Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

30

Isabel

My cell pulls me from a dream. A horrible dream where Logan and Maya hate me, Tucker pities me, Cole is disappointed in me, Natalie fired me, and Aiden still holds a job I desperately want over my head.

My mind grinds through sludge as I get that bizarre where-the-hell-am-I sensation, like I’ve been transported during sleep. I look around the room and I’m eventually grounded in Hood River, where I fucked things up with the best man I’ve been with in years. Pain and loss crowd my chest and drag my mood even lower.

I grope the nightstand for my phone. I hurt, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and after everything that’s happened, I feel like I need a month’s vacation in Bali to clear my misery, heart, body, and soul.

Instead of looking at my cell, I look at the bedside clock, which is showing 4:10 a.m., and wonder if my flights have been changed. Which brings to mind the interviews. And that bottoms out my stomach.

“Fuck,” I groan, pulling the phone to my ear and offering a groggy “Hello?”

“I am so, so sorry to call this early.” It’s Mike, the Cockloft’s head cook. My mind floods with the hard times his daughter is going through, and I instantly know he needs me to work.

The interviews flash in my mind and a tug-of-war launches inside me—what I should do versus what I want to do. And that confuses me, because what I want is to get the job I’ve been chasing for years. At least that’s what I’ve wanted for the last decade.

“Hello?” Mike says in my silence.

“Yeah, sorry.” I force my mind back. “Are you okay? Is Tori okay?”

“She’s got a raging fever and has been throwing up all night. I’m pretty sure she has another abscessed tooth.”

I sit up and dangle my legs off the edge of the bed. “Oh, jeez. Poor thing.”

“I’m so grateful the bar provides insurance for us, or we’d be on the street by now. I hate to ask, but I’m in a real bind, and all the guys are working.”

I rub my eyes, but my brain hasn’t kicked into gear yet. “What do you need?”

“I left work early last night, because Tori was sick, thinking I’d go in early and get the food prep done this morning, but I’ve got to take her in and there’s no telling how long it will take.”

“Food prep, got it.”

Mike starts rattling on about what’s on the menu and what food is where in the kitchen. All that needs to be done is staggering. But not near as staggering as watching your daughter suffer.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell him, cutting him off. I won’t remember a fraction of what he’s saying anyway. “You just take care of Tori.”

“Oh my God.” His voice fills with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ve been a lifesaver. I haven’t had anyone I could count on like this since Cynthia died. I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate everything you do for us.”

My heart softens and saddens, thinking about leaving and setting him adrift again. “Thank you. Now go take care of your girl.”

I hang up and rub my face. Since I’m up, I may as well get started.

I dress and sleepwalk my way downstairs. First things first, I put on a pot of coffee, then lean against the counter thinking about how to juggle everything. I’ll have to change my flights. I’ll have to hand the baton here over to one of the guys when they can get out of work, then rush to the airport which is an hour away. Longer if I leave here after 6:00 a.m. and hit traffic. One of the other guys will have to take me to the airport, since Natalie and Tina will be at the bakery. Or I can try to get an Uber, but at this hour, there’s no telling if that will be possible.

The coffee sputters into the glass pot, and I watch the slow, meditative sight of the filling carafe. My mind slides back into standby. I’m in a fog. Thoughts ping and clang around my brain.

I’m struck by how many options I have. How many people I could ask for a favor, knowing they would make it happen. Tucker, Cole, Natalie, Tina, Betsy, Mike, half a dozen other firefighters at the house, half a dozen locals I’ve befriended here at the bar, another half dozen women I’ve sold clothing to. And even after everything going to shit with Logan, I know without question, he would be there for me if I really needed him.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “This is my village.”

This. Is. My. Village.

The realization brings the burn of tears to my eyes and a balm to my soul.

I belong here. I can’t leave. No—I don’t want to leave.

I think of Mike’s gratitude for all he has even in the worst of times. The way he juggles everything without complaining puts me to shame. True shame. His gratitude in light of those hardships turns my brain another direction—to all I have to be thankful for. Not only the people here, but the natural beauty and calm, my health, all the skills I’ve developed throughout my life. Flexibility, tenacity, persistence.

I’m a cat. I always end up on my feet. Only now do I realize I’m grateful for that resilience. That I’ve looked at my life as a struggle, when what I’ve really been doing is adapting. Surviving.

But here, I’ve thrived.

Thrived.

That hits me, makes my mind crank, and wakes me up. I think back through the years, searching for any other time in my life that’s given me so much contentment, peace, or belonging, but come up empty.

I feel expansive here. Nurtured. Needed. Loved.

That last one brings Logan to mind. “Man,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I fucked that up.”