The Aftermath

by Matayo, Amy

  Chad stands high on a ladder, stringing up Christmas lights around my newly paned window.

  “Um, you realize it’s September, right?”

  “Yes, but thanks for the calendar update.” He glances at me over his shoulder, quickly taking me in. “Nice outfit.”

  My hand goes to my still-unbrushed hair, and oh dear God, I’m not wearing a bra. I cross my arms over my chest, desperately wishing I’d thought to shower before coming out here. I haven’t even brushed my teeth. All I wanted was coffee, but instead, I got company in the form of a guy who looks a thousand times better than me even before breakfast. This is totally unfair.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to be here already. And I never considered you’d be decorating for Christmas at eight o’clock on Saturday morning.”

  “That’s true, but you’re here. Did you sleep here last night?”

  I swallow, apprehensive, and consider telling him the truth. “Yes. I was up late washing dishes and decided to crash in my office. It seemed much easier than going home.”

  He nods, but he doesn’t look at me. The lie hangs between us like wet laundry on a rusty clothesline. Heavy. Weighted.

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  A long, silent pause.

  “Anyway,” he finally says, “I read on Pinterest that people respond well to white lights; it gives them a sense of home. I figured everyone could use a little more of that around here, considering.”

  I’m still stuck on my lie, but I cling to the escape he just offered. “You’re on Pinterest?”

  He gives me a look. “No, I was on Google. But I followed a link. Give me a little credit here. And hand me that new box while you’re at it.” Just like that, the moment lifts.

  I turn to locate the box in question, then spot a stack of five. Man, he’s gone all out. And for me. The idea is puzzling, but I’m more focused on the touching part of his gesture.

  And then I turn back to hand him the box, and I’m met with his bare waist as he secures the end of the lights in place. His hands are up over his head as he ties the strand off, revealing a strip of well-toned skin—a little too well-toned, if you ask me. My eyes drift to his arms, at the way his biceps bulge as he hammers in a nail, then lowers his arms to observe his work. His sleeves are rolled up, his shirt untucked, and all of this is more than a little disconcerting.

  Has Chad always been shaped like this?

  What else is he hiding under those clothes?

  Is it hot out here?

  Life tends to look better when you’ve showered. And put on a dress. And maybe applied a little make-up. And curled your hair just a bit. Hardly enough for anyone to notice, so it barely even counts. This old thing? I’ve owned it for years. It’s the perfect outfit for cleaning a store and baking cupcakes for what has slowly turned into the masses.

  “Wow,” Chad says when I walk out of the kitchen. He’s scooping coffee into a filter and dumps a spoonful of grounds onto the counter. I’m trying to pretend this is like any other day, but his little wow accompanied with the flub shakes up that plan. A little thrill runs through me. “Do you have a hot date, or is this get-up for the benefit of all your elderly customers? I’ve seen the way Mr. Joyner looks at you.”

  He turns on the coffee maker. The thrill stays put.

  “Mr. Joyner has been happily married for half a century. I just felt like looking like a girl today. Something wrong with that?”

  His mouth tilts on one side. “Nothing at all, and mission accomplished. You definitely look like a girl. Only those with poor eyesight and bad judgment would fail to notice.”

  “Your compliments never fail to disappoint.”

  “I do what I can.” He gives me a slow perusal, seeming to appreciate the view before his eyes snap back to my face. Caught. He clears his throat. “I got a tentative figure back from the insurance company. Care to hear what they’re estimating you’ll get from them?”

  Time freezes right along with my ability to think in complete sentences. A figure. Good figure or dismal figure? Happy or sad? Keep the business open or closed forever? What is this figure? Why isn’t Chad saying anything? Can’t he see I’m having a mental breakdown while he just stands there and looks smug?

  “Well?” It’s the only word I can manage, and for some reason, it seems to amuse him.

  “I was kind of enjoying watching your reaction. Did you know that when you have a freak-out, your mouth goes slack and your eyes glaze over? It’s cute.”

  Yes, I did know that, but no, it isn’t cute. I make a weird noise in the back of my throat. “Give it to me, and don’t hold back.”

  He raises an eyebrow, then winks. And then he tells me the figure. Whatever I hoped for? Double it.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “You’re kidding!” Without thinking, I place both hands on his chest and shove.

  He stumbles a step or two, but he’s laughing. “Man, you’re strong. And I’m not kidding.”

  And then because my brain is once again simultaneously either not working right or working overtime, I do the unthinkable. The embarrassing. The thing I will later blame on excitement and euphoria and opportunity—it does knock, let’s all remember that…

  I launch myself into his arms.

  And plant a kiss on his cheek.

  One inch away from his mouth.

  He startles, as do I because what was I thinking? But I’m in this now, and it isn’t like I can undo it. So, I hold on and try not to die of embarrassment, burying my face in his neck. He smells like cedar and mint and evergreen—or maybe that’s the Christmas lights playing with my mind. Either way, it isn’t all bad. Chad smells good and feels even better.

  When his arms come around me and tighten, everything becomes right with the world. My embarrassment is still in full force, but now it’s worth it and is joined by the type of satisfaction that only comes from being bold. I have looking bold down to an artful science. Actually being bold…not so much. Maybe today is the day I begin to change that.

  Funny what a lot of money and the promise of being able to stay in business will do to a girl. Funny what still being held by the guy you find extremely attractive will do as well.

  I reluctantly pull away, making note that I was the one to do it first.

  “I’m sorry. I just got excited.”

  “You should get excited more often.”

  If my face wasn’t already red, it is now.

  “I’ll make note of that.”

  “Need a pen?” Okay, the innuendo is flying around here, and I’m looking for a new way to send it sailing higher. I wait a moment, but nothing comes to me, and Chad doesn’t say anything else. Glancing out the window, I spot a couple people waiting by the front door. We don’t open for fifteen more minutes, but part of me thinks I should just go ahead and let them in. I drum my fingers on the countertop, before taking a step toward the door.

  “Maybe we should open the doors early today.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Chad says, stopping me in my tracks. “The sign says ten, so keep it at ten.”

  “But they—”

  “They’ll wait, Riley.” Chad slides onto a barstool and studies me.

  “What you’re doing is remarkable. I’ve never met a more giving, selfless person in my life. But they’ll wait. Let yourself breathe for a minute, make sure you’re ready for everyone. In fifteen minutes, this place will be full, and you’ll be overworked and understaffed once again. Not to mention if you open early today, you’ll open even earlier tomorrow, and suddenly you’ll be working at the crack of dawn and closing at sunset.” A softness settles into his features. “Take a minute, Riley. Organize your supplies. Check your messages. Line your frosting up or whatever it is you do. You dressed up nice today. Enjoy it for a minute. Lord knows you’ll be covered in flour and sugar before lunch.” He reaches for a pen and bends over the stack of papers once again. I watch for a moment before reaching for a box of sugar
packets.

  “Okay fine. I know you’re right.” Two tables are empty, so I fill bowls with packets of sugar and powdered creamer. I hate the powdered stuff, but most customers prefer it. Someone peers into the window from outside, but I do my best to ignore them for a moment.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For taking care of my shop. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.”

  And I do. I’ve already lost my home. I’m not sure what would have happened if I’d also lost my business.

  “You’re welcome. I’m just glad you’ll be able to keep your doors open. One less loss and that’s always good news.”

  “Yes, it is.” I pinch my eyes closed and try not to think about my grandmother’s house. It’s a total loss, just like so many others.

  We visited her house two days ago, and what we found was next to nothing. No house. No salvageable furniture. No fully-together memories other than an unbroken family photo and a few articles of clothing, along with a somewhat usable dresser and my grandmother’s old refrigerator. Somehow it still stood, plugged into the only active wiring and filled with food. We loaded the whole of it into Chad’s truck and delivered it to the bakery. It now stands off to one side, still humming softly like it was never disrupted. I still haven’t told my grandmother. I will next week.

  That’s when she’ll head home from the hospital.

  I’ve applied for temporary housing but haven’t heard anything yet. If that doesn’t work, her sister Jan—my great aunt—has offered to take her in. Jan lives in Joplin, over an hour’s drive away. I’m certain my grandmother will put up a fight. What about the bakery? What about my friends? What about you, Riley? But what choice will she have? This entire town is in disarray. Everyone’s life is in a giant upheaval. Hers is just another blip on a very large radar.

  And mine. For the first time in my life, I’ll be alone.

  I’m working hard not to show it on the outside, but underneath it all, I’m a complete and utter mess. No one wants to be alone, but not everyone gets a vote. The whole thing feels off…like we’re living in a television show, waiting to see what happens next.

  I reach for my phone and tap my way to voicemail. What happens next is that I get my crap together and stop feeling sorry for myself. I can’t control the future or change the past, but I can live right now. And right now—in ten minutes, to be exact—I’ve got to open this shop to what looks like ten waiting customers, though we all know that number will multiply by a few hundred percent before the day is over.

  But first, I need to check my messages. I have six new ones, most of which came through while I was asleep. It’s when I’m listening to the fourth one that the penny drops.

  Oh, crap.

  “What?” Chad asks from behind me. I must have said the words out loud.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I frantically check the time on the message and play it again. Then I rush to double-check what I’ve written on my wall calendar hanging above the microwave because yes, I still use them. I may have pink hair, but part of me is still old-fashioned.

  “Oh, crap!”

  “You keep saying that. Want to tell me what it means?”

  I spin around to face Chad, aware that I’m desperately looking for an escape from the newest gigantic mistake I’ve made. God never gives you more than you can handle. My grandmother’s favorite phrase shoots through my mind like a taunt. I can’t handle this. I can’t handle one more thing. Yet here I am, standing in the middle of it once again as though the hospital, my grandmother’s ruined house, our broken-down town, and the line of what looks like twenty—nope, thirty—people wait outside the store. What am I going to do about them?

  “I have a wedding tomorrow,” I finally say to no one in particular. Chad just happens to be the one in the room, so he gets to hear it.

  “You’re getting married?”

  I drop my head into my arms, feeling myself in the brink of a meltdown…one no cute dress or fancy lipstick is going to prevent.

  “No, I have a wedding.” I raise my head slightly to peer at him over my fingertips. “I’m supposed to have four-hundred cupcakes decorated and delivered to the Crown Hotel by noon tomorrow. In this mess, I completely forgot about it. The bride called last night, making sure we were on schedule. We’re not on schedule. We’re nowhere near on schedule.”

  “Is the Crown Hotel still functional?” he asks.

  For the first time, my hope surge. What kind of person am I to hope they got hit by the storm? I call them anyway on the off-chance the wedding has been cancelled.

  I hang up the phone, deflated even more. “They’re fine. The wedding’s on. What on earth am I going to do?”

  Chad closes his book and stacks up papers. “You’re going to bake four hundred cupcakes, and I’m going to help you.”

  I gesture to the window. “What about all these people?”

  “We’ll just open for an hour, and then we’ll close up until Monday. Either that, or they can help.” He shrugs. “That part is up to you.”

  “You really think we can do it?”

  “We can give it one heck of a try.”

  I feel myself smile. At this point, it’s all I can do. “Okay.”

  Taking a deep breath, I walk over and open the door. People fill the store, ready for their morning coffee and for the chance to connect, even for an hour. I dispense pre-decorated cupcakes to each one of them, listening to the sound of chatter and laughter filling the space around me.

  It’s all anyone wants, isn’t it? The chance to connect with other people. Not even the loss of everything can take that basic desire away.

  “Okay, we’re going to divide into groups. One group in charge of wet ingredients, another in charge of dry, I’ll oversee mixing and ladling into pans, and Chad will be in charge of placing pans in the oven and setting the timer. We have two ovens at our disposal, so we should be able to make quick work of this—at the least the baking part. I’ll decorate them, obviously, so the faster we can get these made and on cooling racks, the better. Is everyone ready?”

  A sprinkling of nods and mumbled yeses follows the question. Not the enthusiasm I was hoping for, but it will work.

  Mr. Joyner wanted to help, along with a woman named Susie that I’ve never seen before but who claims to have owned a bakery in Southern California a few decades ago, so I’ll take her word for it, thank you very much. Floyd stayed too, along with Amanda, except Amanda has chosen to stay at her usual table reading a book. As for everyone else, we kept the shop open for an hour as Chad suggested, and then promised to open at the same time tomorrow. For that hour, everyone drank coffee, ate poorly decorated and slightly melted cupcakes because, in my hurry, I’d set them on the counter too close to the preheating oven and forgotten about them for a good twenty minutes. And then they left without a single complaint. The shortened hours and their agreeable response taught me a lesson.

  People want to be noticed and appreciated. Whether we give them ten minutes or ten hours, it’s the gesture that counts…not the grandiosity.

  “Okay, then take your stations,” I say. This little arrangement probably breaks health code considering I’m the only one with an actual license to bake, but I figure baking inside a building that a tornado ran through only last week probably breaks a code of its own, and no one has stopped me yet. If the bride wants cupcakes as usual, then I’ll get them made however I see fit.

  With the help of one stranger, one not-so-stranger, and two regular customers—that’s how I see fit.

  “Okay, just follow the recipes written on the cards in front of you. Dry ingredients first—so Susie and Floyd, that part is up to you—and then pass your bowls to Mr. Joyner, and he’ll do his part while you start over, okay? We need to get four batches into the first oven as quickly as possible.” I grab four industrial-sized cupcake pans and make quick work of shoving pink foil liners into each slot. Thank God I had them on hand. I don’t have time for inconvenient trips to the grocery store.

 
“Does the flour go first or the sugar, Miss Riley? I’ve never actually done this before.”

  At this, my enthusiasm deflates. These cupcakes may be inedible by the time we’re finished, but it’s all I have to work with. I try to force some pep into my tone. There’s no sense in scaring the help away before we even get started.

  “Flour, Floyd, then the baking powder and everything else. Just give it a good stir when it’s all in the pan and—wait, use a spoon to fill the measuring cup instead of dunking the cup into the flour. That way you won’t use too much.” Oh, dear God, what have I gotten myself into?”

  “Like this,” Susie says, demonstrating the correct technique, the one that will make the cake taste like cake and not dry sponges. Thank God she’s familiar with the baking process.

  “Well dadgum, I dropped an egg on the floor.” This from Mr. Joyner. It isn’t even time for eggs, so what is he doing? I watch helplessly as he bends down and scoops the fallen yolk into his hands and tosses it into the sink. He pulls off a paper towel to mop up the rest, then throws the towel away and wipes egg residue off on his pants. He reaches for another egg, still way off as far as timing goes.

  “Okay, wash your hands, Mr. Joyner. And then maybe wait just a second until Floyd passes you the bowl.”

  He pumps some soap into his hands, lathers up, rinses…then wipes his wet hands on his pants again. I swallow back a complaint, envisioning the germs now redeposited all over his skin. Beside me, Chad snorts.

  “You think this is funny, do you?” I mumble.

  “Hilarious.”

  I reach into the bag of flour, pinch a bit, and toss it in his face. “You’re right. It is hilarious.”

  All three of my “helpers” laugh and we get to work, but not before Floyd says, “She got you good, Mr. Chad. You look a lot like Santa Claus now with that new white beard you’re wearing.”

  Chad runs a hand down his face and glares at me with a gleam in his eye. There’s a promise in that look. Or maybe a threat. Is it wrong that I’m more than a little excited to see what it means?