All Who Dream (Letting Go) (12 page)

 
“You’re talking about food again. Can we
please
switch topics?”

 
“Oh, right.” He chuckled. “Uh, what do you
think of New York?”

I pursed
my lips, a laugh rising up through my nausea. This had to be the most ironic
moment in history.

 
“So this is what it takes to get you to
converse with me? I look and smell like the after party at a fraternity
house,
and you choose
now
to make small talk?”

He
shrugged. “Guess so.”

I undid my
ponytail and combed through my hair with my fingers then put it back up. I was
still shaky, but strength was slowly returning to my weakened body.

 
“I haven’t really seen much of the city. I
mean, I see a lot of traffic and a lot of restaurants, but I’m sure there’s
more to The Big Apple than that.”

 
“There is, although…” he shook his head as his
words trailed off.

 
“What?”

His gaze swept
over my face before continuing.

 
“I used to think New York had some sort of
magical power about it. I did a lot of traveling after college, and I always
thought this would be home, that I would feel the same kind of energy forever,
but I haven’t felt it for a long time. Sometimes I don’t know why I’m still
here.”

His gaze
dropped away and I stilled. Those words were the most personal thing he had
ever shared with me, and I didn’t want this moment to end. I didn’t want to
interrupt him, not even with my quiet breaths.

 
“Have you ever felt that way about a place?”
he asked. “Do you feel that way about Dallas?”

 
“No,” I said quietly. “I’ve never really had a
place I called home. I do feel that way about a few people in my life though.
But not about a place…maybe someday.”

He nodded
slowly. “I think what you have is the better of the two definitions. Finding
home in relationships is much more challenging than finding it in a location.”

 
“Yeah, but someday I’d love to have a place of
my own. On some land…surrounded by trees and hills-”

His eyes
crinkled. “So you’re not a big city girl.”

 
“Nah, but,
it’s
okay.
I’m where I’m supposed to be for now.” I had nothing but warm feelings for my
charming rental home in Texas. Bringing my knees up to my chest, I crossed my
ankles and rested my head on my arms.

“Must be
some special people you have—back in Dallas?”

I managed
a weak smile.
“Briggs—my brother.
He’s my rock.
And Rosie, my best friend.
I don’t think I would be here if not
for them.”

He pursed
his lips, questions clearly forming in his mind, but before he could ask any I
cut him off. “I think I’m going to take a shower now. Thank you, Jackson … for
checking on me.”

“Is that
your send off?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well…uh…I’m
sure you have better things to do with your Friday night.”

He seemed
to consider the statement as he stood up. “I’m going to grab you some saltines
and ginger ale from downstairs. You’ll need them to settle your stomach in a
bit. Where’s your key card so I can drop them back off?”

“Oh, uh, sure.
It’s on the coffee table.”

“Okay.”

I shut
the bathroom door and heard the door to my bedroom close a second later. Bracing
myself on the vanity, I glanced in the mirror.

Yikes!

I was
right. I shouldn’t have looked.

I once believed you loved me…even when

Your voice didn’t sooth

Your hands didn’t comfort

Your heart didn’t reach

I once believed you loved me…even when

Your footsteps instilled terror

Your face instilled pain

Your presence instilled sorrow

I once believed you loved me…even when

Your intentions lacked honor

Your words lacked truth

Your actions lacked conscience

I once believed you loved me…but when

Your rage smothered me

Your deception smothered you

Your addiction smothered us

…I stopped believing.

I stood in the shower for a long time, letting its warmth
revive me. By the time I got out, I felt considerably better. At least I wasn’t
suffering from a virus that might be contagious—that was the glass-half-full in
this situation. I brushed my teeth for an entire five minutes and gathered my
hair into a wet bun then dressed in a clean pair of comfy pants and shirt. A
glance at the clock said it was just after 12:30 a.m. I had taken so long
trying to wash off the smell and look of death that I was sure Jackson was long
gone.

I walked
into the living area, and the room transformed into a vacuum, sucking every
last ounce of oxygen inside of it.

The
second before he saw me, he was bent over the coffee table…reading…my black
journal. He stood slowly as I blinked in rapid succession, trying desperately
to process the mental image of him violating my privacy.

No one
spoke.

Space and
time were obsolete.

A
thousand emotions surged through me at once. The invasion was incomprehensible,
the exposure unparalleled. Yet his face held no trace of guilt or regret.

“Were you
just reading my—”

“Did you
write all of these poems, Angie?” He lifted the journal from the table.
 

I nodded
as he stared, assessing me as if for the first time. My blood pumped cold
within my veins, leaving a feeling of prickly pins and needles with each pulse.
There was a bold look in his eyes that seemed to diffuse me, leaving me
spellbound instead of furious. He took several steps toward me, stopping at
arms length
.

“You’re a
victim of domestic violence?”

 
“No.” I squared my shoulders. “I’m a
survivor.”

This was
always the part I hated most.

 
I’d said that phrase hundreds of times at
The Refuge
, yet it never got easier,
especially outside of that safe bubble. There were too many stereotypes to
break through, too many tainted TV shows and fictional characters that had
defined the “role of a victim”.

The pity
and detachment that always followed such a confession was nearly impossible to
avoid or divert.
 

But the
truth was
,
there were many more stories out there than
what the average person cared to realize—stories of sisters, mothers, aunts and
daughters. The cycle of living in secret had been perpetuated by the shame of
such confessions. And as much as I hated the pity, I hated the shame even more.
Exposure of truth killed shame.

Jackson
had just read
my
truth.

I waited
to see the pity…to see the revulsion on his face…to see the awkward roaming of
his eyes…but the reaction never came.

 
“I saw the book lying on the table and didn’t
know what it was at first…but then when I realized what it was, I didn’t stop.
Maybe I couldn’t stop. Your words…I’ve never read anything like them.”

I
swallowed hard, dragging my eyes up to meet his again. His gaze held, igniting
a fire in me.

“You had
no right to read my poems.” I forced myself to speak when all I wanted to do
was run.

 
“I know...”

 
“No one has ever read that journal. It’s
private, Jackson! You had to know it was wrong to keep reading it!” Heat burned
my cheeks as snippets of entries flashed through my might with lightning speed.

 
“You have every right to be angry with me,” he
said.

I shook
my head. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. How would you feel if
this situation were reversed?”
 

He said
nothing, the intensity of his stare breaking something in me.

 
“This,” I said, taking the journal from his
hand, “is not the property of Pinkerton Press.”

His features
changed then. Instead of his usual look of indifference—the one I had come to
expect—a pained look passed over his face. The expression was so brief I almost
missed it.

 
“Despite what you may think, I’m not some
leech-sucking business man, Angie. I would never exploit you—
ever
.” The sincerity of his words shocked
my brain. There was not a trace of anger to be found in them.
 

My heart
beat hard and fast, knocking against my ribcage. His eyes were locked onto mine
and in them I uncovered the truth, one that could have dropped me to my knees:
I
wanted
him to know me.
The
real
me—almost as
much as I wanted to know the real Jackson.

I took a
deep breath. “I believe you.”

 
“It’s the truth,” he said.

I nodded
again, refusing to break eye contact. “I should probably take this opportunity
to tell you I’ve done some snooping of my own.”

He
groaned.
“Google?”

I
scrunched my nose up in
embarrassed
confirmation.
 

 
“And the Internet is such a
reliable
source of information.”

 
“Well, next time I’ll just look for your
journal lying around…”

 
“Touché.”

 
Jackson reached for my arm, his touch stirring
something deep inside me.

“Will you
forgive me?” he asked.

I studied
his face. His determined eyes, his firm jaw, his exquisite mouth...I swallowed.
“You won’t invade my privacy again without permission?”

“Never.”

And then
my face was crushed to his chest, his hands strong against my back as they held
me against him. I melted, my heart thumping hard. I hadn’t been embraced by a
man—outside of my brother—in more years than I could remember.

This hug
gave more than comfort; it gave hope.

“Will
saltine crackers and ginger ale suffice as a peace offering?” he whispered into
my hair.

Smiling
into his t-shirt, I replied, “Yes. Thank you, Jackson.”

For more than you could ever know.

“
I heard you were sick…do you need anything?” Dee Bradford said
on the phone at nine the next morning.
She had called several times in the
past few weeks to check in.

 
“No, I’m feeling much better today, thank you.
My dinner didn’t agree with me last night, I guess.”

 
“Okay, well, I hope you recover soon.”

 
“Thank you, Dee. We’re doing great here.”

 
“Glad to hear it. I’ll check in with you next
week.”

I was feeling almost a hundred-percent as I sat next to
Cody on the sofa, reading on my Kindle. Cody was big into the
Choose Your Own Adventure
books, and it
was nice to have a day that wasn’t planned from start to finish.
Pippy
had cancelled my commitments for the next
twenty-four hours; texting that she would take care of rescheduling. She also
texted that she would have an updated schedule for me by the end of the day—I
didn’t doubt she would.

Cody
flipped through pages to the back of his book.

 
“What ending did you choose?” I asked him.

 
“I think Marcie should go to her Uncle’s
Alligator farm in Florida rather than that stupid band camp.”

 
“Oh…yeah?
I think
that sounds a bit more exciting, too.”

 
“Yep.”

I
laughed.

There was
a knock at the door.

 
“I’ll get it.” Cody jumped up with the book
still in his hand.

 
“Look through the peep-hole first, Cody.”

 
“I know, Mom. You always say that.”

I smiled.
At least he listened.

 
“It’s Mr. Ross!”

My
stomach flipped. Cody opened the door for him. Jackson entered, smiling.

 
“How’s the sickie today?” he asked Cody.

 
“She’s better…no more throwing-up.”

I
groaned, remembering the state I was in last night, the state Jackson had
seen
me in last night.

 
“Well, that’s good. I hate throw-up.” He
smirked at me, the rat! He must know I wanted to crawl into a hole and never
come out. “I thought maybe we should go somewhere today—if your mom’s up for
it.”

Cody
jumped in excitement and Jackson laughed, shrugging at me with a question in
his eyes.

 
“Um…what did you have in mind?” I narrowed my
eyes at him
..

 
“You up for a trip to the
zoo?”

 
“Yes!” Cody yelled.

 
“I guess so.” I laughed.

 
“We can stop for lunch on the way if you
haven’t eaten.”

 
“Is Walt outside waiting?”

 
“No. I drove.”

 
“You know how to drive?” Cody gaped.

Jackson
roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, while Cody’s brow puckered. I smiled
and escaped into the bedroom to change. If only I could calm my heart rate, but
it was a lost cause.

A
Saturday afternoon spent with Jackson—
when
did my life become so interesting?