Chapter 15
Brooke
It’s not your fault.
I’m fighting back tears. Again. Mom’s voice fills my head—she has strong opinions about when it’s appropriate to cry.
And I’ve already gotten sick in front of Caleb today, I won’t add crying to the mix.
In the short time I was with the doctor, Caleb took more interest in my diagnosis than Mom ever has.
From her, I get nothing but critiques of all the things I could have done wrong to trigger a migraine attack.
I’m not drinking enough water. I should cut out gluten.
I’m not getting enough sleep. I’m sleeping too much. I’m being dramatic.
It’s always my fault.
When I was younger, I always seemed to have an attack when there was something important on Mom’s agenda.
She’d have to leave a client meeting to pick me up from school.
Or find coverage at the agency. I started pushing through them instead of acknowledging the pain.
Barely keeping it together until I was alone. Once I was, the pain was unbearable.
My strict routine is all an effort to avoid migraine attacks.
My neurologist says the underlying reason is a highly sensitive nervous system.
It’s another thing Mom says sounds fake.
One slip-up—a missed glass of water or an extra glass of wine, missing a meal because it was a sixteen-hour wedding day or exerting too much energy schlepping wedding supplies—and I’ve got a migraine attack on the way with her on my case.
I’m lucky Mom didn’t stay late. It’s been months since I’ve had an attack that bad.
I took my medication the moment that dull throb began, but the pain wouldn’t subside.
I resigned to waiting it out on the office floor.
By the time the nausea crept in, if I so much as lifted my head, I’d be sick.
My phone wasn’t anywhere near me. By then I’d already forgotten about the meeting, so I curled into a ball on the floor.
I’d feel better eventually or someone would show up and take me to urgent care.
I hadn’t expected that person to be Caleb.
He was still there, at urgent care, waiting for me until I was done. Through the small window on the door between the exam rooms and the waiting room, I could see him focusing on his phone, a crease between his brows.
I feel worlds better. Now I’m just exhausted. That’s what I blame for the threat of tears as Caleb drives me home.
We pull into the driveway of my little rental. It’s small but it’s mine. It’s a light gray Cape Cod style home with a light pink door and window boxes full of petunias and geraniums. But my favorite things are the white hydrangeas out front and the blue ones out back.
“Thanks, Caleb,” I say, turning toward him as I play with my seatbelt. Stalling. “You didn’t have to do all this tonight. I could have gotten myself home.”
“Of course you could have, but I don’t mind,” he says, turning off the car. It brings me back to the drives home after country club weddings. He was always watching out for me. He’s contemplative for a moment. “Brooke, what would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”
“Wait it out, I guess. Hope that I would have felt better before my mom came into work in the morning. She doesn’t take my migraines seriously.”
“She doesn’t take the fact that you could barely move without experiencing excruciating pain seriously?”
“She…” I don’t know where to begin. How do I explain that for all she’s taught me, for all she’s done for me, raising me on her own, Mom doesn’t want to be bothered with anything that isn’t perfect?
I bite the inside of my bottom lip and try to put together some kind of answer.
Caleb must sense I’m dying for a subject change because he provides one quickly.
“Hey, are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit.
“Let me make you dinner. I’m sure I can whip something up with whatever you have.”
My face twists into a grimace. “I don’t think I have anything that can be turned into an acceptable meal.
” The last time I did any kind of legitimate grocery shopping was…
well, I’m not sure. There’s wine in the fridge and peanut butter and crackers in the cabinets.
Other than that, it’s anyone’s guess. “I’m not much of a cook. I live on takeout and girl dinner.”
He laughs, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. Challenge accepted.”
Caleb hops out of the car and I follow, wanting to find out exactly what he’s capable of.
By the time I open the car door, he’s there holding his hand out to me.
I take it. Only because I’m still feeling lightheaded.
Not at all because the gentlemanly gesture of helping me out of the car and the offer to cook for me makes me feel like my legs might give out.
Caleb follows me into the house, carrying my bag.
He insisted. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to.
I rarely have anyone other than Maddie and Jordan over, unless you count Mom showing up uninvited, letting herself in with her emergency key.
It’s never actually an emergency, but her unexpected drop-ins mean the house is always clean and tidy.
I drop my keys on the entry table. Entry is a loose term for where I’m standing. The stairs are right in front of the door; take one more step and you’re in the living room.
Caleb stands outside the door, holding each side of the frame, my bag hanging from one hand, and leans in.
“Are you coming in?” He rakes his hand through his hair, taking a step inside. Maybe it’s the post-migraine fog, but he’s acting weird. He drops my bag on the table. “Kitchen’s back here.”
We walk toward the back of the house to the kitchen and little dining nook.
For someone who doesn’t use it much, I love my tiny kitchen.
It has black and white linoleum floors and white cabinets.
They’re outdated enough that they almost pass as a vintage design choice.
All of the tabletop appliances, including the microwave (my favorite), are light blue to match the SMEG refrigerator.
The window behind the sink looks out to the little patio, my backyard, and Mr. Edwards’ side yard.
Whenever I see him working on his garden, I run out to help.
Caleb makes himself right at home in the tiny kitchen. He has to—he practically takes up the entire space. He opens cabinet doors and pulls out drawers, rifling through my sad excuse of a pantry.
“Wow,” he says.
“Don’t act so surprised.” I cross my arms and lean on the counter. “I told you there’s not a lot to work with here.”
“Maybe in terms of ingredients, but for someone who isn’t much of a cook, you have decent cookware.” He holds up a light blue enameled Le Creuset cast iron skillet. Oh, that. He’s unknowingly picked up on something I’d like to forget.
“I thought it’d be cute because it matches the refrigerator.”
“Ah,” he says with a smile. “So, it’s for the aesthetic?”
“Naturally,” I say, stifling a yawn.
“Why don’t you go rest while I figure out what to make?”
“Fine.” I yawn, in earnest this time. “Don’t burn down my house, please.”
It’s hard to rest, knowing Caleb’s in my kitchen. Cooking. For me. I bury my face in my hands, concealing the thrill and embarrassment I’m feeling even though I’m alone. My stomach twists and turns. From hunger, surely. Maybe I should have lied when he asked if I was hungry.
I’m still not convinced he’ll manage to find anything to work with.
Laying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, I try to remember the last time anyone cooked in my kitchen.
It’s been months. I roll onto my side, facing my closed bedroom door.
I’m starving, but I’m also so tired. My eyes slowly close.
I drift in and out of sleep for half an hour, every few minutes hearing a noise from the kitchen or seeing a shadow in the hall.
An amazing aroma, buttery and rich, pulls me from tossing and turning.
Did he manage to scrounge up something that wasn’t expired?
I push myself off of my bed, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Yikes. My hair is a matted mess on one side.
My skin is more pallid than I’d like, and the light film of mascara under my eyes isn’t helping.
Not what I’d pictured for our first meal together at my house.
I had been picturing what that would be like, hadn’t I?
Since Jordan had to go and send me that photo, Caleb’s occupied more and more of my thoughts. I can’t even bring myself to finish watching The Bear. I wipe the mascara from under my eyes and throw my hair into a claw clip. Still not what I pictured, but an improvement.
My stomach grumbles as I walk down the short hall and remember the way his shirt hugged his arms as he rolled those pigs in a blanket.
I have to shake whatever this feeling is.
Caleb and I can never work. First of all, my mother would kill me, and there’s no second of all if I’m dead.
Caleb is all the wonderful things I remembered from years ago and, apparently, so much more.
But the ideal match for Judy Spencer’s daughter he is not.
Not that she has a good track record of finding a match for me.
God, if Mom even knew Caleb was here! What if she drives by?
Or stops by unannounced? I’m brought out of my spiral when I enter the kitchen.
Caleb’s setting the table, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder.
The combination does something else entirely to my stomach.
He managed to find placemats and napkins.
I may not cook, but I do entertain. My table linen collection is unmatched.
There are water glasses and a pitcher placed in the center of the small wood table.
I continue watching him set the table and a smile breaks through, despite my efforts to keep my shit together.
There’s a swelling in my chest that could rival the Grinch’s on Christmas morning.
Caleb’s adjusting the placement of a napkin when he spots me.
“You’re up,” he says, smiling. “Perfect timing.”
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say as he pulls out a chair for me. “I usually eat dinner right out of whatever I heated it up in.”
Caleb gasps. “You mean to tell me that the renowned Brooke Spencer doesn’t do a full tablescape for every meal? What will the brides-to-be and their overbearing mothers think when they find out?”
I raise my brows with a smile. “Since it appears you found the fancy placemats, I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that I do, at the very least, use those regularly. Full tablescapes are reserved for only the most important guests.”
“Ah, of course.” He grabs two plates from the counter. “I can only hope to be one of those guests one day.”
“You’re dreaming, Foley,” I tease.
“You have no idea what I dream about, Spencer.”
Before I can come up with a retort and make the part of my body that is suddenly aching to calm the fuck down, Caleb places a plate on the table in front of me. We lock eyes. “You made grilled cheese?”
“Yup.” He sits down across from me with a satisfied smirk on his face. “You weren’t lying…there wasn’t a lot to work with. This was the best I could do.”
“The best you could do? It’s my favorite.”
I pick up one of the triangles on my plate, cheese oozing from between the bread. I take a bite and the audible groan that escapes me is more suggestive than I anticipated. So much for keeping my shit together.
“I know,” he says, pleased with himself. He rests his elbows on the table and his smile, with that damn dimple, reaches his eyes. I want to chide him for being so smug, but this sandwich is so damn good that I can’t. He has every right to be smug. It’s been years, but he remembers.
“You clearly already know this,” I say. “But this is amazing.” I take another bite, but he hasn’t moved to start eating his. I think he might be blushing. “What? Stop smiling like that!”
He shakes his head and looks down at the plate in front of him. “Nothing,” he says, finally picking up a triangle. “It’s no Duchess, but I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s better.”
Caleb stands outside my front door. Lingering like maybe he doesn’t want to leave.
Maybe I don’t want him to. But where could this go?
Our parents hate each other. Who knows what Caleb’s parents think of me.
The migraine is messing with my head more than it usually does.
Five years ago, he made his feelings clear and ran away.
Quite literally, if you count speedwalking to the nearest exit.
But something is holding us both here at the door, dragging out the conversation like we don’t want the night to end.
The events of the evening shattered the walls I’ve been holding up to keep Caleb out.
We’ve had such a lovely night together, falling back into easy conversation like we were back in his car before he’d drop me off at home.
“Thanks again, Caleb,” I say, leaning on the banister. “For helping me tonight and making me dinner.”
“Anything for you, babe.” He winks.
I can’t help but laugh. “Shut up.” I’m getting used to the nickname, especially because the way he said it feels different. “I’ll reach out to Hannah tomorrow to apologize for missing the meeting and text Baxter to confirm the details you covered.”
“Sounds good…” He trails off.
“What?”
“I have a confession to make,” he says, sheepishly.
I hold my breath. I’m so not ready for this confession.
“I found your Monica Geller closet.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Not the confession I thought it would be. Not the confession a part of me was foolishly hoping for. This is so much worse. I take a step back, putting space between us. Space I was about to close if this confession had been something different.
“My what?” I ask, knowing full well what he’s talking about it.
“The room next to your bedroom…shit.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry…I was looking for the bathroom and stumbled in there.”
“Caleb, that room…you shouldn’t have…” I grab on the door to steady myself, forcing him to back up. “Caleb, you should go.”
“Brooke, I…” Before he can finish, I close the door and lock it.