19. Brooke
Chapter 19
Brooke
T he moment we step into Hooplas, the energy is electric. The bar is packed, laughter and conversation mingling with the clinking of glasses. The warm light casts a golden glow over the crowd, and the scent of grilled food wafts from the kitchen. Despite the chaos, the bartenders manage to keep the drinks flowing, and the air buzzes with anticipation.
Trevor’s hand finds mine as he leans down to whisper, “If this is how the town reacts to drama, I can’t imagine what the Christmas Tree Lighting looks like.”
I laugh, nudging him playfully. “Gotta love small-town life. Everything is a spectacle.”
We make our way to the bar, where Charlie is holding court with a glass of wine in hand. Her curly hair bounces as she gestures animatedly, her infectious laughter cutting through the noise. Vivian, meanwhile, is seated at a high table surrounded by a small group of admirers who are taking pictures and videos of her. A reporter from the local paper is leaning in, hanging on her every word.
Trevor chuckles, shaking his head as we watch Vivian soak up the attention. “She’s loving this. ”
“Of course she is,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The spotlight’s her natural habitat.” Even though we’ve never officially met, I don’t like her even in the slightest, although I may be biased as she once dated Trevor. But I can tell, she’s not someone I would have liked if I didn’t already know that tidbit of information.
Just then, the music cuts out, and a cheer rises from the crowd. On a small makeshift stage near the back, the emcee for the evening, Ian Gallo, steps up to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! The announcement of this year’s Miss Hibiscus! Or better yet, four Miss Hibiscus’!”
The crowd erupts in applause as the four familiar figures step onto the stage—Florence, Gladys, Joan, and Betty, the Walking Ladies, each holding a bouquet of hibiscus flowers, wearing a sparkling crown and a sash proclaiming them “Miss Hibiscus.”
Trevor and I burst into laughter as the ladies begin arguing over who the real winner is.
“Now, now,” Florence says, adjusting her crown. “Clearly, I have the poise and grace befitting the title.”
“Poise and grace?” Gladys huffs. “You tripped over your own two feet during the parade down Main Street!”
“Well, at least I didn’t spill hibiscus punch all over the mayor!” Joan shoots back.
Betty waves a dismissive hand. “Enough, you old bats. Everyone knows I’m the fan favorite, right?” She urges the crowd on.
The crowd roars with laughter, and Trevor leans closer, his voice low in my ear. “This is better than any sitcom I’ve ever watched.”
“I’m just glad they didn’t crown only one of them or we’d be witnessing a royal brawl,” I quip, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes .
Ian tries to restore order, but it’s clear the Walking Ladies are enjoying their moment in the spotlight far too much. Finally, the crowd begins chanting, “Sophie! Sophie!”
Vivian, ever the performer, stands and strides toward the stage, a dramatic flair in her step as she holds her phone out and records the entire thing. The reporter follows closely, notebook in hand. She climbs the steps, tossing her ponytail like a soap opera villain and taking the microphone from Ian with a flourish.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, her voice dripping with faux gravitas. “The time has come to reveal the truth. The identity of Sophie Quinn will no longer be a mystery!”
Trevor mutters under his breath, “Here we go.”
I panic and my hand involuntarily grips Trevor’s tighter. In response, he kisses my temple trying to relax me.
Vivian raises her arm, pointing an accusatory finger. “Sophie Quinn is none other than… Charlie!”
There’s a beat of stunned silence before Charlie, mid-sip of her wine, chokes and spits it out in a fine spray. The crowd erupts in laughter.
“Me? Sophie Quinn? A bestselling author?” Charlie manages between coughs, her face turning red from laughter. “Sweetheart, I’m the head chef of The Silver Willow. I barely have time to sleep, let alone write bestselling novels, plus I type with one finger. You’ve got the wrong girl, but nice try.”
Vivian’s smug expression falters as the crowd jeers. I don’t know what comes over me, but before I can stop myself, I step forward and blurt out, “I’m Sophie Quinn!”
The bar goes silent. Every head turns toward me, and my face flames with embarrassment and determination. I swallow hard, lifting my chin. “I’m Sophie Quinn,” I repeat, this time louder, my voice steady.
Charlie freezes mid-sip of her wine, nearly spilling it in her lap this time. Her wide eyes dart to mine, then to Kendall, who looks like she’s forgotten how to breathe. Charlie and Kendall both gape at me, their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water.
Vivian’s lips twist into a sneer. “Oh, please. You expect anyone to believe that? Why would a mousy librarian be a bestselling author? You read books, not write them.”
“Believe what you want, but I am Sophie Quinn,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’m telling you this because it’s the truth.”
Trevor steps forward, his voice clear and firm. “Yes, Vivian, she is Sophie Quinn . I’ve seen her work, Vivian. Brooke is the bestselling author Sophie Quinn.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd, disbelief and curiosity mingling in equal measure. Kendall’s jaw drops, and Charlie sets her glass down with a loud thunk.
“Wait a second,” Charlie says, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. “Are you serious, Brooke?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice growing more confident, my inner Sophie coming out in spades. “I’ve been writing under the pen name Sophie Quinn for years. It’s me. I’m Sophie Quinn.”
Kendall claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh my God. Oh my God! I’ve been fangirling over my best friend’s books this whole time. I’m going to scream.”
Charlie looks between me and the crowd, then back at Vivian, her expression turning sly. “Well, well. Guess the drama queen got it wrong,” she says, raising her glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to Sophie Quinn putting Vivian in her place.”
The crowd breaks into scattered applause, and someone shouts, “I want an autograph!”
Vivian’s face flushes crimson, her composure crumbling. “This isn’t over,” she snaps, but her voice wavers as the crowd turns its attention back to me.
Trevor slips an arm around my waist, his grin lighting up the room. “You did it, babe,” he whispers. “You really did it.”
I let out the breath I was holding, a smile breaking across my face. For the first time, the weight of my secret feels lighter, and as the crowd cheers, I realize I’m ready for whatever comes next.
The next morning, a heavy sense of foreboding settles over me like a storm cloud as I approach the school. The cheerful chatter of students and the occasional laugh echo down the hallway, but I barely notice. My steps falter when I spot Mr. Gray standing stiffly outside the library doors. His arms are crossed over his chest, his sharp features accentuated by the sour expression he’s wearing.
In his hand is a copy of my latest novel, its sultry cover glaringly out of place under the stark fluorescent lights. My heart drops, and my palms begin to sweat. This can’t be good.
“Miss Edwards,” he says, his tone clipped and formal, though his lip curls as he adds, “or should I say Sophie Quinn ?”
My stomach twists into knots. The hallway feels colder, and the buzz of fluorescent lights above grows deafening.
“Can we talk in my office?” His words are heavy with disappointment, leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t wait for a response, spinning on his heel and striding toward the administrative wing.
I hesitate for a brief moment, glancing back at the library I love so much before following him. The trek to his office feels longer than it should, each step heavy with dread. By the time I take the seat he gestures toward, my nerves are stretched thin.
The ensuing meeting is a whirlwind of sharp words and veiled accusations. Mr. Gray paces behind his desk like a warden delivering a harsh sentence, the copy of my book clutched tightly in his hand.
“This,” he begins, shaking the novel as though it were a crime scene weapon, “is entirely inappropriate for someone in your position. Writing this kind of material while serving as an educator is unbecoming, to say the least. What kind of message do you think this sends to the children and their families?”
His voice is sharp, each word cutting deeper than the last. “Poor role model,” he continues. “Unprofessional. A disgrace to this institution.”
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second stretching into an eternity. My mind swirls with indignation and disbelief. Does he seriously think this disqualifies me as a librarian? I’ve poured my heart and soul into this school, creating programs that inspire young minds, hosting storytime sessions that light up children’s faces, and fostering a love of reading that I hope will last a lifetime.
When he pauses for breath, I find my voice—quiet but steady. “Mr. Gray, I’ve dedicated years to this school. Years. My students love coming to the library because I’ve made it a welcoming, creative space. My writing doesn’t change that.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “It’s not about your library work. It’s about the image you present as an educator. Parents expect a certain standard of moral conduct from their children’s role models.”
“Moral conduct?” I echo, anger bubbling to the surface. “You mean the kind that encourages creativity, empathy, and understanding? Because that’s what my books promote, even if they’re not meant for children.”
He scoffs, tossing the book onto his desk as if it’s tainted. “This is nonnegotiable, Miss Edwards. Either you agree to distance yourself from this... side career, or we’ll have to reevaluate your place here.”
My heart sinks. He’s not giving me a choice. It’s comply or leave—suppress the very part of myself that brings me joy and fulfillment, or give up the job I’ve built my life around.
I push my chair back, the legs scraping against the tiled floor. “You know what?” I say, my voice trembling, not with fear but with fury. I grab my book he just tossed onto the desk, open up the cover and write a message and then sign my pen name with flourish. I hold the book up and hand it to him. When he opens up the cover to see what I wrote, I read it to him. “I quit. I can’t work—won’t work—for someone who treats their employees like this. Love, Sophie Quinn.”
Mr. Gray’s eyes widen, and for a fleeting moment, I see the flicker of surprise in his otherwise stoic demeanor. “Now, Miss Edwards, let’s not be hasty?—”
“No,” I cut him off, my resolve firm. “This isn’t hasty. This is my destiny.”
Without waiting for his response, I snatch up my bag, turn on my heel, and walk out of his office. The slam of the door behind me feels like a punctuation mark on this chapter of my life. My heart is pounding, adrenaline surging through my veins as I march down the hall. Students and teachers glance at me curiously, but I don’t stop.
By the time I reach the parking lot, the reality of what I’ve just done crashes down on me. My hands are trembling as I fumble with my car keys. I take a deep, shaky breath and drive to the one place I know I’ll find comfort.
When I reach the hospital, my nerves are frayed. Trevor is in the staff lounge when I walk in, his scrubs slightly wrinkled and his hair adorably messy. His face lights up when he sees me, but his smile quickly fades when he notices the look on my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his concern immediate. He crosses the room in three long strides and pulls me into his arms. “Brooke, talk to me.”
The dam breaks. I recount everything—Mr. Gray’s accusations, his ultimatum, and my decision to walk away. By the time I finish, my voice is trembling, and tears are streaming down my cheeks.
Trevor’s jaw tightens, his eyes blazing with anger. “What a bastard,” he mutters, his arms tightening around me protectively. “You didn’t deserve that. Not even close.”
I bury my face in his chest, the tears coming harder now. “What am I going to do, Trevor? I just quit my job, my secret identity is now no longer a secret, and my friends have no idea who I’ve been the last few years. My whole life feels like it’s falling apart.”
He lifts my chin, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’re going to do what you’ve always done—rise above it. You’re strong, Brooke. Stronger than you realize. And I’m so damn proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
His words are a balm to my frayed nerves, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. For the first time all day, I feel a flicker of hope.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Trevor’s expression softens, his lips brushing against my forehead. “I love you, too,” he murmurs. “And we’re going to get through this together. I promise.”
In his arms, the world feels a little less daunting, and for the first time, I start to believe that maybe I’ll be okay.