Take Heart

by Smith, Lauren

  After staying late to catch up on orders, I call it a day and head to my parents’ house. I need to finish up the project I’ve been working on in the garage. I cruise up the driveway and put the car in park. I called my mom ahead of time and told her I was coming, so she already has the garage door open.

  Walking in, I flip on the light switch and set my keys down on my workbench. Each time I come in here and see that, I’m reminded of Mia’s naked body draped across it, aroused and waiting for me. The thought instantly makes my cock stir from its slumber. It’s been a while. I can’t help it when my thoughts drift to the way her eyes darken when I boss her around in the bedroom. She likes that, but only in the bedroom.

  I miss her so much. I miss the smell of strawberries and vanilla in her hair. I miss the way she builds up my ego, and then two seconds later, turns around and shatters it with her quick wit. I miss holding her in my arms and making her smile. I miss hearing her sing really bad eighties music in the shower, while I’m getting ready in the morning. But most of all, I miss the way she makes me feel when I’m around her. Like I’m the only person that matters in her eyes. To everyone else, she may be a stranger—someone you pass by on the sidewalk or in the store, but to me, she’s everything.

  A light knock on the door breaks me from my thoughts. I turn around to see my mom, watching me intently. She’s wearing a concerned look on her face. It’s the look of a mother who knows her son isn’t happy. She steps forward with a warm plate of food in her hands.

  “I made supper earlier. I thought you might like some leftovers while you work out here,” she says warmly.

  I reach out and take the plate from her. “Thanks, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile.

  She steps further into the garage and walks over to my father’s workbench. Her fingers glide over the surface, picking up some sawdust along the way. She rubs her thumb over her index and middle fingers and looks around the room nostalgically. “You know, every time your father and I would have an argument, he’d come out here and work on something to help take his mind off it. Sometimes he’d be out in this garage for hours, just building away until he was ready to talk about it.”

  “I remember that. There were times I used to be out here helping him,” I remind her.

  “I know,” she smiles fondly. “He’s always so stubborn—just like you.”

  I break eye contact and set the plate down. “Where are you going with this one, Mom?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

  “Whatever’s going on between you and Mia, it will eventually pass.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I say, guarded. “I haven’t heard from her in weeks.”

  “Do you love her?”

  Her question hits me like a ton of bricks. I firmly grip my workbench and drop my head down to look at the ground. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and exhale.

  “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she assures me.

  “Without question,” I say, opening my eyes again. I straighten up and glance at her. “I love her without question. I’m sure you’re thinking that’s highly unlikely since we haven’t been together for very long, but I’m telling you, I’m crazy in love with her.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she responds, unfazed.

  My brows knit together in confusion. “You’re not going to stand here and tell me it’s too soon?” I ask, not understanding her reaction. My mom has never been the type of woman who throws caution to the wind. She’s very practical and careful with her choices. She dated my dad for seven years before she married him. In her mind, that’s considered a shotgun wedding.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she says, her voice filled with humor.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I was expecting a big lecture from you about how we barely know each other and how it’s too soon to be feeling this way.”

  “Chase, we can’t help who we fall in love with. Besides, who am I to tell you what you want or how you feel? Our hearts choose that for us in their own timeframe. For some people, it takes years to feel that strongly for someone. For others, it may only take a month. Neither is right nor wrong. Just follow your heart.”

  I’m speechless. Who is this woman and what has she done with my mother? All I can do is stand and stare at her, bewildered. This is not how I thought this conversation was going to go. My mom is a very compassionate woman, but I usually don’t see that side of her. I always seem to find myself getting scolded for something. It’s been that way since the moment of my conception.

  “I don’t know what to do anymore, Mom.”

  “Well, if you truly love her, then don’t give up. Give her some time to heal. The poor girl lost her mother, and consequently, the only family she had left. That’s a lot for anyone to handle, but it’s especially hard for someone who’s so young. She’ll reach out when she’s ready to.”

  “That’s not fair to me. At this rate, I’ll be waiting for months. How am I supposed to have a relationship with someone who won’t even pick up the phone?”

  “You have to ask yourself if she’s worth the wait. I’m not saying she’s handling this the best way, Chase. After all, you’re my son and I don’t like to see you this upset. But, I don’t think she’s doing this to hurt you on purpose. You have to be willing to put yourself in her shoes. Try to understand what she’s going through. What happened to her was tragic, and now she’s adjusting to a brand new life with no more safety net to catch her when she falls.”

  “I’m her safety net,” I say, placing my hand over my chest to emphasize my point.

  “Then catch her,” she says, her voice obvious. Now I know where Meg gets that tone.

  My mom boldly steps forward and places her hands on my shoulders. The gesture makes me feel like I’m a kid again. She looks like she’s about to impart some more motherly wisdom, as if she hasn’t already made her point. She looks up at me, her soft eyes conveying a deep-seated love. “I just want you to be happy with whatever choice you decide. If you love Mia, and she makes you happy, then go get her. A love like that doesn’t always come around a second time.”

  She’s right. There won’t ever be another Mia. She’s a one-of-a-kind woman. So what the fuck am I doing here wallowing away in self-pity? I’m a full believer that I control my own destiny. If I want something, I go after it and work my ass off to get it. Why am I telling myself that this is out of my control? It’s not. If Mia doesn’t want to talk to me, well, I just don’t accept that.

  And then it hits me like a mighty kick to the balls. I know how I’m going to get her back. I once told her not too long ago that if she didn’t hear me out and give me a chance, I’d harass her until she did. So how’s this any different? I need to get her back and I’m going to do it the same way I got her in the first place—perseverance.

  “Mom, you’re fucking brilliant,” I praise, kissing her cheek.

  “I didn’t tell you anything that you didn’t already know, darling,” she says. “And watch your mouth,” she reprimands.

  Now that’s my mom.

  She turns and walks out of the garage. Feeling rejuvenated, I grab my phone and search through my contacts until I find Raven’s number. I have an idea, and in order for it to work, I’m going to need her help orchestrating things.

  TWENTY-TWO

  a m e l i a

  There’s a loud knock on the door that wakes me up from the soundest sleep I’ve had in weeks. It’s Christmas. I had intended to sleep all day, until this unknown douche bag came along and threw a monkey wrench into my plans. I reach for my phone on the nightstand and check the time: it’s 10:02 a.m. When the knocking doesn’t cease, I let out a frustrated grunt and violently kick the covers off. I throw on some sweatpants and begrudgingly walk to the front door.

  Strands of Christmas lights are hanging down from the ceiling. Have you ever seen National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? Remember when Clark Griswold covers every square inch of his house in Christmas lights? That’s what the inside of our livi
ng room looks like. You would think a Hallmark store got a hold of us and vomited all over our walls. To say Raven overdid it with the decorating would be a bit of an understatement. To put it in perspective, we have a Hanukkah menorah perched on our windowsill, and we’re not Jewish.

  Before unlocking the door, I check through the peephole to see who it is. There’s a guy who looks to be around my age, standing on the opposite side. He’s dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and dark blue jeans. His hair is chestnut brown and he’s looking down at his cell phone, texting. I’ve never seen him before; and I don’t know why he’d be knocking on my door on Christmas morning, or any other morning, for that matter. Mindfully, I unlock the door and open it just a crack.

  “Can I help you?”

  He immediately looks up and slides his phone into his pocket. “Hi, you must be Amelia. I’m Ethan, and I have a delivery for you,” he says brightly. He isn’t dressed in any uniform that would indicate he’s a delivery guy.

  “It’s Christmas. There aren’t any deliveries on Christmas,” I say, irritated. I start to close the door, but he sticks his foot in the wedge to stop me.

  “Correction. There is one delivery, and it’s for you. Do you mind if I come in?” he asks, presumptuous.

  “No, you may not.” I push the door against his shoe but he doesn’t budge. I’ve just gone from slightly irritated, to boiling hot angry. It doesn’t take much to push me over the edge these days. I’m still emotionally fragile, and it’s Christmas—a day where everyone is happily celebrating with their families—everyone but me. I can’t feel too sorry for myself, though, because I chose that route. Raven invited me to her parents’ place, but I declined. After losing my mom, the last thing I want to do is surround myself with a large family to remind me that I have none, so I chose to stay home. Besides, with the Ebenezer Scrooge-like mood I’m in, who would want to be around me, anyway?

  “Okay, I’m only going to say this once. Move your foot,” I snap.

  He shakes his head back and forth, giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry, no can do. I’m not leaving here until you get your gift. I’ve got orders from Chase. He already warned me that I might get a reaction like this from you, so don’t bother trying to get me to leave. It won’t work.”

  The second half of that sentence would have sealed his fate if it weren’t for the name drop. Chase sent him? Two very contradictory things happen to me at once: My heart cracks with a sharp pain at the sound of his name. Hope blooms in my chest with the possibility that he’s still thinking about me.

  The thought gives me solace because I can’t stop thinking about him either. I never worked up the courage to call him back because I was scared it was too late. It’s like when you know you have to do well on a final exam in order to get a decent grade in the class, but you deliberately blow it off because you’re so afraid to fail. Everything else you’ve already done up to that point all hinges on how well you perform on the final, however, by not taking the exam, you’ve already sabotaged yourself. That’s what this feels like. I didn’t want to hear Chase tell me that it was over, so I avoided him at all costs, and probably destroyed the relationship as a result. Hearing him say that it was too late for us, would’ve shattered whatever little jagged pieces were left of me. I’ve already surpassed my quota for loss and pain this month.

  “What do you mean until I get my gift? What gift?” I ask, confused.

  He holds up a finger as if to say “just a moment” and turns, jogging down the stairs. I leave the door cracked and walk into the kitchen to make some breakfast. I grab some vanilla yogurt, strawberries, and bananas out of the fridge, and decide to make myself a smoothie. I grab the blender from the cupboard, and look around for a place to set it down, but I can’t find one. Raven’s homemade cookies and fudge are covering every inch of space on the counter tops. They’re all still sitting out on wax paper from last night. We were watching It’s a Wonderful Life, and out of nowhere, she got the urge to bake. Normally my ass and thighs would hate her for that, but since I haven’t been eating much, those sinfully delicious sweets have been helping me gain some much needed weight back.

  I stride into the living room and plug the blender into the wall by the TV. I sit down on the floor with the cutting board, peel the banana, and cut the stems off all the strawberries. I throw everything into the blender, stick the lid on, and start it up. The door flies open and I rapidly swing my head to see Ethan backing in. He’s carrying something heavy, so I quickly hop to my feet and race over to help.

  “Back up,” he orders. His voice is strained from the weight of whatever he’s lifting. I do as he says and move out of the way so he can back all the way in. He makes his way through the door carrying a dark mahogany dresser. Another guy walks through the door holding the other end.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” Ethan asks loudly, over all the commotion. I quickly rush across the room to turn the blender off.

  “It’s down the hall—the last door on the right.”

  “Follow us in there and show us where you want this thing,” he says.

  “Hold on a sec,” I stop him. “Let me go in there first and clear a path for you guys.” He nods, and I slip into the hallway, dashing into my room. Knowing I have about ten seconds before they reach my door, I frantically pick my clothes up off the floor and fling them across the room into the closet. I kick my shoes out of the way like a soccer star going for a goal. I widen the door so they can fit the dresser through.

  “Over there.” I point to the opposite side of the room. The wall is completely bare on that side, and it would be the perfect place for a dresser. I jump up onto my bed so I’m completely out of their way, and follow them with my eyes as they maneuver around. They line the dresser up against the wall, and double-check to make sure it’s even, then they carefully set it down. As soon as the legs hit the floor, they each release a big breath. I hop back down.

  “Would you guys like something to drink? There’s also a ridiculous amount of cookies and fudge on the counter if you want any,” I offer. I figure it’s the least I can do.

  They look back and forth between each other before politely declining.

  “Naw, we really need to get going. Thank you for the offer, though.” Ethan says kindly.

  Of course, they have to get going; they probably have families waiting for them. Feeling guilty for my initial response to Ethan knocking at my door, I chew my bottom lip and think of something nice to say to make me seem like less of a bitch. I decide to stick with a good old fashioned apology.

  “Listen, Ethan, I’m really sorry for snapping at you when you got here. Not that it’s any excuse, but it’s been a rough few weeks,” I explain, running my hand through my long tresses.

  He gives me a warm, empathetic smile. “It’s no problem, Mia. We can start over if you’d like.” He steps forward and extends his hand to me. “Hello, I’m Ethan Scott,” he greets.

  Feeling touched by his leniency and understanding, I reach out and take his hand in a firm grip. “Mia Foster,” I reply. I look over to the other guy who I still don’t know. “And you are?”

  He steps forward to shake my hand, “Garrett. Garrett Henderson.”

  “It’s nice to meet you both,” I say, stepping back into a familiar stance.

  “So how do you guys know Chase?”

  “We both bartend at Surge. He’s a good friend of ours,” Garrett explains.

  “Oh, well, thank you both for hauling this up and dropping it off.”

  “Of course. It’s nice to finally put a face to the girl that Chase never stops talking about,” Ethan spills.

  I feel a blush creeping up my face and residing in my cheeks. As much as it warms my heart to hear that Chase talks about me, I don’t know these guys, and it’s awkward being the topic of conversation. Especially since I have no clue what’s being said between them.

  “We better get going. We’ll see ourselves out. Merry Christmas, Mia,” Garrett says warmly.

 
“Merry Christmas to you both,” I say, as they walk past me and out of my room.

  When I hear the front door open and close, I let out a painful breath. All the times I should’ve called Chase and didn’t, are catching up with me. The guilt is swallowing me whole. Looking at this beautiful dresser sitting in front of me isn’t helping. I take small, light steps to close the space, and simply take a moment to admire his work. It’s absolutely stunning. Each drawer is embellished with an antique looking silver knob in the design of a rose. I crouch down and open the bottom drawer. There’s so much space to put all my clothes. The dresser smells like Chase after he gets off work. I close my eyes and breath it in, imagining what he would say if he were here right now.

  One by one, I open the drawers in awe. Every angle is impeccable, and the knobs are dead center. The wood is smooth on the inside, stained to perfection on the outside. The amount of time he must’ve spent in order to make this perfect must be staggering. When I reach the top right drawer, I slide it open, and find an envelope with my name neatly inscribed across it. Curious, I pick it up and flip it over. I slide my finger under the seal and rip it open.

  I peek inside. There’s a folded piece of paper with a necklace attached. I set the envelope down on top of the dresser and examine the necklace carefully. In the middle there’s a silver triangle, and on each side there are interwoven strings attached to it. On the left side the strands are gray and white. On the right side there’s red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet bundles; one for each color of the rainbow. I’d recognize the design anywhere. It’s supposed to match Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album cover. My eyes water up as I gradually unfold the letter in my hands.

  Mia,

  Merry Christmas, baby. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there to deliver this to you in person. I would love to have seen the look on your face when it arrived. I truly hope you like it. We worked hard on it. Yes, I said we. What? You don’t recognize it? This is the same dresser that you and I were working on that day in my parents’ garage. That’s why I wouldn’t tell you what we were making. I wanted it to be a surprise.