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“Good afternoon, Amber,” Jarrod, my supplier’s delivery man, sings his greeting to me. He has arrived with a box of materials. I snap my compact mirror closes, turning my face to him as he announces the contents quickly. “Italian white lace, bear noses, Dacron packs, and also your special German chocolate mohair.”
“Perfect.”
“You look nice today,” he praises.
Having known me since the start of Amber The Mender, Jarrod appreciates that when I have my full makeup on, and I’m not wearing a shirt and jeans, it means I have a date right after closing time. His boss had tried to match-make us, but Jarrod is too loud and intense. Besides, I don’t mix work with pleasure.
“Thanks,” I say, signing the delivery.
“Here’s hoping he’s the one. But you know you’ll break my heart, right?” The man holds his chest theatrically.
“My heart will go on,” I respond, rolling my eyes.
“Good luck.” He swivels and leaves.
There are plenty of fish in the sea, but my dating efforts so far have been like swimming in an aquarium—safe, controlled, and tame. Aidan might have killed my trust in men, but I’m not going to let him ruin my chance at love. My Papa, who adored and loved Mama until his last day, was proof that not all men are evil. Besides, I’d had decent boyfriends before Aidan came along—some of whom I trusted enough to share what I’d call ‘adventurous romance’ with. So I believe the good ones are still out there.
As I’ve learned to regain that trust, I’ve been meeting men from all walks of life, from a pro gamer to a dog groomer. So far, the only commitment I’m willing to give is a let’s-see-what-happens relationship. I’m still dreading what could be around the corner, and I often walk away before I even see a corner. But at the end of the day, true connection remains elusive—not even my OkCupid premium membership can give me that.
But here’s a pattern that I haven’t broken: I stay away from men like Aidan, in looks, in manners, and in wealth.
I put away the box of materials in the back room—thinking about how my date tonight will pan out. But I quickly turn back when I hear Mrs. Jackson calling, “Amber, you’ve got to help me!” She’s holding the severed head of a Boudoir doll in one hand, the body in the other.
Mrs. Jackson was one of my first customers. The Los Angeles rare toy dealer is a prominent figure in California’s antique circle, and I’ve earned a lot of business from her referrals. Through her, I’ve had the privilege of working with rare teddies and dolls that I could only dream of before.
“This is an original, I think from the 1930s. Is she going up for auction?” I ask.
“For a change, no. This is Brigitte. She belongs to a friend of mine who has dementia. Imagine how scary it was for poor old Rina to find her doll headless this morning. The doll means a lot to her. Please help me.”
I don’t discriminate against ‘my patients,’ and I always give them the same amount of TLC they deserve—but I must admit, fixing dolly heads is my least favorite job.
I’m about to close shop and Gianni, my date, is probably on his way to pick me up. But I can’t say no to this. “Leave her with me, Mrs. J. Why don’t you come back tomorrow afternoon?” If my date lasts into the night, I’ll fix Brigitte first thing tomorrow morning. If it goes pear-shaped early, I’ll squeeze in the work tonight.
“You’re an angel!” She holds my hand gratefully.
Just in time, a text from Gianni pops up on my cell, telling me he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Like my previous dates, I have butterflies in my stomach. I wonder if tonight one of them will make its way into my heart.
When Mrs. Jackson is about to walk out the door, she turns back to me and says, “Those leather jeans are exquisite! And that top—it looks really sexy on you.”
I respond to her compliment with a smile, but inside, it has silenced the butterflies. After saying goodbye, I go to the back room and look at myself in the mirror.
The reflection of my cleavage stares back at me. I thought tonight would be the night someone would see me in this ensemble. I want to claim the part of me that Aidan destroyed, which no surgery or therapy can cure. But what can a piece of clothing do?
Sighing, I pull up the sequined silk top over my head. Like many times before, it’s a first choice that ends up being a ‘no’ at the last minute.
4
ROB
Los Angeles, California
My six-year-old brother Matty remains in the ICU. His left arm is broken in seven places, he broke three ribs, and his left lung barely survived the impact.
I’ve seen photos of the wreck. There was almost nothing left of the car—I can’t fathom how Matty is still alive. My dad’s face was almost unrecognizable, and the rest of his body didn’t fare much better. Although my mom’s life wasn’t spared, I thank the heavens that she still looked like her—calm and peaceful. The police said the car was traveling at eighty miles an hour. On that treacherous stretch of road, it was practically suicide.
“He’ll make it,” Clay says, putting his hand on my shoulder. We’re sitting on a bench just outside Matty’s room. “Remember when he was born? He only weighed three pounds, and the doctors were worried he wouldn’t live.”
Matty was not much bigger than the size of my hand then. But he was a light in my screwed-up world, as if dropped by God. In the early days of Hartley Marine, my way of coping with pressure was parties and street brawls. Disagreements with Dad, and my parents’ imminent divorce, added to the fuel. But Matty’s arrival had become the glue that held the Hartley family together. Our parents’ relationship had never been so strong, and I became the man that I am now because of his presence.
