Aftermath Book Two Crash Series

Chapter Twenty-Four

Aria

            Here I am again. Sitting in a stranger’s chair with the expectation that I’ll willingly and gladly spill my whole life story. This time I don’t have Mason here, which in a way makes it slightly more comfortable but only on a microscale.

            The paparazzi followed me from Darius’ shop, where we filmed again today, to here. Because of course and why not? Who doesn’t want to be mortified on top of already there mortification?

            I never, not once thought about what it would be like to have paparazzi around. I didn’t even think about paparazzi in general. It wasn’t a realistic or important topic to spend my mental energy on but damn do they exhaust me now. They surprise me too. They’re skilled at blending in and popping out of nowhere. Each of them battling for an exclusive story on the Mavericks, or Darius, even some good info on the episode we just filmed. They’ll even get after personal information on me and Brian.

            They scream questions from as close as they can get while they stick microphones and cameras in my face. Some of them have small little get-ups, with cameras that are no more than the size of a phone but still take professional quality photos and pick up clear sound. It’s intrusive, awkward, and so very uncomfortable.

          I was a nobody that not one news outlet wanted any information on to trending on social media sites, blogs, and news articles basically overnight. It’s bizarre which keeps my whole situation stuck in a feeling of derealization. I keep hoping it’ll just go away but here they still are. It’s probably where I should start with Dr. Tussing.            

        We’re sitting here intense, awkward silence. I have my back ramrod straight as I fidget with the seam on my pants. Dr. Tussing is across from me waiting. Not even in an uncomfortable, way. He made sure I helped myself to the beverage bar, which I did, he’s a doctor for rich people so of course, he has a latte machine, so I took my time making an almond latte.

        It’s not too bad but I mostly just sip at it to distract myself from the present. He told me to take my time, he saw my avoidance during our last session. He probably saw a lot more than just that, things I don’t even know about myself but maybe he can show me? Maybe he can help me heal?

        Am I ready for that? Do I want it?

        In the weeks in between Brian’s first attack and when I finally gave in to my feelings for Mason and all that we could become, I saw something wonderful, beautiful. I see that now, in front of me, a live photo of Mason relaxed in an office chair, his face weathered with age but magnificent as ever. His thick perfectly golden hair is now a salt and pepper mixture of white and gray. But his eyes are the best. The most enchanting.

        They reflect a life lived well, with love and happiness ruling. I can see the years spent building a relationship that rivals any of our time. A life filled with promise and understanding. He’ll leave seeds in his path, some will be mature trees with blooming full fruit by the time he passes and some will still be just seeds but he’ll leave behind a legacy of greatness.

        But here in this version of our life he got there with my help, we got there together. It was our legacy trailing behind us. Our imprint left on the world because where either of us struggled separately we soared together.

        I’m leaning on the edge of his desk with a plate of peach pie and wrinkled, boney hands. My skin is thin like silk and wrinkled from use and age. My hair is loose around my face more white than gray leaving the crow's feet around my baby blue eyes shine. But it’s my smile I latch on to. It’s dazzling and rare. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that happy or been that free. Free of all of it. The trauma and brutal insecurities. The voices of my abusers that lock me in a vicious and self-destructive circle. All of it is gone.

        We’re smiling as we take one another in as if it’s the first time we’ve ever seen the other, but better because it’s a look of knowledge and security. It’s years of intimacy and courage. Trust, respect, love, empathy, failure, and success. It’s a lifetime of sharing a secret, sharing a life. A beautiful, perfect for us life.

            But next to the vision of what a wonderful version of our future could look like is its opposite. The what could if I don’t move on if I don’t embrace myself and my happiness and I continue to reject and shove forward willfully shoving away the very real trauma I’ve experienced.

            The picture is darker, dimmer. I’m in an average house, which in itself isn’t bad in any way. It looks comfortable, stable…suitable. I’m surrounded by dense beautifully decorated cupcakes and thick gooey caramel brownies, some flaky fruit-filled pastries, and a giant three-layer ombre orange cake. I look much the same, my hair white, my skin wrinkled, but my eyes aren’t full and my smile is dull.

            But what hits me most is the tablet in my hand with an article pulled up, there on the screen is another photo with a headline that takes my breath away.

            Former President Maverick and Mrs. Maverick welcomed their sixth grandchild!

            There in the photo is an enthusiastic older Mason, surrounded by his children, two men that look so similar to their dad and a beautiful woman that has her father’s eyes, with their spouses and their kids. Well, Mason has his arms around his wife, a beautiful thin lady with a kind smile and gentle eyes. She’s cradling the baby as Mason looks on with happiness and love.

            He looks happy and fulfilled but my gaze is fixated on his arm around a woman, his wife. I should be his wife. I could be his wife. Talk about a gut punch. He can and will have a good future with or without me, it'll just be me sitting there surrounded by things but lacking what's really important. 

            The idea of children scares me and excites me. I straddle the line between wanting them and rejecting the thought of them altogether. What world would I bring them into, and what kind of mom would I be. How can I possibly be a mom when I have no knowledge of what a good parent even looks like. I just can’t imagine willingly choosing to produce another life to subject them to their trauma.

            But as selfish as my jealousy over his arm across an imaginary future woman is, so is the niggling sensation in the pit of my stomach that whispers sweet nothings on how amazing I could be. How amazing our kids could be, with Mason right there next to me.

            And just like that the picture shifts, everything shifts. Now I’m looking at the photos like a movie, starting with the two of us in the study and ending with the two of us surrounded by our family, me cradling our newborn baby granddaughter in my arms.

            I know what I need to do. I’ve known what I needed to do but I’m stubborn and prideful and now I need to start. I need to pull up my big girl panties and get real with Dr. Tussing. I need to embrace this new journey so I can end where I want to. Where I’ve dared to dream on my best days.

            Because I deserve the s**t out of that life, it’s time to start believing in myself.

            Clearing my throat I take the first step, “I don’t know where to start...”

***

            Shirley’s is my last stop of the day. The sky is starting to grow dark earlier and earlier every day making the short days slightly depressing. I need more sunlight in my life than the eight to ten hours offered during the winter or at least an endless supply of Vitamin D. 

           With the shorten days it brings the bitter cold which I’m also not a fan of. Burrowing into my jacket I shield my face from a blast of the cold wind that threatens to knock me off my feet. Connor is jogging behind me as we make our way to the front door so I can unlock it. The door chimes as it opens and hits my new wind chimes I installed just yesterday. Looking up to them now I sigh and grin. Months ago, when I was shopping around for suppliers, I found this amazing artist and I commissioned her to do quite a few pieces, this being one of my favorites.

            The unique style and natural beauty took my breath away. The top is a piece of driftwood, smooth and polished with Shirley’s Café branded into it with thin but heavy-duty silver wire tying at the base leading down in a variety of lengths to multicolored brilliant sculptures. She used shattered and small pieces of sea glass to make cupcakes, cakes, pastries, and cookies sculptures that gently rock into each other making a soothing chime. The longest string is in the middle leading down to a metal plate has which has Yumm engraved, and cookie crumbs painted light brown with a few chocolate streaks messing it up.

            I hung it above the door so that each time it opens the plate connects with the door, which jumbles the charms and lets me know when someone comes or goes. Plus it’s surrounded by opened windows so come lunchtime the sun hits it just right lighting the room with beams of the rainbow.

            I took a handful of her business cards and put them on display next to the check-out counter along with the other small business information I said I would leave on display. After seeing how beautiful my order turned out I ordered shelving so I can display it on the wall and sell her works here on site. We’re also in the early stages of planning a monthly Art Night event. She would bring unique supplies and materials and teach the group how to make their own artwork.

            Women will love it, I honestly don’t think it would take long for the waiting list to fill up. Patti just wanted to come up with a date that would work for her along with options. What could we do with a tight amount of time that will also draw enough interest and leave everyone satisfied and happy? I think it’s a wonderful idea and will go along great with the pick your dessert and decorate nights or for smaller groups, I want to actually have them come into the kitchen and we can do a cooking class.

            I think it’s a great idea to have a calendar with a scope of different events that will reach a larger audience and generate massive business for not just myself but any other small business I can partner with. It’s just the cherry on top that it just happens to give an opportunity for anyone to come, learn a new skill, create something wonderful and satisfying and let loose and enjoy themselves at the moment.

            I love thinking about giving them an event. Long-lasting and important, imprintable memories touch the hearts and minds of the people that walk through those doors to relaxing chimes and sweet smells with lots of laughter and light.

            In a week and a half I won't have to picture it, I won't have to imagine or wonder. I‘ll be experiencing that feeling myself. So maybe it isn’t just the wind chime that’s breathtaking but this whole place. This whole experience. The impossibility of this moment was overwhelming and very real only months ago and now I’m here. It’s real.

            Connor lets the door close behind us shutting out the wild wind with a shiver of what snuck in and remains like a cold blanket you’ve yet to shed. The light is to the side of the door, or behind the opened door, tucked away in the corner to prevent any customers from flickering them on and off by accident or otherwise. The room lights up with perfect clarity once again leaving me in a state of awe.

            It’s better than I ever dreamed.

            “I’ll go walk through.” He walks past me to the back hall and kitchen where he’ll secure every room.

            “Okay! Do you want to try the Carmel Chocolate tart’s I made earlier?” They looked amazing when I put them in the fridge, I bet they taste spectacular now.

            “Do you even have to ask?” His chuckles follow him out of the room and down the hallway while I shuffle over to the display cases. Tara and I have been playing around with different designs and setups, from decorations to platter positions we haven’t nailed it, this last one is close but there’s just something about it that’s lacking.

            I don’t want it to overwhelm. If you give people too many options at once it’s hard to process let alone make up your mind but I do want a good selection at all times. Of course, I’ll have the standards that I’ll always have on hand and in stock. Apple and blueberry turnovers, chocolate chip cookies, standard New York Style cheesecake, etc. But I’ll also offer seasonal and weekly variations on the menu, that way I can rotate recipes, figure out what works and what doesn’t, and definitely keeps people interested.

            My purse smacks into the counter, tittering before spilling onto its side as I fling it onto the counter above the display. I made the displays wider and taller, not to add more layers but to keep it looking opened and spacious. The bottom is a warm redwood for easy cleanup and a beautiful appearance with the second level being golden painted shelves, the edges of metal swirl in a simple design, just enough to make it pop but not take away from what’s going to be of real importance, the sweets that glaze their empty spaces.

            Maybe I should get curved redwood boxes for the shelf… Fa-thud comes from the kitchen drawing my attention but the shattered glass a second later has the hair in the back of my neck rising and my stomach sinking.

Was that Connor? Is he okay? I’m about to ask but my intentions are interrupted, “Well looks like you know we're here now,” the deep, dark voice comes from behind me, a space I thought to be empty and safe. What the f**k is happening?

            Ice fills my veins as my body starts shaking and my mind struggles to keep up with reality versus panic, what was, and what if’s. It’s one thing to walk into danger with my eyes opened, prepared, and waiting but it’s a whole other to have a safe space violated.

            And right now I’m underprepared and overwhelmingly frightened. And I can only assume that thud was Connor going down, so I’m also alone.

            s**t.