Page 49 of This Could Be Us
“No, I’ve got him.” I look away from Aaron long enough to show the manager the calm in my own eyes, or at least I hope that’s what I project. He doesn’t leave but backs away a few steps, looking relieved he won’t have to intervene.
Aaron is all that matters, and I annex the onlookers, the manager, even my own anxiety to the back of my consciousness until my sole focus is my son. Aaron’s fear, his panic, his dismay swallow even my periphery, and there is only my boy and these few seconds where to him it feels like the end of the world.
In this moment he may even feel like a threat to the people around us—a nearly grown man angry and volatile. To me he is justmine, and more than anything, I want to make this better. All I have are these words, though, which sometimes prove useless, but I have to try.
“Calm down, bud.” I press my forehead to his, clasp his nape. “Breathe with me, okay? Remember how to do that?”
He nods, tears streaking his smooth brown cheeks, his face caught between that of a child and that of a man. A muscle in his jaw bunches, and his eyes meet mine, flared with panic like this situation is a balloon he let the air out of and he’s holding on for dear life even as it flails all over the room. Like even he couldn’t have anticipated its frenzied trajectory and now he can’t seem to release it from his grappling hands.
My eyes dart around the small store, searching for a quiet place where I can take him. I want to get him away from the discreetly—and not-so-discreetly—gaping shoppers and give him a private place to decompress, but I don’t see a quick option for that strategy. I’m about to ask the manager when Adam steps beside Aaron and nudges his brother’s clenched fist with a fidget toy. Slowly, finger by finger, Aaron’s fist unfurls, accepting the six-pronged weighted rubber toy. Chest still heaving, eyes tightly closed, he presses the ball into his palm and weaves his fingers through the toy’s arms. It disrupts his climbing agitation just enough for me to slip in with calming words.
“I got you,” I tell him, pitching my voice to a timbre of acceptance and love that I hope breaks through whatever grips him. “I love you. I got you. You can do this, Aaron.”
“Cube.” It’s a broken whisper with a softening edge, his anxiety melting slowly like ice cream left out in the sun. “Cube.”
“I know. We’ll get you one. I’ll find it, but you gotta calm down, okay?”
The tension in his shoulders and arms under my hands leaks from his body in slow seconds. We managed to pull the stopper, and the anxiety and frantic indignation of the last few minutes drain away, leaving him shaking. Somehow smaller in his contrition.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says, pressing his forehead harder into mine, holding my hand as if I’m the thing anchoring him to the ground as that balloon drifts away. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I reassure him. “We all get anxious, right? It happens. We’re okay now.”
“You’re okay,” Adam parrots the words as if to reassure himself as much as his brother, wrapping his arms around us both. “You’re okay, Aaron.”
With both my boys trembling and tearful, we stand in front of the empty shelves, and I draw a deep sigh of relief.
“I got you,” I tell them. Maybe to remind myself. “We’re okay.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SOLEDAD
Whose brilliant idea was it to make a hundred focaccias?” I ask through bleary eyes. “Whoever it was, we should lock her up and never let her have any say in anything ever again.”
“Pretty sure that was you, Mom,” Lottie reminds me, not looking up from the basket she’s stuffing. “But it’s gonna make us a ton of cash, so a win is a win.”
“You got a point, kid.” I reach over and high-five her, and we share a quick grin.
I thought assuming complete responsibility for our household would create a lot of pressure, but it instead feels like a privilege. I always thought of myself as taking care of them, but all the shit that happened with Edward forced me to lean on my girls in new ways. From necessity, I had to ask and expect more from them because so much was being demanded of me. For our survival. They have become invested in the business in unexpected ways, especially since they made the connection between my success as a content creator and their way of life.
It’s hard to keep my home separate from my work when my homeismy work. The food I prepare for my family, the systems I use to clean my house, even my skin care products—all of it has become business. There’s always a phone or camera and a light ring set up in my kitchen, in my garden, by the bathroom mirror. Lupe, Inez, and Lottie, as much as I initially resisted, have become a part of my “brand.” My followers are so invested in our all-girl crew carving out a life for ourselves. Ithought the girls would hate it, inviting people we don’t know into our space the way we have, but the opposite has happened. They love it. I limit how much their faces are seen, but they’re as much a part of this enterprise as I am. It’s created anus against the worlddynamic that has made us even closer.
I promised I wouldn’t protect Edward from the consequences of his actions, not even with his daughters. I told the girls about the crimes he committed and the evidence I surrendered to the authorities. One, because it was the right thing to do. Two, because it was what Ihadto do if I wanted to save our house and provide for them. They understand that this house, the clothes they wear, the school Lottie and Inez attend—all of it could go away if I don’t earn money to support us.
So when I thought of doing focaccia porch drops here in Skyland to make some extra money, they all agreed to help.
I inspect Lottie’s work, making sure she’s sealing the plastic on the basket tightly enough. “Keep up the good work in here. Lemme go check on your sisters.”
My dining room has become an assembly line, the table littered with ribbons and tissue paper. Deja, Yasmen’s daughter, is stuffing the baskets with packets of salted pumpkin seeds, hot chocolate, and marshmallows, which kind of garnish the basket. The main attraction is the focaccia. Lupe, wearing rubber gloves, has a stack of the loaves and is carefully wrapping each of them in wax paper.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into using this business to support us full-time. Lottie’s gymnastics training is not cheap, and if I wanted her to continue, I needed extra income. I’ve done whatever keeps us living indoors with the lights on. The fall baskets seemed like a simple thing to do, but I didn’t expect all the orders we received. Even limiting delivery to a ten-mile radius, I still had to bake more than a hundred. Fortunately, Grits, the restaurant Yasmen and her husband, Josiah, own, is closed on Mondays. We used their industrial ovens and made a huge baking party of it.
“Are mine ready to go?” Hendrix asks, slipping on a lightweight jacket.
“We got fifteen here,” Lupe says. “They’re all for the east side.”
“Good.” Hendrix grabs two by the handle and heads out of the dining room. “Let’s get them loaded into the car, and I’ll start the first round of deliveries.”