10 - Lauren
Lauren
The community meeting was being held in a Park District Fieldhouse. I could see the echoes of Chicagoan history-studded architecture in the building, the same sort of aesthetic that ran throughout the rest of the city—red brick and limestone, high ceilings and heavy, dark wood floors.
Inside, the place smelled of old floor wax and gym rubber. The assembly hall specifically was lined with rows of uncomfortable folding chairs and not a single one of them was empty today.
My heart was in my throat.
I knew I had bags under my eyes from not sleeping the night before and I had to wipe my palms on my jeans every few minutes to get rid of the sheen of sweat that beaded my skin.
Staler than the smell of the room was the atmosphere. It was so thick with disapproval and anger that it felt like I could choke on it. Every now and again, a particularly stank eye would catch mine and I tried hard not to shrink in my seat.
But Tim hadn't been lying. I knew very well that everyone here despised me and would make no secret of that.
“Hey.”
Callum's deep, calm voice next to me pulled me from the flurry of thoughts that had begun to cloud my mind. I was suddenly aware of his body weight next to me like an anchor, his arm a grounding force pressed against mine. And when I looked at him, his steady gaze didn't falter at all.
“I'm right here, okay? You're going to be fine,” he said.
I'd learned over the course of the past few months that a single promise from him was worth more than an iron-clad contract meant to many people, and he held to his word with far more integrity.
It meant something, held ground.
I took a deep, shaky breath. “Thanks for coming here with me.”
“Don't mention it,” he replied.
We waited for the meeting to get underway, and eventually it started with a strict rhythm. The local Chairperson's aide hobbled up to the mini stage and introduced the agenda. His words washed over me like water and I barely caught any of it.
Every time I started to feel myself grow overwhelmed, Callum would reach out and use his thumb to rub a circle onto the back of my hand.
It was such a small gesture of reassurance but it tethered me to the present and eased my nerves.
Part of me despised the weakness I felt surrounded by what felt like a mob. I wanted to be a strong, resilient, tenacious Lauren. But I just couldn't, not today. Not when it felt like it was just me against all these dozens of people who wanted nothing more than to drive me out of town.
That thumb was a reminder that I wasn't actually alone. I had someone with me.
“Now we call on Tim Chalmers and Eliza Atkins,” the aide said, ushering Tim and another woman I didn't recognize onto the stage for their presentation.
A stark projector flickered to life and bathed the two townies in pale light as Tim cleared his throat and Eliza slid her glasses further up her nose.
Once things were finally set up, photos of old buildings popped onto an awkwardly-spaced sideshow.
Libraries and coffee houses and house shops.
Last but not least, the firehouse. In between were pics of firemen dating back to what looked like the 50s; generations caught on camera displayed proudly as some copyright free emotional music blared too loud in the background.
I cringed, trying hard not to visibly react lest I incite even more anger from the rest of my neighbors. When the slides were done, Tim gave it a few moments to really set in before launching into an impassioned speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we're gathered here today to discuss one of the most egregious insults to have ever been leveled at our city. Now, I know that most of you seated have lived here for your entire lives. You were raised here or raised families here, and so are all aware of our beautiful history,” he said.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Callum's thumb pressed gently into my hand again.
I wasn't sure what to make of the opening. Things had gone from stifled and stuffy to camp and melodramatic in an instant.
If I didn't know that it was serious business, I might've assumed this was a parody out of context. But looking around, there was no amusement on anyone else's face. Even if the delivery was slightly off-kilter, it was increasingly obvious that the sentiment behind all of this was real.
I continued listening.
“We have been under siege for a long time now, subject to venture capitalists and spoiled rich yuppies looking to “slum it” for a few months while destroying our cultural landmarks and heritage sites in the process,” Tim added.
This time, his eyes landed right on me as he finished the sentence and I wanted to shout out that I wasn't a yuppie. Or a venture capitalist, for that matter. But there was that stupid word again, the same one Rafe had ironically used to describe me when we first met. Somehow this felt worse.
“Yes, some of them are here today and hopefully we get to hear their response to our grievances. But before we call one of them up to answer, we want to give you, the people of Chicago, an opportunity to offer your questions and protests. Peacefully, of course.”
I wondered just how “peaceful” things would stay for the course of this meeting. Tim's speech and presentation seemed to add fuel to the fire that was just starting to bloom in the crowd.
Soon enough, some pretty heinous accusations were being flung indirectly at me, but each one stung.
Eventually, a tall woman rose to her feet introducing herself as a key member of the historical preservation group.
“I'd like to bring the issue of the firehouse to the fore,” she said with a voice that practically echoed with authority. “That building is one of this city's oldest. I'm sure many of you are aware but it's currently under renovation for private use.”
The blood ran cold in my veins. I gripped onto Callum's arm without thinking and he let me hold onto him, moving just an inch closer.
“How can we even be sure the sale is valid?” I couldn't see who asked the question. The crowd was buzzing with disgruntlement.
“Folks, folks, let's invite the new owner up to the stage to speak for herself, why don't we?” And that slimy voice was definitely Tim.
I looked at Callum as several pairs of eyes found me where I sat.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly enough for only the two of us to hear. “You don't have to. We can walk out of here right now and I'll make sure no one stops us.”
I smiled weakly, grateful for the safety I felt with him. “I appreciate the offer. But I need to do this. If I don't face this head on, the rumors will just spiral out of control and things will get worse. I need to show them that I'm not afraid of their questions because I have nothing to hide.”
His eyes flickered with what looked like admiration. “You're a very brave woman, Miss Lauren.”
“I don't feel it right now.”
“You are. And I'll be right there with you the entire time,” he said.
He stuck to his word, following me up to the stage and standing beside me. He kept his head up, something that quietly encouraged me to do the same.
I tried not to focus on the crowd, making use of an old trick I used in school and instead looking just above everyone's heads.
“Hi everyone.”
My greeting sounded so…unrefined compared to the formalities being spouted during the first half of the meeting. But I wasn't in the business of faking the way I spoke or anything else about myself. If they wanted authenticity and honesty, then this is what that looked like.
“My name is Lauren Wolfhaardt and I'm the new owner of the firehouse.
I just want to clear up some things so that there's no more confusion.” Someone practically hacked up a lung in the back and I politely paused to let them finish.
“Uh…yeah, so I recently began renovations on the building.
I plan to turn it into an apartment and photography studio.
I'm not planning on commercializing the place outside of using the ground floor as a photo studio.”
The floodgates opened.
“Was this building ever actually listed on the open market, or did you just know the right person at City Hall?” An angry voice lobbied from somewhere in the middle of the crowd.
“It actually was listed for years before I—” I began.
“We heard there was a higher bid from a local non-profit. Why was yours accepted instead?” Another accusation.
“I really have no idea why—”
Someone else cut in yet again. “Do you even know the names of the three firefighters who died responding to a call from this station in '58? Or are they just 'character' for your living room walls?"
I didn't even get a chance to respond this time before the next jab.
"You're not from here. How long until you get bored with your 'project' and sell it to a developer for a shopping mall?” Eliza yelled.
The room imploded. I couldn't keep up with all the charges being hurled at me. If I could just get a word in…
Callum seemed to have enough, putting a hand on my elbow before stepping in front of me.
“Look, everyone calm down!” His voice was deep enough to cut the din to grumbling. “I'm working on this project for Miss Wolfhaardt. I can attest first-hand that we're prioritizing the structural integrity of the building. We're definitely not bulldozing the place to put up a shopping mall.”
I groaned, immediately knowing where this was going.
“Oh, not a mall then, you say? So what is it? Tell us!” she retorted. She turned around to face the churning crowd. “You all heard that, right? They're going to break it down for something else!”
Callum tried to correct his choice of words but it was too late.
The room erupted into chaos. Sensationalism drowned out all semblance of reason and eventually, when some of the members tried surging forward.
Callum grabbed my elbow firmly and led me off the stage but not before we were swallowed up by an angry throng of activists.
Their voices pierced my ears, their words caging in the claustrophobia until I was sure I was going to explode. It was so overstimulating, all of it.
But Callum held me steady.
He guided me to the rear service door, using his free arm to push the encroaching mob away from me. Outside, the air was mercifully cool and crisp, offering me a reprieve from the congestion of the hall.
I gulped it down, trying to steady my heartbeat.
“Are you okay?” Callum's concerned face loomed before me, and when he realized I was feeling overwhelmed, he stepped back, a hand tugging on his hair in frustration. “Lauren, I'm so sorry. I was trying to help and I just made things worse. I should've just kept my mouth shut.”
He looked crestfallen at the idea of contributing to the disaster that we just escaped.
I wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault and that I truly appreciated him being a comforting presence and getting me out but the service door swung open again with a loud clang that locked the words behind my teeth.
The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion but also stretched into a mini eternity.
An angry local barreled out from the hall, clutching a bucket that I smelled before I saw it. It was a sweet, cloying rot, a mix of vinegary mold and heat-saturated sour.
I only had time to turn before the snarling man had reared back the bucket in preparation to throw it at me.
But Callum was there first.
His reaction time stunned me and before the protester had even managed to complete the arc of his arms, Callum had already shielded my body with his and knocked the bucket from his hands, sending it careening into the nearby bushes.
The contents of sludgy, fermented produce caught in the shrubs and the attacker looked at the discarded bucket in horror at the realization that his plot had been foiled.
But that look on his face was nothing compared to the sheer terror in his eyes when Callum stepped closer.
The switch was both instantaneous and astonishing. I didn't recognize the man standing in front of me, tried to reconcile him with the sweet Southern boy who taught me about sanding and blushed at my camera and came all this way just to make sure I didn't feel quite so alone.
“Back away from her,” he said, his lightly accented voice dropping an octave in warning.
The man stepped back but it didn't even matter—more people began pouring out from the hall.
Callum threw a protective arm around me and practically carried me to the truck parked right on the quieter side street.
Once I was secure in the passenger seat, he tore away from the sidewalk with such speed that I briefly worried about us crashing into something as the tires squealed.
But Callum was a good driver, and soon enough we were driving around aimlessly but safely far away from the mob.
He stayed quiet, his eyes darting over to look at me every now and then. He let me have the quiet, though, and for that I was grateful.
I needed time to think and process what had just happened. It felt like a bad fever dream, the entire sequence of events from the very beginning to the almost-attack near the end a painful reminder that I was way out of my depth here.
When I first discovered the locals’ displeasure with my arrival, I'd truly thought it was something that could be smoothed over relatively easily. That it had just been the product of rumors and that all I needed to do was clear things up and it would all be fine.
But this ran so much deeper than mere rumors. It hadn't mattered that I tried to explain myself, or that my true intentions and plans were a far cry from what the narrative had been spinning.
And yet, even despite all of that, I realized that I was no longer hyperventilating. I wasn't shaky or mentally befuddled or experiencing any of the emotions that had razed my nerves down to splinters.
I felt surprisingly calm. I felt safe.
I had Callum at my side, a man who'd proven that not only was he capable of softening my heart, but protecting my peace of mind and body too.
When I finally looked at him, his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“I'll take you home, Miss Lauren,” he said, and his voice was once again back to its usual sweet cadence. “You'll be safe soon enough.”
“I don't want to go home right now,” I said.
Callum shot me a sidelong look. “What?”
“I said I don't want to go home right now. Not yet,” I repeated. “Please take me somewhere, Cal.”