seem to find any good coverage out here for some reason. Glad to know it’s not just me.”

  I smiled as he did the same. His face was so kind—the type of face you’d picture your favorite uncle having, or your favorite English teacher. I imagined him to be in his early forties. His eyes were warm, though the sudden awkwardness between us was quite apparent.

  “I uh…I heard about your interview tomorrow,” he said.

  My stomach knotted, unsure where this was going. I didn’t need to hear anything negative, especially not the night before I head into the ring with her.

  “Yes,” I said simply.

  “Well, I think you’ll do excellent. You’re quite well-spoken, and I have every confidence that you can put that miserable woman in her place.”

  “Thank you—that vote of confidence means a lot. I’m not sure how it will go to be honest, but I feel as ready as I can be.”

  “That’s good, I-”

  “What are you doing, Stewart?”

  We both turned as Jackson made his way over to us—anger on his face.

  I don’t know why I felt guilty in that moment, but I did. It was like I’d just been caught fraternizing with the enemy—but why was Stewart the enemy? Jackson’s hand was on my arm before I could speak. It was a protective gesture, but again, I had no idea why he was trying to protect me from Stewart. My face grew hot with embarrassment as I looked from one man to the other.

  “Stay away from her,” Jackson growled at him in a tone that made my bones hurt.

  Stewart lifted his hands in surrender. “Jackson, we were just having an innocent conversation.”

  “Innocent? Yeah, I know all about your definition of innocent, Stew.”

  Though Stewart’s eyes hardened, his face remained relaxed. I didn’t know how that was possible. The tension made me want to cry, but I didn’t. Jackson never reacted poorly due to awkwardness…in fact, I’d only seen this reaction from him one other time, at the board meeting. Coincidentally, Stewart was there for that as well.

  “Jackson, he’s right, it was nothing-”

  His brows furrowed in response to me, our faces close. “Don’t defend him. He doesn’t deserve it,” Jackson looked back at Stewart. “Believe me, he has no problem taking care of himself.”

  This finally seemed to spark a reaction from Stewart. His face had lost the peaceful look of a minute earlier, and now it was hard as granite.

  “You have some nerve, Jackson.”

  I flinched, as Stewart stepped toward us, but Jackson held my arm tight.

  “Isn’t it about time you move on from your conspiracy theories? You weren’t the only one who lost someone that day.” Stewart gestured toward me, as if I was some kind of solution to this mounting tension.

  My head started to pound as Jackson stepped in front of me, dropping my arm in the process. I didn’t know what to do. It was like a bad bar scene, though no one was drinking, and everyone was in formalwear.

  Jackson’s voice dropped several decibels. “You mean I wasn’t the only one who lost someone they loved that day…right, Stew?”

  When Stewart threw the punch, Jackson must have been anticipating it because he quickly dodged left, yet somehow his bottom lip was dotted with blood when he shoved Stewart back. The fresh distance seemed alert them both to their surroundings—and to me.

  Time was an irritating scab—one I wanted to scratch in order to alleviate the itch underneath. Suddenly, I knew exactly what it felt like to be on one of those trashy talk-shows, the ones where half-way through the curtain was pulled back for one last shocking reveal: This was the big reveal.

  Stewart was the friend of Jacob’s who’d been with Livie when she died. Had he been in love with her, too?

  “I apologize for this, Mrs. Flores. Things got out of control. It won’t happen again. Goodnight,” Stewart said before walking off.

  I nodded after him, purposefully keeping my eyes off Jackson.

  “Goodnight.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jackson bent over a railing nearby, pressing his split lip with his hand as he stared into the pond. My insides quaked with so many emotions at once. I didn’t know where to start—but one thing was for sure, I wasn’t leaving until I was finished. I wanted every piece of information…and I wanted it now.

  I deserved that much.

  My heels clicked against the paved pathway, and Jackson turned his head, standing upright as if preparing himself for battle.

  “I didn’t mean for that to get so out of hand,” he said.

  I glared at him, hand on hip. “Stewart was the one with Livie when she died? That’s why you hate him?”

  His face darkened at my tone. I continued, undeterred.

  “Were you accusing him of having feelings for her? Tell me what’s going on, Jackson.”

  His eyes found mine again, begging me to understand. I waited impatiently for him to continue.

  “Stewart’s known my family since I was a boy. He and Jacob were best friends growing up, and he was my father’s assistant before Jacob took over the company. He was next in line because I had always told them I didn’t want to be involved in the family business.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “While I was busy writing, Stewart offered to escort Livie to different functions and events. And like the selfish idiot I am,
I agreed. I trusted him. My family still trusts him.”

  He practically spit the last words out of his mouth.

  “What happened?”

  “I found a letter from her—to him, explaining that she needed to put some distance between them…that her feelings were becoming something more than friendship and that she loved me—that she was going to marry me.” He looked at me. “She was with him when she died.”

  “But what did Stewart do, Jackson? Do you think he had some plan to steal her away from you?” I asked.

  “Does it matter? They had feelings for each other!”

  “Seems like you’re assuming a lot based on one letter. What if it was one-sided? What if she was taking a precaution by intending to give him that letter—and his feelings for her were only platonic? There are a thousand scenarios Jackson-”

  “Yes, and I’ll never know the truth, will I? Because I killed her before I could ask any of those questions!”

  My mouth hung open as I let his words burrow into my heart. Tears pooled in my eyes as Jackson held his ground—his eyes like steel.

  “Your drive to stay at the company has more to motivation behind it than your guilt over Livie and Jacob…doesn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, which was my answer.

  “Why, Jackson—say it!”

  “Because I don’t want him to have it!”

  I closed my eyes, letting the truth wash over me like acid rain.

  “You would rather stay miserable—give up your life and your dreams for a job you hate, than to let Stewart take your place? Is that seriously what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  I blew out a breath I’d been holding for some time—maybe weeks.

  “You need to ask him to tell you the truth. There has to be another side to the story than only her letter. Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong, but you need to ask. If Jacob can still trust him like he does, don’t you think you owe it yourself to find out the facts? To stop basing your life decisions on assumption and guilt? Because the only person you’re really punishing is you.” I walked closer to him. “And what about Jacob? Does staying miserable atone for him, too?”

  “Leave it alone, Angie,” he warned.

  “No. Jacob loves you—he wants better for your life than this. He told me so.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “Did he? Did he also tell you that he’s plotting with Stewart to sway the board to vote me out at the next board meeting?”

  I closed my eyes at the hurt in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Jackson. No, he didn’t. I don’t think that’s right, but I do think he has your best interests in mind.”

  Jackson linked both hands behind his neck.

  “And that right there is where we differ, Ang.”

  “What?” I asked.

  His arms fell away, his face anguished yet hard.

  “We’re too different.”

  My stomach dropped as my knees were tempted to do the same.

  “Stop saying that…just tell me what you mean, Jackson?”

  His eyes grew soft as my bottom lip trembled with uncertainty.

  He exhaled. “You have a big day tomorrow…we’ll finish this later. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  By the time we made it to the car I felt like I was dream-walking. Miraculously, I was able to hold my tears in during our silent ride back to my apartment. When Walt pulled up to the curb, I opened my door before he had the chance.

  Jackson followed me inside the lobby, and pulled back on my arm slightly as I walked past him. “Get some rest tonight, Angie.”

  And just like the first night we met, nearly six week ago, I had nothing to say in reply.

  **********

  I laid on the bed, forcing myself to breathe and not to cry. I didn’t know anything yet…or maybe I did. Whatever was going on between us would have to wait until after the interview. He was right about that. I needed sleep and I needed to focus. I curled onto my side on the mattress and spotted my phone atop the nightstand. Suddenly, I remembered Rosie’s voicemail—the one I didn’t get a chance to hear. I placed the phone on the bed with me and called up my voice mail on speaker. My best friend’s voice filled the room.

  “Ang—sorry to call while you’re at the dinner tonight, but I knew you’d want to know this. Jenny, the girl we couldn’t find from The Refuge, the one who moved to Oklahoma to be safe…well, we found her. She’s in ICU…and it’s really bad. I guess she went back to her boyfriend a couple weeks ago. Last night he beat her up so bad that the neighbor didn’t even recognize her when she got to her house the next morning. You’re doing the right thing, Ang…with the book and the interview. There are women that need our help. Okay, I love you. Call me back. Bye.”

  I closed my eyes and let her words wash over me. Unknowingly, she had just fueled the fire—the fire that needed to burn into the interview tomorrow. There were bigger things amiss in this world than Jackson Ross and Angela Flores.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Before I even sat in the makeup chair, I wanted to vomit. But every time the nausea rolled in my tummy, I’d replay the voicemail in my head.

  I’d been shocked to see Walt at the curb this morning when I was expecting to catch a cab, but Jackson wasn’t inside the vehicle. Considering how we parted last night, that wasn’t a huge surprise, but his absence stung. A lot. That’s when I took out my phone and listened to Rosie’s voicemail…five times in a row.

  The fire was stoked.

  As I followed a young man with a headset toward the studio, I reached for my necklace out of habit. My hand trembled when it came up empty. For a slight second, the fire dimmed as panic crept up inside me. And then I saw him.

  Jackson.

  His eyes were glued to me as I walked through the studio. They were the piercing eyes that meant business, the ones that demanded respect from his employees, and the ones that showed no favoritism. But they were exactly the ones I needed most in this moment.

  I drew from their strength..

  In that moment my fear dissolved, vanishing from my body and my mind completely. A fear that had owned me, that had enslaved me, that had subjected even my sub-consciousness to its cruelty. But this man had reminded me over and over again that I was safe. That I was whole. That I was enough.

  And I finally believed it, no matter where we stood now.

  He stood several feet from me as the current segment came to a close. I could hear his breathing and feel the warmth of his body, but neither of us spoke. His presence beside me was enough. I wouldn’t ask for more, not when there were too many unknowns hovering in the space around us.

  As I watched Divina walk from one set to the other, my name was called over the deafening speaker overhead. Jackson’s hand found mine. It wasn’t the intimate touch of intertwined fingers, but a simple hold, a reminder.

  He squeezed briefly. “I believe in you, Angie.”

  I nodded as I walked to the living room set that I knew all too well.

  I ignored Divina’s glare as I sat, choosing to hear Rosie’s message in my mind one last time before the countdown was over.

  And then it was just us: her and I.

  Under the spotlight.

  Again.

  Her long legs were crossed at the ankle and curled to the left of her chair. Her eyes were a dark mask of makeup, while her fuchsia lips fought them for attention. But I looked past it all as she spoke.

  “We’re here again today with Mrs. Angela Flores, a new author and blogger of A Lone Joy, where her life as a single mom has been documented in detail. And since our last interview there have been some new additions made to both your pre-published book and your blog—correct? Is that what you’re here to talk about today?”

  “Yes, thank you, Divina. I have made several major changes to my manuscript, thanks to our last interview,” I said through my smile. “Your tough questions that day have actually given me the confidence I needed to speak out about an issue that is very c
lose to my heart: bringing awareness to the crime of Domestic Violence.”

  “And that is because you yourself were a victim?” Her voice was laced with false sincerity.

  “Yes, I was in an abusive marriage for nearly four years.”

  Her eyebrows shot up as if she was surprised, although I knew she wasn’t. “And what were your reasons for staying a victim for that long? Why didn’t you just leave the first time he hit you?”

  And here we go.

  “Though it’s nice to believe in the-first-time-will-be-the-last theory, that is rarely how women respond. There are often a lot of emotional, mental, physical and financial ties to a woman’s abuser. Leaving can often feel more daunting a task than the abuse itself, but that is the lie I want to speak out against most. No woman or child should be trapped under the hand of abuse. The cost of freedom might be high, but it’s worth is far more valuable.”

  Her eyes shot daggers at me. “What help do you—a single-mother, who has limited resources, possibly hope to offer? You are only one person.”

  I sat up straighter, fire burning in the base of my belly. “That’s all it takes: one person. It was one person who reached out to me, just one person who told me there was hope. One person can mean the difference between life and death, Divina. We all have been given a voice—and I’m ready to use mine.”

  She leaned in, as if to circle her prey. “But I find it interesting how you didn’t use your voice before—not until I informed your readers of this secret in your past did you decided to speak out. We often keep secrets for one reason: because we are ashamed. Isn’t it hypocritical of you to ask these kinds of women to identify themselves when you didn’t for so long?”

  I took a deep breath, pulling myself back out of the hole that wanted to consume me. I wouldn’t let it take me. Not today.

  “No. Leaving your abuser is only step one, but recovering from abuse is a life-long journey. I have shared my story before, although I never shared it publicly until recently. I believed it was my job to protect certain people in my life from the details of my abuse—but now I believe that even the ugliest and darkest parts of our lives can be redeemed for good. I used to be ashamed of my story, but I know now that the only way to break the hold of shame is to stop acting ashamed. For me, that is a lesson I am still learning, daily.”