By DeLaune Michel
Hypnotic and fantastically written, Aftermath of Dreaming is an incandescent first novel of odern lifestyles and love. except the little challenge that she is waking up screaming in the course of the evening, lifestyles is remarkable for Yvette Broussard. Her jewelry-design profession is setting out, she's again together with her sort-of boyfriend, and, better of all, she now not thinks approximately her once-in-a-lifetime love, overseas celeb Andrew Madden. till an opportunity stumble upon with him alterations every thing. Swept up by means of thoughts in their advanced courting, Yvette is plunged into an obsession with Andrew that eventually forces her to confront the previous she proposal she had left in the back of. whilst, she is juggling the calls for of her bride-to-be sister and her male ally, who's jealous of different males, and techniques of her estranged father. Set opposed to the glittering worlds of la and big apple, and instructed with either humor and pathos, Aftermath of Dreaming explores the common topics of abandonment, forgiveness, and letting move.
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Extra info for Aftermath of Dreaming: A Novel
Roxanne sees me see her blow-dried, dyed-blond, appears-everywhere hair. ” Roxanne’s eyes swim over my body, as if trying to ﬁnd this new form of piercing that somehow slipped past her au courant antennae. “It’s an old-fashioned promise thing. A guy would pin his sweetheart with his fraternity pin before she got the ring. A. ” I silently bless Momma’s stories of Daddy’s Sigma Chi days for this immediate inspiration. A ﬁsh in the X is staring at me from one eye while his ﬁns silently keep him in place.
You know, Suzanne, our parents did show up for us—okay, ﬁne, you’re right, not after Daddy disappeared and Momma wouldn’t leave her bedroom. ” I can’t help myself. For years, I have felt like a portable tape recorder whose pause button my sister depressed during the last conversation we had about our parents when I was fourteen and I am sure that my words are picking right up where they left off. “Daddy used to take us to ball games with him, and all those trips to Grande Isle, remember the father-daughter days at school and the times he would—” “I refuse to have this conversation,” Suzanne says, her eyes hard on mine before staring off in the mid-distance as if the sister I should be is there.
A ﬁngers-up-and-down wave. Which I ﬁnd odd, and wonder if it is a habit he picked up from his two kids. And still he is looking at me. A time-has-stopped look. A no-one-else-is-here look. Then he waves again. But I still haven’t responded to his ﬁrst wave, other than the fact that my eyes are unable to leave his. Unable to leave his the way the earth is unable to leave the sun. My hands feel glued to my lap and I am suddenly ﬁnding it very hard to get the muscles of my mouth to smile, and exactly what size smile do you use for an ex-neverthought-you-could-breathe-without anyway?