24. twenty-four
twenty-four
Brooks
Fourth Friday
“Wassup, Big Dude?” Ollie says, walking with a swagger down the front porch steps of Nora’s house.
“Dude…you look awesome.”
“Thanks,” he says with a little shrug, adjusting his sunglasses on his face. “Where’s your gasses?”
“They’re in my car. Should I wear them so I can look as cool as you?”
Ollie nods, and his glasses slide down his nose adorably. Nora locks the door to her house behind her and barely has time to amble down the steps before I sweep her into my arms.
“The neighbors!” she wheezes into my ear as if she really cares what they think, but her hand on the back of my neck is telling me otherwise. She likes being held by me. I glance around, and sure enough, there’s a man across the road with a rake in his hand, but instead of raking leaves, he’s openly staring at us. I swear I see a lady in the house next door peering out the window, but she’s gone as quickly as she appeared.
Maybe she’s right. I’ll save the making out for later, once we’re inside and away from prying eyes.
“Who’s ready to do some shopping?” I ask once we’re all buckled into the car. It’s four o’clock and the weak November sun is already setting, but I’ve got my sunglasses on to please Ollie anyways. He flings his hand into the air and shouts, “Meeee!”
“You’ve got the list ready?”
“Got it right here,” Nora says.
We drive to the only grocery store Kitt’s Harbor boasts, which is referred to by locals as The Market since it’s tiny and chock full of random bits and bobs along with a limited selection of local produce, dairy products, and overpriced shelf staples. After finding parking on Main, I stow my sunglasses (much to Ollie’s dismay), and we head inside. I haven’t grocery shopped in a long while, and it feels nostalgic stepping foot somewhere that’s been around since I was a kid.
“Welcome in!” Winnie calls out from her perch at the till. She peers owlishly over the gossip magazine in her hands and blinks twice at me from behind her glasses. I raise a hand in greeting and she stares back, eyes wide.
“Hi, Winnie,” Nora says. “How’s that novel of yours coming along?”
“Oh, just fine,” Winnie answers, but her eyes are still fixed on me. “How do I know you, young man?” she asks. “You look familiar.”
My eyes dart to one of the sports magazines lining the checkout aisle that has my face on it.
“He’s an Alden,” Nora answers for me. “The twins’ older brother.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Winnie says with a chuckle. “You look just like your sisters. Claire has been helping me with my book, you know. She’s got lots of wonderful ideas.”
“I’m sure she does,” I say. My sister rarely talks about it, but she’s an aspiring writer herself.
“We’ll let you get back to your reading,” Nora says, hustling me along before Winnie can entrap us in a long-winded conversation. From what my sisters tell me, Winnie likes to talk. Winnie waves us off and Nora and I share a smile.
“Okay,” Nora says, pulling a cart from the rack and buckling Ollie in the child seat. “First, we need baking soda, dark brown sugar, and some kind of fancy salt.”
“Fancy salt?” I ask. “What constitutes fancy salt?”
“You know,” Nora makes a sprinkling gesture. “The kind people use to top their baked goods to make them look…enticing.”
“So, what you’re saying is,” I say, bending my head to speak into her ear. “If I sprinkle myself with said fancy salt, you’d find me more enticing?”
“Oh, believe me, you’re enticing enough as you are.”
We locate two different types of sugar and cocoa powder, and then me and Ollie spend five minutes racing up and down the aisle while Nora determines which of the salts available at the market will be up to snuff.
I lurch to a stop and Ollie giggles, his blue eyes shining. If anyone were to see us together, they could easily mistake Ollie as my son. Our eyes are nearly the same color. The thought tugs at my gut as I take off down the aisle again at top speed.
Unfortunately, another patron at the market rounds the corner, and I have to make a lightning-fast swerve to avoid a shopping cart collision. Winnie would for sure kick me out if she saw me pull a hit-and-run.
“I’m sorry…”
My words flicker and die in my throat as the man pushing the shopping cart comes into view. He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit, his black hair slicked back in a perfect wave. He eyes me narrowly, though his mouth lifts into something like a smile.
“Brooks,” my dad says, his eyes flicking down to Ollie.
“Okay, I think I found the perfect salt,” Nora says from behind me, approaching with quick steps before placing the salt in the cart. I don’t have time to say anything before she glances up and her gaze collides with the man who played a role in our break up back in high school. She knows the truth now, and that makes me feel even more protective of her. I angle my body so she’s slightly behind me, shielding her from my dad.
“Nora,” Bill Alden says coolly. “So nice to see you.”
His eyes move between me, Nora, and Ollie and I can tell he’s taking their measure. He smiles again, tightly.
“When I heard my son was spending more time in town, I was surprised at first, but,” he nods to Nora, “now I see he’s in good company.”
“Go again, Bookie!” Ollie says, squirming in his seat. He’s wanting to continue our race down the aisles.
I still haven’t said a word to my father. He’s intruded on something private and personal, something I want him to have absolutely no part in. He doesn’t get to make small talk with Nora and her son. He doesn’t get to be involved in my life. He lost that privilege a long time ago.
I’m not putting up with him. Especially not with these two around.
“We were just about to check out,” I say, maneuvering my cart around my dad’s. Nora glances at me furtively before shadowing me.
“Wait,” he says, and his hand latches on my arm to stop me. “I’d like a word.”
My jaw clenches, and I draw in a deep breath through my nose. What was it Greta had told me to do should I encounter my father? Oh, yeah. Do not engage . No matter what he says, no matter what he does, don’t take the bait. Do not engage. It’s not safe for me to do so.
“I’ve still got a couple more things left on my shopping list,” Nora says, her fingertips grazing my lower back as she sidles past. “We’ll meet you at the checkout.” I release my death grip on the shopping cart, and she takes it from me. “Goodbye, Mr. Alden.”
Dad gives her a flat smile in return, and as soon as she’s out of sight, he turns his cold gaze on me, smile gone. It’s just me and the man who raised me, facing off in the baking aisle in the middle of the market. I return his glare with a contrasting, easy grin. He’ll hate that. It’s proof that the casual happiness he always tried to scrub out of my personality is flickering back to life.
“How can I help you, Bill?” I say, addressing him by his first name because that’s who he is to me. A distant acquaintance. “Please tell me you’re not wasting your time with her… again ?” he says, his voice laced with condescension. “You would think after the way your season ended, you would be putting your head down and overhauling your game like I suggested instead of giving into…meaningless distractions.”
Anger rolls through me at his assumptions, but I try not to let it show. Do not engage . Don’t stoop to his level.
“Leave Nora out of it,” I grit out.
“If I were you, I would be very careful getting involved with someone like Nora Foster. You’ve been down this road before, remember? She’s not built for the life you live, Brooks. She won’t be able to keep up.”
I scoff, glancing over at the assortment of flours on the shelf across from me before looking back at my dad. “You don’t even know her. You never knew her.”
“And you think you do?” he says. There it is, the bait. The manipulation. He’s trying to plant a seed of doubt in my mind again, just like he did senior year. He told me Nora wasn’t serious about college and wasn't serious about us. He convinced me that she would only hold me back from reaching my goals. She was a nobody. Going nowhere.
I lift my chin, taking stock of my dad. He’s tired. A fancy suit and perfectly styled hair can’t conceal the smudges under his eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth. An unexpected wave of pity rises within me. I’m disappointed that he still feels the need to try and control me. Despite the distance I’ve put between us, he hasn’t clued in and grown up and let me make my own choices without adding his two cents.
“Bill,” I say firmly, standing tall and staking my feet firmly beneath me. “Nothing you say is going to change my mind. I never ask you for advice because, frankly, I don’t need it. I’m doing just fine.”
He seems slightly taken aback by my directness, blinking rapidly.
“Hope you enjoy your stay at home,” I say.
And with that, I leave Bill Alden standing stock-still in the aisle, my heart pounding in my chest.
As we start assembling our ingredients for our brookies, Nora can tell that my mind is occupied.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly. Ollie is singing some song about cookies from his perch on her kitchen counter, drawing with his fingertips in a pile of spilled flour.
“How long do I melt the butter for?” I ask, hand hovering near the buttons on the microwave. I’m dodging her question, and she knows it.
“Brooks,” she says, taking my outstretched hand in hers. “What did your dad say to you?”
I stiffen. I can’t tell her that. It would break her heart to know that the first time Bill and I had crossed paths in years, we’d essentially argued about her. Again.
“He didn’t have anything nice to say,” I say, which is the truth. “Per usual.”
Nora’s eyes swell, and she tucks herself against my chest. I sigh, pulling her close and breathing into her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she says simply.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure you were hoping for the best.”
“Not really. I try not to expect anything when it comes to my dad. He’s very consistent.”
“I hope one day he’ll let go of his pride and see you for who you are,” she says, brushing her thumb over my jawline. “He’s missing out.”
Ollie yelps, and we startle apart.
“Yucky!” he says, pointing to the mixing bowl. “Is yucky.”
“Oh, no,” Nora says. “Did you eat the cocoa powder?” Ollie nods, wide-eyed. Nora laughs. “Yeah, that’s really bitter, buddy. I should have warned you.”
We resume our baking, and I try my best to let my interaction with my dad roll off my back, but my mind keeps calling it forward. Replaying his words. It’s like every time I interact with him, I revert back to the kid I once was. Desperately trying to grow tall enough to fight him off while simultaneously being squashed beneath his foot.
You would think after the way your season ended, you would be putting your head down and working on improving your game instead of giving into … distractions .
A guilty feeling sinks into my gut. That was exactly how I’d seen Nora when we’d first started talking. A welcome distraction. Have I been using her?
The thought makes me sick.
I didn’t think I was using Nora, but Bill’s comments are making me second-guess myself.
Have I been slipping in my performance on the field? Should I be doing more? Am I endangering Nora and Ollie by being involved with them? Did I rush her when she needed more time?
The questions continue to circulate through my mind, and I find myself growing quiet.
She’s not built for the life you live, Brooks. She won’t be able to keep up.
I watch Nora laugh with Ollie, joining him in singing his silly cookie song. I watch her drop the cookie dough over the brownie batter, sneaking bites and dancing to music that nobody else can hear. I note the soft smiles she offers me and feel my discomfort multiply.
Maybe I’ve been doing this all wrong. Maybe I really have been using Nora. Selfishly stringing her along because being with her makes everything in my life feel easier and more manageable. I’ve loved every minute we’ve spent together.
But am I what she needs?
I’ve avoided thinking too far into the future, as Greta has advised me to do, but maybe I should start to consider what I’m going to do once spring training starts. Nora’s roots are here in Kitt’s Harbor. My life, come February, is baseball. All day, every day for the majority of the year. Lots of travel. Weeks and maybe even months apart. How could I ask her to change anything about her life for me? And would she even want to?
“You can do the honors,” she says, handing me the container of fancy salt.
“Oh,” I say, pulled momentarily out of my mental spiral. “How do I do it?”
“Just grab a pinch,” she says, demonstrating for me. “And sprinkle it on top.”
“You’re putting a dangerous amount of trust in my sprinkling abilities,” I say. “What if I over-do it?”
“I trust you,” she says simply, giving me a bright smile. “You’ve got this.”
I swallow. I thought I was the trustworthy type, but maybe I’ve got things all wrong.
I sprinkle the salt, feeling like every flake I drop on the pan is piling up inside me, adding to the mountain of uncertainty.