Best Laid Plans

Chapter 7: April, 1989

~Jake POV~

"Yikes," I said as I stopped on the shared landing between the two buildings.

Amanda had just let the door of the apartment swing open and it nearly fell off its hinges. A curse flowed between her lips as she stepped inside. She gagged before slapping a hand across her mouth and nose. It was retched.

"You didn't look up here before you made the offer?" I asked, grimacing as my eyes took in the disaster of the space.

"No," she groaned. "I mean it was right in the agreement - as is, furnished. I knew it was going to be gross, but this is bad."

My brows lifted as I remained outside. "How long can you stay with your parents? This might take a while to fix up."

She laughed as she stepped over bags of trash. "I can do this. Surely there's a crew I can hire to empty it out just to get a better grip on what is happening in here."

I had to hand it to her, Mandy was determined. I knew what it meant if she was determined - nothing would stop her. I watched from a distance as she progressed - first nesting in the apartment, then in the shop below. She set a steady pace and worked well with craftsmen to get exactly what she needed. Before Labor Day, the exterior of her establishment was cleaned with freshly pointed mortar, new paint and glass in the windows. She confided that her opening would be before the autumn tourist season to reap the dual purpose - the curiosity of those watching if she'd fail, and the seasonal and holiday shopping dollars that would float the business. It was smart.

It was not lost on me that her husband visited only twice in three months. He was still a dick to her. He was still loud and arrogant. But he had only seen her for a grand total of five days in three months. What kind of an asshole does that? To Mandy? Was I stepping over line noticing that? Probably, but it was just wrong.

I was healing. The wounds within were deep. Georgia had spent the better part of the last years of our marriage trying to stay sober. She would try and fail. She would try again and fail again. Each time, she fell deeper. I could no longer care for her. Rehab had become a game. She learned how to hide the addiction better. She learned how to evade me better. And then we reached a point where we both knew the marriage was over. It was like she had taken every last piece of good from me and refused to return any of it. I guess that would be wrong. She did grant me the divorce. She did take my offer to assist her to become a ward of the state as her medical bills were a burden she could not handle. It was the best that I could for her in the end without killing the rest of me. I even helped her move to Detroit so as to be closer to services that were offered there that were not accessible in Frankenmuth.

I was healing. I did as I had for years - took care of my shop, banked studio hours, and got gig work from time to time. It felt good to be on my own. Josh was doing very well in his job shooting commercials and documentaries. He would visit often, especially when the divorce was new. Sam was killing it on the west coast. He had some job none of us truly understood what he did, but he did it successfully. Ronnie stayed close to home like I did. I got to dote on my nephew and new baby niece whenever I wanted to. I gutted the small house and remodeled everything like I was erasing her, when in truth, I was allowing myself to step to the fore. I was allowing myself to be what I needed to be.

When Amanda purchased the Connray building next door, it was like a reset took place. It was like my timeline, though not totally correct, was inching closer to what could have been. We had fallen into being good friends. It was a part of our relationship that I had cherished deeply and missed profoundly when it was gone. We fell into a routine, me bringing coffee and both of us standing outside watching her contractor getting to work. She was able to move into the apartment upstairs, to which the small space was cozy and all Amanda. Soft and gentle. Well, maybe not so gentle.