Scot and Bothered

7. Now

7

NOW

Brooke dashed down the steps from Mhairi’s office and into the warm, early-May air. The sun kissed her skin, the breeze ruffled her hair, the soft day so out of sorts with the darkness whirling inside her.

She might’ve blacked out when Jack walked in, the way he’d knocked on the doorframe with one knuckle. His jaw was more defined now, like he spent a lot of time clenching it. His dark hair was cut shorter than she remembered but she knew exactly how it felt between her fingers. His dreamer eyes were focused. Grounded. And he hadn’t taken them off her.

Brooke used to light up under that kind of attention but she hadn’t wanted him studying her now, noticing the struggle to mask her reaction to him. His glasses and the parting of his lips had been a wrecking ball to whatever composure she’d mustered around herself over the past seven years, laying bare those shattered pieces of her heart she’d never quite managed to sweep up.

She fled to The Meadows, the park next to campus. Cherry blossom trees flanked the central walkway, the pink flowers bursting with color and sweet perfume. She needed the open space and the tranquility out of the bustle of the city. Needed the fresh air to clear away the scent of his tea tree shampoo that’d pulled her back in time like the electropop beat of Calvin Harris’s “Summer” on the radio.

“Brooke!”

She closed her eyes against the recognition of his voice, the stutter step of her heart. The way she used to crave the sound of her name in his brogue, low and rumbling.

She should’ve realized he’d know to find her here. How many times had they walked under these same trees on dark and snowy nights, gazing into the bare branches reaching for each other over their heads?

Brooke slowed but didn’t turn. She sucked in oxygen to calm herself, to shore up her resistance.

Fingers brushed the inside of her elbow and her skin tingled long after they fell away. “Brooke.”

She turned, her eyes stalling on the curve of Jack’s shoulder in his white dress shirt like she might not be able to force her eyes to meet his. But she straightened her spine and pushed aside the discomfort and the fear that she might trip and fall back into those dark brown eyes.

A crease appeared between his eyebrows and a memory crashed into her—drunk, stumbling up the stairs, Jack sober and broody, her finger pressing into the soft skin there, saying, “Put those eyebrows away,” hiccupping, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist, his head shaking with dry amusement behind it.

Her body remembered absolutely nothing about his deception. All it cared about was the way he’d made her feel. That one simple touch could spark fire in her veins. His attention had made her downright reckless.

But she wasn’t twenty-one anymore. She’d learned enough times that giving second chances was for fools who wanted tarnished reputations and broken hearts they should’ve seen coming.

“I didn’t realize you’d be here today. I’m sorry for surprising you. And I’m sorry…” He let out a heavy breath, his eyes pleading. “ Christ , Brooke, I’m so sorry for everything I did back then.”

As much as she’d longed to hear his apology—his explanation —she found she couldn’t stomach it. She didn’t want to be managed or handled or smoothed over. Couldn’t bear to assuage whatever small amount of guilt he still carried.

“And the trail. I mean, this…” He gestured between them. “I know there’s a lot of history here—”

Brooke raised her hand to stop him, not wanting to hear a single word about the wreckage left between them. “Mhairi wants your pictures and I want what she wants. This—” she made the same gesture “—is ancient history. I barely even remember it.”

It was a blip on the radar she wished would vanish. Instead, it’d blossomed into a dark mark on her entire life. Brooke kept her chin tipped upward, defiant. Daring Jack to contradict her.

Something flickered in his eyes. It couldn’t be hurt. She believed he might feel remorse. He’d utterly fucked up her life. But if he’d cared about her—even a fraction of the amount he’d let her believe—he wouldn’t have turned her into a walking cliché of the young, dumb, ambitious student infatuated with the young, hot, off-limits teacher. He’d been the one person she’d trusted with her dreams and he’d single-handedly unraveled them.

“Alright, then. We’ll leave this weekend? Saturday?”

She stared at him, at the light dusting of freckles under the glasses that had to be the same pair. He had once felt like forever and now eight days was impossibly long to spend in his presence.

“Does that work with your schedule?” he asked.

She would hike Mhairi’s trail and find the heartbeat of the story and do her best to ignore Jack. They would hike together for safety and the sake of the book. They weren’t friends or anything else, either. She wouldn’t give him the chance to derail her dreams a second time. “That’s fine.” Her words came out the opposite of confident.

Jack jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’ll email you with logistics, then?” He leaned toward her like the curve of a question mark.

She stepped back, giving him a nod, her mouth tight from holding back all the furious words she’d rehearsed six hundred times while picturing this meeting, afraid that a choked sob would come out instead. A How could you? or I loved you or You shattered me.

“Alright,” he said again, pausing like he might say more before turning to leave.

Rooted to the spot, Brooke watched him walk away as pink flower petals drifted down from their branches, one landing delicately on his shoulder before gently slipping off. She wished she’d let go of him as easily.