All Who Dream (Letting Go) (36 page)

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.

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 close 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.”

Her eyes
narrowed as she scrutinized me and went in for the kill—luckily, I’d been
waiting for this moment. “After our last interview, we were inundated with
responses from our viewers. There were many that seemed to question your
character and your credibility. For a woman who often chooses to hide behind
her faith, what response do you offer those who deem you and your new agenda
nothing but a quest for fame?”

I looked
from
Divina
toward the camera. “There will always be
people who don’t understand. People whose lives have been untouched by the hurt
and destruction of abuse, and those people bring me a great sense of hope. In
my opinion, a perfect world is one without the oppression of others. So until
we can all share in that same sense of freedom, my quest will be for those who
still need to be told it exists.”

Divina
quickly cut to a commercial break, and just like
that, the interview was over. She glared at me for a long second as the camera
moved away from us. Throwing down her note cards, she rose and walked over to
the news desk, saying nothing more.

I smiled.
The satisfaction was intoxicating.

I stood.
As the bright lights went off in the living room set, I was finally able to see
out into the darkness of the studio. Jackson was still there, a look of pride
filling his every feature. I walked to him, my smile unbreakable.

“You
were…amazing,” he said in a voice that caused my heart to knock against my
chest.

“It felt
good.”

“It
was
good,” he said.

Together
we walked out of the studio and into the parking lot. We faced each other in
the sunshine, his hands in his pockets as he looked at me. A gust of wind
seemed to bring back the memories of last night, my momentary satisfaction
fizzling as it’s invisible fingers ruffled our hair
..

“We need
to talk,” he said.

“Here?” I
asked, motioning at the parking lot.

“No, are
you free tonight?”

The
question stung. I’d been with him nearly every night since I’d arrived in New
York, why would I have made other plans?

“Of
course,” I said.

“I’ll
come over at seven—we can go for a walk, okay?”

 
“Fine,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit like
when my dad took the family dog for a “drive to the farm”. This scenario felt
eerily similar.

“Walt can
take you back to your apartment if that’s where you want to go. I have a
meeting in
a
hour…so I’ll take a cab.”

I hadn’t
been planning to return to my apartment, but now that’s exactly where I wanted
to go. Something told me that going to the office was not going to be
beneficial today.

“Okay.”

“Okay,
I’ll see you tonight,” he said, hesitating as his eyes roamed my face.

The urge
to vomit was back again, only this time I had no remembered voicemail to soothe
my nerves.

It was
going to be a long wait until tonight.

A very, very long wait.

It wasn’t
a total waste of a day while I waited for Jackson. I was actually able to video
chat with Sally from my apartment on some ideas I had for the new chapters,
documenting specific details of my emotional recovery. I’d spent most of the
morning looking through my journal and remembering certain lessons while going
through the steps outlined in
The Refuge
curriculum.

I had
also called Maggie to ask her advice. As usual, she was very encouraging, and I
learned that Jenny had made it out of the ICU. Her status had improved greatly
in the last twenty-four hours. Her boyfriend was in custody and awaiting trial.
I said a silent prayer for her as I ended the call.
 

In the
afternoon, I walked down the street to get a peach smoothie. The day was cooler
than usual—especially for July. The sun was out, but it was hidden behind the
clouds, and there was little humidity to battle with. My hair was grateful for
that fact.

And
then…I watched the clock.

As the
last couple hours ticked by, I grew increasingly anxious. Did Jackson want to
talk about work?
About
Livie
and
Stewart?
About us…?