All Who Dream (Letting Go) (28 page)

It was
Jackson.

“Hey.”

“Hey,
where are you?”

“The Park.
Trying to
write…something…anything.”

He
laughed.
“Been there before.
I’m about to leave
here...I’d love to help.”

“That
would be nice. I, uh, I called your mom.”

“She told
me. And you’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m
still scared, but I know you’re right. This is bigger than me now. If I stay
silent and let
Divina
have her field day, I give away
a huge opportunity to help the cause that’s closest to my heart. That regret
would be far worse than my fear of speaking out.”

Several
seconds ticked by. I opened my mouth to ask if he was still there when he spoke
again. “You’re amazing, Angie.”

“I
wouldn’t have made this decision if it weren’t for you.”

“Okay, well,
I’ll have Walt come pick you up, and we can head back to my place. We can order
out or something.”

“Or I can
just make us dinner like normal people.”

“I’m
afraid I’ll get too spoiled if I let you start that.”

I smiled.
“Good, that can be my insurance policy then.”

He
laughed. “You play dirty, Miss Flores.”

“Oh,
there’s still so much you have to learn, Mr. Ross.”

He
laughed again. “We’ll be there in twenty, sweetheart.”

The spasm
that knotted my insides went wild
..
If this difficult
day could be saved…he had just managed to redeem it with that one word.
Sweetheart!

After stopping at the store to grab ingredients for chicken
enchiladas, we headed to Jackson’s condo. Rosie had taught me her grandmother’s
recipe, and
I’d
admit, it was
goooood
. As the enchiladas baked, Jackson repeatedly
asked when they were going to be ready.

“
Geesh
…you have about as much patience as my nine-year-old.”

He smiled
proudly. “I refuse to think of that as a negative.”

“Suit
yourself. They still have thirty-minutes to go.”

He
grumbled as I wiped my hands on a towel and walked out of the kitchen. Jackson
had changed into cargo shorts and a navy t-shirt that stretched across his
chest and back in a way that made me flush when I looked at him. He had almost
caught me staring, but I was glad I had been at the stovetop. Cooking gave me
something to do other than gawk at him.

“So,
let’s sit. Tell me what you have so far. Are you working on your forward—for
both the blog and book?”

“Yes. I
thought that would be a nice way to summarize, and then I can go into more
specifics throughout. Your mom thought it could also be what I base my
interview questions on next week.”

He
nodded, scrutinizing me.

“What?” I
asked.

“You
adapted to all this very quickly.”

I
shrugged. “A learned habit, I suppose. But since I have nothing on my page, I
don’t think I’ve exactly come to terms with outing myself quite yet.”

He pulled
his chair up close, slid my journal out from underneath my hand, and pushed it
out of my reach.

“Uh, I
might need that, Jackson. I thought you were going to help me write.”

“I am.”

“Okay?” I
looked at him confused.

“Close
your eyes.”

“What?”

“Trust
me, Angie. Close your eyes.”

With one
more look of uncertainty, I closed my eyes and sighed. It was unnerving to know
that Jackson was watching me—my face felt hot under his gaze. I tried to relax.

“Tell me
who you are.”

“Jackson,
I don’t see how-”

“You
don’t take directions very well, do you? Why don’t you stop thinking about why
my method won’t help and instead use that energy to answer my questions, okay?”

I smiled.
“Fine.”

“Who are
you, Angie?”

I took a
deep breath. “I’m…I’m a twenty-nine year old single mom.”

“And?”

I
stretched my neck from side-to-side, drawing the kinks out of tight muscles,
but careful to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn’t invite another lecture.

“I’m a
loyal friend and a good sister.”

“And?”

“I’m a
fighter—a survivor.”

“And?”

I
exhaled, searching for something deeper. “I’m a believer in second chances, in
redemption. I believe that hardships can be overcome and that strength is often
built out of weakness.”

I felt
his touch on my hand.
“And?”

“And
though I can’t change my past, my future is still unwritten. I’m a work in
progress. I want the legacy I leave for Cody to be one of truth, not superficial
perfectionism.”

“Open
your eyes,” he said softly. “That’s where you start.”

I looked up
at him, waiting for him to elaborate. But in true Jackson style, he did not.
Instead, his challenging gaze held me captive, probing me to think deeper.

Swallowing
the thick emotion in my throat, I answered, “My legacy?”

He
nodded, and then an invisible blanket of warmth wrapped around my shoulders:
Inspiration.

My name
is Angela Flores.

This was
not my given name, nor was it my married name. Instead, it was a name I chose,
one I hoped could symbolize the freedom I so desperately desired. I hoped a
name change could restore every broken promise, every painful memory and every
trace of the woman I once was.

And
though there is much to be said for a name, my expectations could never be met
by the filing of some simple paperwork. The name changed, but the woman I was
did not change with it. She didn’t know how many years of hard work, intensive
therapy and consistent support it would take before transformation took root.

My story
is not pretty. It is, in fact, far from pretty.

The
sketches of my life that I hold dear are the ones that are filled with obvious
joy, happiness and pleasure. Most of which are shared with my son. However, those
sketches are only fragments of a much larger picture, a picture I’ve been
afraid to show until now.

Though I
can pinpoint the poor decisions I’ve made, the ones that led me straight into
the mouth of the lion’s den, I am no longer a prisoner of shame. My wrong does
not negate the wrong done to me
and
 
does
not excuse it. That was a
sentence that took me years to say.

I want to
be more than a survivor.

Survival
was once my only goal. If I could live to take another breath, if I could keep
my son safe from abuse, if I could hide under the radar…then I had met my goal.
But I realize now, surviving is not living. Life is more than just a beating
heart; that is only where life begins.

To
overcome is to live beyond the fundamentals of survival. In my case, overcoming
meant finding hope for something more—something outside of my shadow. I do not
pretend to know all the answers, or to have walked the path of every victim of
abuse, but I do understand what it sounds like to lose your voice.

To
liberate those lost to silence is the legacy I want to leave behind.

I know I
cannot do it alone. The statistics are far too daunting, but I can share my
story. I am but one daughter, one sister, one mother…yet I am the voice of
many. My story may not look exactly like yours, but the faces of oppression are
all around us.

I am no
longer a victim of domestic violence. I am no longer lost to the darkness of
isolation, lies and hopelessness. And though the details of my past are grim,
my future will not be marked by the same fate.

My name is Angela Flores, and I
hope my story will be one that reminds you to fight, to live, and then to dream
anew.

Progress
is made one brush stroke at a time. May we never stop
painting.

Angie

Jackson had spent the majority of the evening on the couch
reading after we ate. I wrote and wrote…and then re-wrote. When he finally
heard me lay down my pen, he sat up and reached out his hand. I worried my lip
at him, unsure.

“Let me
read it, Angie, come on,” he said. “I’ll even say
please
.”

I lay my
hand on top of the journal, hesitant to release it to him. “It would be a lot
easier if I didn’t know you were a best-selling author.”

“Well,
then pretend you don’t.”

“A little
too late for that,” I said.

He
beckoned me again with his hand, a glint of mischief in his eye. I’d seen that
look on the paddleboat, right before he pulled me into the water. I decided
that it would be best to give in now rather than have him kidnap my journal by
force. I was way too ticklish to win that contest.

“Fine.”

I handed the
volume to him and then started to pace as the soft tick of the clock in his
dining room reminded me to breathe. I glanced at him only once before the roll
of nerves forced me to look away. Posting a blog was so different than writing
for an instant critique. It wasn’t the first time this evening that I wondered
if I was crazy for taking on this task.

After
several minutes had passed, Jackson put the journal down on his lap and held
out his hand to me again. With a crooked finger he gestured me to come closer.
I swallowed.
Is this how he was going to
break it to me gently?
As I crept nearer, he took my hand and pulled me
down next to him on the arm of his chair.

“This is
perfect, Angie,” he said, his voice thick.

I bit my
lip again, hiding the smile that wanted to break loose.

“Really?”

“Yes…this
needs to get sent to Sally, the editor, tonight. Don’t change a word.”

I turned
the smile loose with, a feeling of accomplishment swelling in my chest. Jackson
smiled back, but this time when we made eye contact one question surfaced to
the forefront of my mind: How could he believe in me without hesitation, yet
abandon his own talent so easily?

As I
stared at him, my heart ached for the hope he’d given up, for the dreams he had
deserted. And in that moment I knew with full clarity why he was so passionate
about my future.

Because
he had given up on his own.

There
were so many should haves and could haves that hovered in the space between us,
so many past regrets, hurts and losses—whether due to pride, circumstance or
guilt. But in the end none of that mattered. The truth was: we were not so
dissimilar.

Beyond
the wealthy CEO who sat beside me now, was a young man who had dreamed of
influencing the world and sharing a voice of his own. I wanted to know him.

“What
about you, Jackson?” My voice was soft, but the passion that surged through my
veins was strong.

If
Jackson was allowed to want for my future, than I was allowed to want for his.

“We’re
not talking about me right now, Angie,” he said, a shadow crossing over his
features.

“But I
want to.”

He
narrowed his eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Why are
you so willing to see in me what you won’t see in yourself?”

I slipped
off the arm of his chair and perched on the edge of the coffee table directly
in front of him. We needed to have this conversation—sooner rather than later.
Neither of us knew what later held.

“My
course has already been set, Angie. This is my life now; my responsibility is
to this company. I’ve accepted it. You should, too.” His gaze was penetrating.

I picked
up his hand, lacing my fingers through his. I needed him to see me, to hear me,
to stop whatever pretense of denial he’d been living under for the last two
years. His breathing changed as my pulse echoed loudly in my ears.

“I won’t
accept that statement. Your life is more than a responsibility—especially one
that’s formed from a guilty conscience.” I took in an unsteady breath, pushing
myself to continue. “I overheard you talking with Jacob in the library. I know
he’s not going to get better, Jackson.” I leaned in to touch his face with my
free hand as his eyes continued to burn into mine. “I know you’re grieving over
his decision to stop treatments, and I know you must be hurting…but giving up
your dreams won’t fix anything.”

 
Jackson’s body tensed at my words, his chest
rising and falling at a faster rate than seconds before. His eyes were a fusion
of torture and beauty. They called to me, squeezing my chest like a vise. His
hands gripped my bare knees gently, anchoring me as he leaned in close. “I
don’t have any dreams, Angie. They expired the day
Livie
died, and they were buried six feet under the day that Jacob told me he was
stopping treatments.”

The air
was pushed from my lungs as I let his words sink in. There was a part of me
that still hoped it was all a misunderstanding, that I had overheard wrong. I
wanted to reach for him as he slid his hand over his face, as if trying to
clear his mind, but I kept my hands to myself, for the moment.

“Help me
understand, Jackson,” I whispered. “Does Jacob expect you to—
”

“It
doesn’t matter what he expects me to do. What matters is what I
should
do, what I should have done a
long time ago.”

“But it
didn’t sound to me like he wanted you to give up your-”

“Well, it
sounds to me like you already know everything.” His eyes dared me to challenge
him.

So I did.
I knew he wanted to argue so that it would deflect from this conversation, but
I wouldn’t engage him in that. I wanted answers, not a battle.

“Hardly.
A three-minute conversation outside the library
door is not
everything
, Jackson.” I
reminded myself stay calm. “Tell me about Jacob.”