By DeLaune Michel
Hypnotic and fantastically written, Aftermath of Dreaming is an incandescent first novel of odern existence and love. except the little challenge that she is waking up screaming in the midst of the evening, lifestyles is magnificent for Yvette Broussard. Her jewelry-design profession is setting out, she's again along with her sort-of boyfriend, and, better of all, she now not thinks approximately her once-in-a-lifetime love, overseas celeb Andrew Madden. until eventually an opportunity come across with him adjustments every little thing. Swept up via stories in their complicated dating, Yvette is plunged into an obsession with Andrew that finally forces her to confront the prior she suggestion she had left in the back of. while, she is juggling the calls for of her bride-to-be sister and her male ally, who's jealous of alternative males, and innovations of her estranged father. Set opposed to the glittering worlds of la and ny, and informed with either humor and pathos, Aftermath of Dreaming explores the common issues of abandonment, forgiveness, and letting pass.
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Extra resources for Aftermath of Dreaming: A Novel
I am secretly thrilled to be alone. The objects on her coffee table are astounding, the buried treasure of some dreadfully fabulous betrothal dream come to life: garters and albums and place cards and champagne ﬂutes and a heart-shaped ring pillow with a smaller heart in the middle. “It means a lot to me that you’re doing it,” Suzanne shouts from her kitchen, as I pick up the pillow to examine it. ” I notice that “Suzanne” and “Matthew” are embroidered in cursive script on the white satin pillow next to ribbons that will hold their rings.
He might think it’d be ﬁne, no reason in the world not to. Hightailing it out of the parking lot, thank you, Chevy engine, I remember that I was supposed to go to the opening-night party afterward, so I leave a “loved your show; can’t—cough, cough—make the party” message at Sydney’s home, so she’ll know how sincere I am. When I reach a secure distance from the theater in that barren part of the 10 near Centinela, I pull over to the shoulder, put my truck into park, and lift my hands to cover my face.
I’ll turn some music up loud when I get home—I ﬁgure since Gloria’s never said one word about my screams, music isn’t going to bother her. Maybe I’ll put on that blues CD Reggie gave me on the disc rotator, with Lucinda Williams and Roxy Music, and let the hours slip away in a harmonic reverie of working on jewelry that will keep me distracted until I see Michael again. A. makes me miss New York. Or makes me try to pre- tend that I am there, depending on the way the light is hitting the buildings.