Chapter 9
Brielle
Dad was . . . not happy. I may have reached the age of sixteen, where all parents suddenly decide you’re mature enough to date—like someone sprinkles you with magic fairy dust and as soon as the calendar flips, you’re all wise and smart and stuff—but my dad is not a normal dad.
I always say Dad has spent my entire life lying to me.
I really believe he works for the CIA and is trained in special forces tactics and interrogation skills.
I think he’s probably responsible for at least ninety percent of all mercenaries who go missing and are never seen again.
Dad is like a Navy SEAL and Batman paired up to become the justice keepers of the world. Or at least our home.
That’s why last night was freaking me out on triggering levels of stress.
He even made me take my phone out of my back pocket and—wait for it—hang up on Lia.
I’m not sure he was prepared for the emotional tsunami that inspired.
After I was done taking out the family peace with my tidal wave of fury for being separated from my BFF in Canada, Dad had the nerve to take off my bedroom doorknob and tell me , “If you can’t react rationally to a reasonable conversation where I’m asking inquiring questions about a boy I’ve never met, and you can’t last five minutes without Lia mumbling from your pocket, then, you need to understand that your privacy and the freedom to be your own individual has been canceled. ”
“For how long?” I did not react any more rationally with this follow-up question.
“As long as I feel like it. I’m your dad.”
“That’s not—”
“And!” He stabbed me with his I’ve-gotten-to-Level-5-in-the-red-danger-zone look and finished with, “Keep this up and I’ll take your phone.”
Dear God in Heaven. Lord, help.
I didn’t even know what the issue was now. Me dating Brooks without asking Dad about it first? Or me freaking out because Dad told me to end my video call with Lia? Or maybe it was the stress of today just all coming together in one final explosion that felt a lot like stepping on a landmine.
Whatever it was, now I didn’t have a doorknob, and Reece had spent the better part of last night shooting foam bullets at me through the hole. Dad didn’t even put a stop to that immaturity. I swear he loves Reece more.
Whatever.
Now my locker door was stuck, and my backpack weighed more than an overweight rhinoceros.
I was supposed to go to dinner with Brooks tonight, only now I wasn’t sure if that was even allowed because of Dad.
And I was a little weirded out by a few of the sideways glances I was getting from girls at school who usually ignore me completely.
So there was a picture. Of me with the new guy at school.
Big deal.
Apparently, it sort of was, but I hoped after a day or two it’d become old news and Brooks and I could “break up” and go back to our personal happily-ever-afters.
“Coffee?”
I yelped. I swung my fist—side effect of having a small handle on self-control—and it connected with Brooks’s arm. The lid of the to-go coffee cup he held popped off like a black plastic frisbee, and half of the drink became a geyser before landing on my shoe.
“Ahh!” I lifted my foot. My new Converse tennis shoes were a light blue and had cost me half of my birthday money. Being baptized by coffee was an honor for most things, but not my new shoes.
“Try again,” Brooks said—instead of apologizing. He extended his other hand with the other cup of coffee he held that hadn’t erupted all over my shoes. “Reece told me you liked coffee.”
I shook my shoe as though somehow the coffee would just splash right off of it. “I like iced caramel lattes.” I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but . . .
“Oh.” Brooks shrugged. “Guess I get two coffees then. Or—one and a half.” He held up the spilled coffee as if to say “cheers.”
I reached for it. “I’ll take it.”
Half full or not, it had coffee in it, and I needed coffee. I peered into the paper cup. “What is it?”
“Caramel latte,” Brooks replied. “I just didn’t know about the ice part.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying not to come off as a total brat. I sucked in a breath to steady myself.
Brooks must have heard the shudder in it. “Bad night?”
“Bad night. Bad morning.” I tried my locker door again. It wouldn’t budge.
“Here.” Brooks did a one-handed wrestle with the contraption, and it popped open for him without much coercion.
“Go figure.” I was muttering again, but I emptied the contents of my bag inside as I balanced my coffee in one hand.
“So, Shortstop, what’s our move today?”
“Our move?” I eyed him.
“We’re public now, so . . . what? Should I pass you a note or something like our parents used to do in class when they were kids?”
“Ew. No.” I shut my locker door.
“Okay. Ummmm, hold hands?”
“Definitely not.” No touching. I didn’t like touching people I didn’t know that well. It made my skin crawl. At least—I hesitated—well, maybe Brooks was . . .no. I’d consider that later. Besides, we were breaking up soon anyway. So, holding hands? That was out of the question.
And then I was bombarded by a million thoughts, one of which was blinking in my mind like a neon sign that was really tired of being ignored.
What had started out as an ingenious way for me to divert attention from my love life had turned into a real-life scenario that was ridiculous, and—if I were to think completely logically—unnecessary.
I mean, the whole point of creating a fake AI boyfriend in the beginning was to reduce stress.
Now that Brooks had appeared in real life—well, there was no stress reduction.
If anything, it was worse—just a different kind of worse.
I readjusted my grip on the coffee cup. “I think—” I took a nervous gulp of the very hot latte that I’d forgotten wasn’t iced. As it scalded my throat, I managed to gasp out, “—we should break up.”
His blue eyes flickered. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Brooks scrunched up his face as if he were in super deep thought. It only made him cuter. That wasn’t helping. Finally, he spoke. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I parroted.
He shrugged. “You’re the one who started this. I was just trying to help.”
Brooks was awfully accommodating.
“And thanks for that.” I tried to be polite. “But this is just dumb. And my dad is—pretty mad.”
Now Brooks paled a little. He shifted his feet. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to make your dad hate me.”
I knew he was more worried about his friendship with Reece and a potential spot on the baseball team. Not that Dad had any influence on that, but Reece might, and if Dad didn’t want Reece hanging out with Brooks . . . okay. I could see Brooks’s thought process.
“What about the money?” he asked.
“What money?”
Brooks gave me a how-could-you-have-forgotten look.
“Oh, Aunt Elle’s money. Dinner tonight.” I thought for a second and tried to ignore the flirty giggle that Nevaeh Jenkins—the most popular girl in school—shot toward Brooks as she passed us.
“Just give me the money.” I held out my hand, locking eyes with Nevaeh, who turned to look over her shoulder at me and mouthed He’s gonna be mine.
Really?
I swear some girls had nothing better to do than hop from guy to guy like they were some sort of trophy.
“I left it at home.” Brooks was completely ignorant of the little exchange between Nevaeh and me.
I snatched my hand back. “Later then. I need to get to class.”
“Which one? I’ll walk you there.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I know how to find Lit.”
Brooks grinned. “Hey. That’s my class this hour.”
“Great!” I tried to smile. I tried to sound perky even. But between last night’s blow-up with my dad, my coffee-drowned shoe that was now seeping into my sock, and Nevaeh’s irritating claim on the guy who was supposed to be my boyfriend—I just wasn’t feeling it.
Nothing was great.
In fact, if I were honest, it all pretty much sucked.
Mrs. Templeton from study hall was also my Lit teacher.
For the most part, she was okay, and I will admit, there had been times we’d had some really great conversations about books.
For whatever reason, Mrs. Templeton didn’t mind reading some of the books I gushed over, and when she agreed with me that a series by a New York Times bestselling author was way better than Lord of the Rings, I gained a new respect for her.
“Good morning, Brielle.” Mrs. Templeton smiled at me and then sipped her coffee. She had some gray hair at her temples and a few wrinkles. I think I’d heard somewhere that she was in her late fifties. “How’s your morning?”
“Fine, thanks.” I fabricated a smile.
Mrs. Templeton’s attention shifted to Brooks. “Ahh, your first day in Lit here at Driftwood High. I’ve had a chance to look at your transcripts from your previous high school.”
There was something in her words that made me glance at Brooks.
He didn’t seem comfortable. He even dipped his head, and a strand of hair fell over his eyes. I moved to brush it away for him and then jerked my hand back. What the heck was I thinking?
Thankfully, Brooks didn’t notice.
Mrs. Templeton continued. “We’ll want to chat soon.” She smiled at Brooks, but he didn’t really look her in the eye. Instead, he nodded and hurried to find a seat.
Mrs. Templeton shifted her attention to me with a knowing smile. “I hear you two are dating already.”
I swallowed hard. “Um—sorta.”
“Maybe we should do a devo on dating God’s way in Sunday School,” she commented.
Dating God’s way?
I managed a nervous smile and opted to find my seat before I engaged her in further discussion.
That sounded like a nightmare Sunday School class.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for making good choices, good morals, and all that—but I didn’t think I wanted a whole Sunday School lesson about dating.
Especially if we were really going to just end this whole charade today and try to get things back to normal.