Facing Reality Read online

  I’m nearly there, but only I would get a flat tire just on the very edge of my new home town. Cotton fields, peanut farms, cattle ranches and wide open spaces are my new scene and I couldn’t be more excited. Finally I feel like I’m where I belong. I roll the windows down letting the warm Georgia breeze blow through my freshly restored dark hair, and the musty smell of turned earth soothe my nerves. Seeing a diner ahead with an open parking lot, I turn my hazards on considering I’m going a good twenty miles per hour under the speed limit, and hauling a large trailer with my new gray Land Rover. I traded in the sports car before I left, for a more practical vehicle. It has safety features, all-wheel drive, and it isn’t as flashy. Well, I thought that it was more practical coming from SoCal, but looking around, I would have blended more driving minivan or pickup truck. Once again, I thought wrong.

  I slowly pull into the crumbling parking lot. The turn’s tough because of the heavy pull in the wheel from the flat, and look for a spot large enough to accommodate my trailer. Just as I’m shifting into park, my phone starts to ring… again. Dad Calling. I hit ignore on the dashboard, causing the call to go to voicemail just like the countless ones before it. I don’t need to listen to them, because I already know what will be said. He’ll start out by yelling and demanding to know where I am, he’ll threaten legal action, then he will play the guilt card, telling me that millions of people including my family are counting on me because they love the shows, and then finally will come the bribing before returning back to anger. I’m guessing based on the number of calls, we’ve come full circle back to anger.

  I slide out of my car, my legs nearly giving way from having sat for so long. I stretch, trying to shake life back into my limbs. I study the tire situation, and decide I’m limited on options so I’ll have to change it myself. I’ve got the spare, and Google, so how hard can it be?

  I’m shifting boxes around in the back to access the spare tire, when the sound of approaching footsteps registers, and my skin prickles with fear. I quickly grab my keys and pepper spray before whipping around, ready to fight if I have to. I come face to face with a large man that dwarfs my five foot four-inch frame, but his face seems friendly and concerned.

  “Whoa easy there, ma’am!” he comes to an abrupt halt, as he eyeballs the pepper spray I have aimed and at the ready.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I was just going to offer to help… if you need it, but you look like you do. You aren’t from around here, are you?” He smiles kindly.

  I reluctantly lower my assault pepper weapon, but keep my keys tightly clenched between my knuckles. He looks down to my clenched fist and chuckles, shaking his head.

  “No, I’m not.” I admit, but don’t offer any more. I know I’m probably being overly cautious given where I am, but when you come from where I do and have endured as many creeps as I have, it is hard to let your guard down. “I could use the help though. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing! I’m Lucas, Lucas Buxley.” He offers his hand, with a smile.

  I return the handshake, “Clara Sco--, Chambers.” I remember quickly the alias I decided to use for anonymity; the one I’m going to make my new life with. Chambers was my Nana’s maiden name, and since I’m usually known as Elizabeth or Clara Scott in LA, it doesn’t really raise any red flags on forms or anything, but it is still traceable to the public, if you really know where to look.

  “Well, Clara Chambers, welcome to Stockbridge.” He says, walking over to where I have the tire halfway pulled from the back of the car.

  “Da!” I hear a loud squeal, as two tiny boys with baby curls, barrel towards us on unsteady legs, chased by a beautiful woman, , with vibrant red hair, that appears to be around my age.

  “Brady, Peyton! Walk please!” She calls, hiking the diaper bag back up on her shoulder running towards us.

  I smile to myself, “Brady, Peyton? Like the quarterbacks?” I ask.

  “You betcha!” Lucas booms with pride, catching his twins in his arms. They weren’t kidding when they say Southerners are serious about their football.

  “Miss Clara.” He addresses me formally in his deep Southern drawl. “This is my beautiful wife, Maggie and my two boys, Peyton and Brady. Maggie, honey, this is Clara Chambers.”

  She smiles warmly at me, before holding out her hand. “So, nice to meet you Clara. Are you just passin’ through, or you stayin’ awhile?” her deep Southern accent draws out like warm molasses.

  I reach out my hand to meet her greeting, my palm sweating from the nerves, and the worry that someone will recognize me… Elizabeth Scott. But that’s not who I am, not really. That’s the face my father invented for me to play, for the world to watch and pick apart.

  “Nice to meet you as well, Maggie. I’m actually planning on staying for a bit.” I say with a genuine smile.

  “Good, good! You got family around here, honey?” she asks, taking the squirming boys from her husband as he sets to work on my tire.

  “No, unfortunately.” A dull ache surfaces at the thought of my Nana, “I’m just looking for a fresh start somewhere quiet.”

  She laughs and uses her shoulder to brush fiery windswept strands of hair from her face. “Well, I’m not sure Stockbridge is exactly quiet. Lord knows everybody knows everything about everything, and aren’t one single bit ashamed of gossiping about it. But I think in the end we mean well.”

  “I’m sure it has to be a million times better than back home.”

  “Where’s home for you, Miss Clara?” Lucas pipes in, pulling off the old tire.

  I bristle at the question even though I know he’s just trying to make polite conversation, and I try to weigh out the pros and cons of lying about it or just telling the truth. I hate that leading such a public life and the obsessed fans of the world have left me so jaded that a simple question launches an internal struggle. I feel a gentle touch on my arm, and I’m pulled back to Maggie’s concerned gaze.

  “Sweetie, I can see those thoughts buzzin’ around in your brain like a hive of bees, and you don’t have to answer that. But just know if you do, what you say is safe with us.” She says, and looking into her deep hazel eyes, I actually believe that. She’s just one of those people that oozes sincerity.

  “I’m from California.” I’m not sure at this point if I’m willing to give any more, but since they can clearly see my license plate, it’s not like I could lie. Put that on my list of things to do. Georgia driver’s license.

  “What do ya say, you girls take the boys and go on inside and get yourselves something to eat. I’ll be in in a bit to join you once I get this spare on here?” Lucas asks.

  “Come on, Clara. Let me introduce you to Mae’s. Home of the best burgers and shakes in South Georgia.” With a nod of her head, Maggie motions for me to follow her. Just then my stomach overpowers my brain’s apprehension, and I follow along, my mouth already watering at the thought of junk food.

  ***

  I pull into the driveway of the old craftsman style bungalow that once belonged to my grandparents; the one that now belongs to me. After I made my mind up about where I was headed, I knew this is the only place that had ever felt like home, and I knew I had to have it. I couldn’t recall the exact address, but after scouring the area’s real estate sites, I found it. Though, it looks much different from the memories of my childhood. Where it used to have plain white paint, it now boasts a deep grey siding, thick white trim and porch posts accented with stacked river rock. It is stunning and hardly recognizable, but the large scarlet oak tree in the front yard still holds the tire swing I used to play on as a little girl with my siblings.

  I can’t believe it’s mine; that I’m home. It took several months for the sale to go through since I purchased it through a small, private company name I had set up, and I did it all remotely without actually seeing the property other than what was posted by the realtor. I wanted to be as discreet and undetectable as possible. Apparently, it has sat vacant for a couple of years after a loca
l construction and remodeling company overhauled the property.

  I turn my car off, making a mental note to find somewhere to replace or repair my tire tomorrow. I send a quick group text to Emily and Landon, letting them know I’ve made it safely and quickly delete the messages from my father and sister. I don’t need that kind of negativity. My finger hovers over my brother’s message. He isn’t begging me to come back, or slinging insults because I think deep down he understands my choices. We’re more alike than he’d care to admit most days. He just asks if I’m safe and finally I click reply and respond a one word answer letting him know I’m alright. I don’t really want to initiate a full blown discussion right now… this is fresh and I’m not about to taint this moment with everything I’m trying to escape.

  I slide from the car and fish out the house keys that were mailed to me, the slight tinkling of the keys on the chain making me smile. I reach in the backseat and pull out my overnight bag, the box with the air mattress, and my comforter. I’ll worry about unpacking the trailer tomorrow. I begin making a mental checklist of everything I need to square away in the coming days. I’ll need to go furniture shopping since I left most of mine to Emily, search for student teaching positions to get my certification in Georgia, and then find a job…

  Over the past few years I’ve been taking online courses, working towards my teaching degree. I always wanted to go to college, but with my never ending “work” schedule, and my “celebrity” status, that was never really an option for me, much to my dismay. I’ve finally decided what I want to teach. High school English Literature. The only problem is that I’ve learned it can be tricky to find student teaching positions in this area unless you have references, and I have none. Oh well, that isn’t true… I have plenty. Just none that I can or would ever use… not for this. So, I need to find a job… one in a related field at least. That thought alone terrifies me. Not the working part, but finding one, and doing so without being recognized and turned down on site for who I am or what preconceived notions they have about me.

  Walking up the font steps, I let myself soak in this feeling… this peace. I unlock the front door, and cross the threshold flipping the light switch, knowing I have already arranged for utilities to be turned on.

  I gasp.

  It is absolutely beautiful. I drop my bag and arm full of bedding with a muted thud as I take in the new white trim work, the restored flooring, soft taupe colored walls and new built ins and lighting sconces. I continue through the newly opened up floor plan and admire the beautiful kitchen with white cabinets with glass paneled upper cabinets, sparkling white quartz counters, white farmhouse sink, subway tile and beautiful glass pendant lighting with filament bulbs. It’s so fresh and clean without feeling sterile and too modern. It feels like a real home.

  I roam around downstairs checking out the dining room, a spare bedroom or office, powder room and closets, running my trembling fingers over almost every surface before heading upstairs to check out the master and other bedroom and bathroom. I find the thermostat and crank up the air conditioning. It’s only late April, but dear God, the humidity is stifling. I lift the long mass of hair that is clinging to the back of my neck and fan myself with my free hand.

  I reach the upstairs landing and seek out the master bedroom which has been reworked for a larger layout, eliminating the fourth bedroom in the house to accommodate a large en suite bathroom and walk in closet. I sigh when I see the beautiful bathroom and the basket weave pattern in the tiled bathroom floor. Stunning. Whatever company tackled this remodel has some very skilled tradesmen.

  I head out of the bedroom to go downstairs and lock the doors and retrieve my things, but stop short when my hand touches the doorframe. My fingers rest on a series of dips in the wood, covered up by a layer of smooth white paint. I drop my gaze to where the lines mar the structure with the carved initials of me, my siblings, and finally my father. I can’t believe they are still here and haven’t been replaced.

  My eyes sting, as I reverently trace those lines with my fingertips remembering how every summer, my Nana would line us up to measure how tall we’d grown since our last visit.

  “Y’all are growin’ faster than a field full of dandelion weeds!” she’d exclaim with a smile tugging at her weathered face, and her hands resting on her full hips.

  I smile at the memory, kiss my fingertips and let them fall upon the marks one more time before going downstairs and locking myself into my new life.

  FLYNN:

  A loud blast sounds in the distance, sending a plume of dust and sand into the pale blue dessert sky. I lie low on the rooftop using the scope of my rifle to look out over the jagged peaks of the mountains. Nothing.

  “Where the fuck is that rescue team?” I mutter under my breath, before spitting more sand from my mouth. I swear to God, it regenerates on its own.

  Picking up my radio, I decide to call one more time. I’m running out of time… my guys are running out of time, and our window for backup or escape is swiftly closing. I’m going to have to resort to Plan B if they don’t show, and I really don’t want to have to fucking do that… but right now, I don’t have another choice.

  I gather my thoughts and hit the button.

  “Sunbird, this is Cincinnati Red Seven. Do you copy?” I ask.

  “Received, Cincinnati Red Seven. This is Sunbird.” The guy sounds flustered, and I hear a screeching over the transmission.

  “What’s your status? Do you have an ETA?”

  “Received. About sixty-five klicks out. (static).” Shit…

  I respond, “Copy. Do you have an ETA?”

  Static… “Received. No, we’re black on fuel and have a Bitchin’ Betty. Had two eject behind lines, and another crash.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I say slamming the radio into the crumbling rooftop.

  A series of shots echo off the nearby landscape as shouting erupts, and from the limited amount of Pashto I know, all I gather is, “They’re coming!”

  The percussion of shots continues to ring out as a sharp biting pain tears through my shoulder, and a deafening explosion obliterates the building opposite mine.

  “Son of a fuckin’ bitch!” I shout, my ear ringing with sharp pain, and a warm trickle of fluid. I try my best to ignore the pain in my shoulder and the ruptured eardrum. I raise from my position, signaling my watching team to follow my lead. They’re going to have to take out these scouts for my plans to work. I make a run for it, my men laying cover, and I pray to everything that is holy that I’ve trained them well enough to think for themselves and be smart in this situation. The shots continue to ring out as my feet hit the crumbling concrete steps heading out into the street.

  I run out with my rifle above my head. I’ve got forty-seven men counting on me to make this work for them.

  Fucking Plan B.

  ***

  The sound of my phone ringing cuts through the haze of dessert daylight, and I find myself clutching at the phantom pain in my shoulder. My fingers glide across the rippled skin, as I reach for my still ringing phone with my other hand.

  “This is Flynn.” I don’t recognize the number calling.

  “Hi Flynn. It’s Maggie Buxley. I know it’s early, and I’m sorry, but I got your number from Lucas.” I check my clock, and see it is just after six in the morning.

  “Hi Maggie.” I respond, “It’s alright; was just about to get up for work anyways.” I say, trying to shake the lingering effects of the dream. I try to steal a few deep breaths before continuing, “Is everything ok?”

  “Oh, heavens yes! I’m sorry; didn’t mean to be a bother! I just thought I’d catch you before you headed to work, but Lucas and I were talkin’ the other night and he mentioned that you needed someone to watch your baby full time after she’s born.”

  “Yeah, I sure do.”

  “Well, Mr. Alexander, I think I may have just the person for you.” She said proudly.

  “Oh yeah? And who might that be?”

  “W
ell she’s new to town, but I had a chance to chat with her for a bit last night while Lucas fixed a flat tire for her, and she was as sweet as can be. Her name’s Clara, and she’s a couple years younger than me, has a teaching degree. She wants to be a high school English teacher, and she’s looking for somethin’ like this to put on her resume so she can get a student teaching position. I didn’t say anything to her yet because I wasn’t sure if you were looking still, and normally I wouldn’t recommend a stranger for a job like this… but…”

  “But what?” I ask.

  “She just kind of seemed a little sad and lonely, ya know?”

  “Mags, I’m not sure that qualifies her for the job.” I say shaking my head, even though she can’t see it. She was always trying to save strays when we were kids, and now she’s trying to save people- bless her heart.

  “Oh Flynn, I know that! But she just had this way about her ya know? Peyton and Brady just gravitated towards her, and she was so good with them. I’m sure you’ve heard from Lucas what a handful they can be, but she was just cool as a cucumber about it and they just soaked up everything she said.”

  “Alright, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just talk with her.” I scrub my hands down my face.

  “Can I give her your info?” she asks eagerly?

  I sigh, “Yeah, alright. Just give her the work number. That way if I’m on site, Irene can take a message.”

  “Sounds good! Flynn, I promise you won’t regret this. I just have a good feeling about her. And you know what my Mama always says about good feelings?”

  “Good feelings are like sunshine. Take advantage while you can, because you never know when it might rain.”

  We both recite together and laugh. Everyone knows Maggie’s mama. She owns the bakery in town, and always acted like the resident therapist. She slings as much of her advice and aphorisms as she her cupcakes and cookies.

  “Talk you later, Flynn. Let me know how it goes!” she says.