Page 5 of Fresh Canvas
The gushing spout stilled into a trickle, the lawn falling silent. Dad had found the magic lever to an outside water main. The one I had never known about.
How could I haveknown?
All it took was one look at Anthony’s darkened bedroom window for the oxygen to vanish from my lungs. My head crumpled onto my soaked, muddy knees as I sat back, balling my legs against my naive, broken heart. The steady stream of tears was soon replaced by anguished sobs that racked my body.
Heavy footsteps sounded before Dad heaved himself down beside me in the puddle. A strong arm pulled my shivering body against his warm flannel shirt. The familiar scent of woodsy pine was like balm to my soul.
“Squeaks, what happened?”
I was suddenly a small girl again. So, so small. A heartbroken girl rejected by classmates over and over again.
“Listen to me, Squeaks. If those kids can’t see the wonderful person you are, they don’t deserve you as a friend.”
I looked up into his gray eyes that matched my own. They seemed worried beneath his ever-present Minnesota Vikings ball cap.
“I think…” Disbelief lodged in my throat. “Ryan is cheating on me.” My voice broke as I buried my embarrassment against his shoulder.
The muscle beneath my cheek went taut. Dad pulled me tighter within his embrace before he released me and leveled his hard gaze with mine. A rough thumb swiped across my streaming cheek.
“Now you listen to me, Squeaks. If that sorry excuse of a man can’t see the wonderful woman you are, he never deserved you in the first place.”
The words were kind. They may have even been right.
But all I felt was clawing desperation. Desperate to go back in time. Desperate for Ryan to love me again.
Because if a man like Ryan couldn’t, who would?
two
AMANTHA
Two months later, I dodged Chicago foot traffic on the snowy sidewalk.
“Not again,” I groaned.
Besides the fact that “Amanda” had been scrawled across my cup for what felt like the ninety-millionth time, they also got my order wrong.
I wondered what it would be like to be a woman who could correct the barista and ask them to remake her drink. I bet a woman like that probably went to spin class every Thursday and didn’t have enough dry shampoo in her hair to be considered a walking fire hazard. I made a mental note to keep away from any open flame.
The steaming cup warmed my hands in the chilly air. I took another tentative sip and tried not to gag at how bitter it was.
I recalled my parents trying to explain their decision after I got teased for my name in the third grade. We all sat on our peeling porch swing as Mom said in her thick, midwestern accent, “We named you Amantha because it is the most elegant name I’ve ever heard. It’s beautiful, just like you, sweetie. Isn’t that right, Frank?”
“Sure, Sweetums. That’s right.”
I suspected that Mom could have named me something crazy and Dad wouldn’t have batted an eye. Happy wife, happy life, and all that. My dad was a simple and serious man, but he had a soft heart. As far as I could tell, he cared about three things: Mom, me, and his beloved Minnesota Vikings football team.
That late summer day, Dad’s brown hair had dripped with sweat beneath his Vikings’ ball cap as he leveled his gaze with mine.
“Now you listen to me, Squeaks. A name is just a name. Butwhoyou are? Now that’s the good stuff.” Then Dad ruffled my hair and tickled me till I laughed through my tears. “Tough as nails, Squeaks, ever since you were born. Barely enough strength to grasp my finger, but man alive, you’d squawk and squeak till you got your way.” His calloused thumb brushed away my tears. “Now, what are you, Squeaks?”
I recited the expected response. “Tough as nails, Daddy.”
“That’s my girl.”
A blaring taxi jolted me back to reality, and I took another caffeinated sip of the wrong name. The winter wind chapped my cheek, so I pulled my scarf further up over my chin and caught sight of my watch.
Crap.
