Chapter 21
Celeste
The realtor leads me through the small, but bright commercial space that could act as the brick and mortar site for my non-profit.
It’s a corner unit with floor to ceiling windows to the front and right side, letting in the sun to gleam off of the white tile floor.
Over the couple of months since I’ve started trying to put this dream organization together for women to get their lives on track after prison, monetary and other needed donations have started coming in.
My anger management group has been supportive, so have my diner coworkers, and animal shelter friends.
I got in touch with a grant writer, who has helped me put together a proposal that is now in the process of going through review at our local municipal government.
So far the feedback has been positive, they like the idea of my program.
I’m crossing everything in the hopes they’ll help fund it with a government grant.
Maybe I’m overshooting, and trying to do too much, but I want this win badly.
It’ll take time to grow this little seedling idea into a full tree, and although patience has never been my strong suit, I’m trying to find some.
I want to also take this program online, where women who need it can access career services advice, mental health services, and anything else that will help get them on their feet.
The brick and mortar place will serve as a venue for women to come and interact with others who have been through a similar experience, while getting what they need.
Hence, the exciting tour today at this potentially perfect spot.
“This space could use some cleaning since it has sat vacant for a while, but based on what you’ve told me, I think it would suit your needs well.
There’s a small back office through that door, a restroom over to the right, and enough room to have a seating area, display tables, brochures, you name it. ”
“It’s wonderful. You said it’s within my meager budget somehow?” I ask incredulously.
“On the very high end, but yes. The new owner of this strip of buildings is lowering rent to make sure each space gets leased, and isn’t sitting vacant.
I’ve managed to get us this viewing before it’s become widely known that the spaces here are under new ownership with lower rent,” she explains, a bit of smugness radiating from her that I can appreciate.
I nod, unable to say anything. My mind spins images of women coming here to find an interview outfit, or get some canned goods if they’ve fallen on hard times.
I picture them finding community with each other, which I know from firsthand experience is something that can be a struggle.
No matter the situation, people who have been in prison experience a lot of judgement, and can feel ostracized.
While things are coming together well enough, getting this non-profit off the ground has not been all sunshine and roses.
The first realtor I approached completely balked and gave me stink-eye when she found out I am an ex-felon, so I got supremely lucky with this one.
It’s been a similar song and dance with a few of the charity groups I’ve reached out to.
The fact that my felony charge was reduced to a misdemeanor is irrelevant to them, they just care that I’ve been in prison.
Still, plenty of fantastic people are stepping up.
I’ve even reached out to the warden at the women’s correctional facility where I was incarcerated, and she likes my idea.
She says she’ll recommend that all of the inmates there come to me when they’re released to help them, even though I’m about two hours away.
Of course, Tania and Carlo have also been huge supports, talking about it to anyone they encounter and finding connections to help.
Carlo’s sisters have already started to get donations together, they’re amazing.
“I’ll need to check a few things and think for a night, but I know this space might go fast. Can I get back to you in a day or two?”
My realtor nods.
“Two days max, though. You’re right that this place won’t stay vacant long, so I advise moving on it as soon as possible if you’re sure you want it.”
“Absolutely,” I confirm.
We shake hands, and I head home exhausted after working an extra long shift, nearly a double, followed by this evening appointment.
Luckily, Gage already texted that he’s making a quick pasta dish since he has a day off today.
Not having to make dinner after a long day is truly the ultimate luxury.
It’s these little things he does that has shifted my perspective on what a relationship can be.
I’ve always seen them as a trap, as something that will not allow me control, because it requires giving my most vulnerable pieces to someone else.
What I could have never counted on is finding someone to give those pieces to, and having him keep them safe, instead of just taking them.
Gage is making it a partnership, something so affectionate and warm that I could not have even conjured it in my wildest dreams.
It’s such a small thing, but along with splitting the cooking, I love the fact that if he’s doing a load of laundry, he’ll throw in my stuff with it.
The last time anyone helped me with my laundry was Tania when we were teenagers.
My hyper independent mind is having trouble computing this whole sharing daily tasks phenomenon.
Growing up knowing I could never count on anyone to help me if I asked means that I have so much trouble with people helping me now. I’m getting better, though.
When I walk in the door, I’m greeted by the sounds of Hermes talking, music playing, and the clattering of cooking. He said he’d be making roasted garlic alfredo with chicken over fettuccine, and that gorgeous smell of roasting garlic permeates the whole house.
I catch sight of him in the kitchen without him noticing me come in, which gives me a minute to simply observe this incredible man.
My heart squeezes painfully. His feet are light as he dances around while cleaning up a little.
The grey tee he’s wearing clings to him as he moves his hips and arms in a way that has my mouth going bone dry, his silver chain glinting when the golden sunlight streaming in hits him.
Taking a break from his dance party, he dutifully checks on the sauce and the boiling pasta, giving them both a stir.
Daisy, as always, is chirping in his hair, trying to imitate the song that’s playing.
Hermes and Tink keep watch from a distance on the perch in the breakfast room, Hermes keeping up a string of commentary.
It’s a scene I hope I can always come home to.
Hope. Hope. Hope.
I haven’t felt much of it in my thirty years, but it’s welling inside me now.
My whole life, I’ve blamed myself for everything that’s happened.
I’ve clung to the firm belief that there is some fundamental flaw in me, some sharp blade that always makes people leave or discard me.
I never wanted to expect the world to give me or owe me anything, because it seemed stupid and naive.
I was a fucking child who didn’t ask to be in any of those situations, though.
In spite of my parents giving me up, I should have been protected and cared for.
What I’m now realizing is that while the world doesn’t owe me anything, I owe myself something.
I owe myself the beautiful potential of a serious relationship with Gage.
He softens my sharp edges, but understands why they’re there.
This is a man who has continually shown up, not to smash my walls down and conquer me, but to let me know that it’s safe for me to come out from behind those walls on my own.
Constantly being in fight or flight mode is exhausting, and I crave the safe place to land that is sitting right in front of my eyes.
I owe myself the chance to be sublimely happy, and work hard at achieving something I’m passionate about.
I owe myself hope, no matter how scary it is.
As if he feels my eyes on him, he turns toward me, and his whole face lights up. The sight makes my world tilt on its axis, pointing away from what I’ve always known, and toward the hopeful, beautiful new life I’m building with this amazing man.
“Hey! How was work and the tour with the realtor?” he asks, sidling up to give me a hug and press a kiss to my lips. Daisy chirps her own greeting from his hair. He motions for me to walk and talk with him, calling the birds to get them back into their aviaries in the living room.
“Work was pretty good, and the tour was amazing. The space is exactly what I’ve been envisioning, but I’m worried it will be too expensive since it’s on the high end of my budget.”
“I know for a fact you’ll make it work,” he asserts as we head back into the kitchen.
“Oh really? How can you be that sure?” I’m going for teasing, but I know the note of insecurity in my voice must be obvious.
“Because you’re Celeste fucking Martino, and you can do anything,” he declares, turning me to face him and bringing his forehead to mine.
I can’t help but kiss him, unable to verbalize how much I appreciate what he just said, and it quickly grows heated before he reluctantly pulls away to check on the food.
Wasting food is awful, but for more of those kisses I might be willing to let dinner burn and order takeout.
He has more self control than me, it seems.