Chapter 17 Brooke
Brooke
Don’t go to bed angry. I’ve heard the advice in one too many wedding toasts.
The adage is meant for couples, partners, and newlyweds—not a single twenty-nine-year-old—but I try to follow it, and despite my best efforts, I’m going to bed angry tonight.
Mad at Caleb. Frustrated with myself. And furious with my mother.
Because I’m never able to unpack when it comes to Mom, I always focus my anger elsewhere.
I should’ve purchased the padlock I thought about getting when I last closed that stupid door.
And Caleb. Snooping around like that. I want to say I wouldn’t have done the same thing if the roles were reversed.
But that’s not true. I would have loved getting a peek into what Caleb is like now.
So much about him feels different. But so much feels the same.
He’s still playful and kind. He’s not lacking direction like he used to, and that new air of confidence is sexy.
And the cooking. I didn’t know a grilled cheese could taste so good.
What had I been thinking, hoping for a different kind of confession?
I read the signs wrong once before, and here I am doing it again.
How pathetic. Why did he have to look so damn good standing at the door?
He made it clear how he felt about me years ago.
His quips and jokes that feel so much like flirting are just fun and games.
He’s not serious about me. He wasn’t then and he isn’t now.
But I’d wanted him then and, despite myself, despite my mom, despite my perfect plan for my life, I still want him now.
We’d had such a nice night but for that room. That fucking room and all the shit in it.
I stare at my phone. He texted an hour ago.
Caleb: I’m really sorry about tonight.
What can I even say to him? It’s okay, you only opened the door to the second greatest heartache of my life?
Don’t be sorry, you didn’t know the secret I’ve been hiding from you.
The thing I’ve been pretending never happened.
No, I can’t tell him any of that. That would mean having to tell him everything. And reliving the fallout.
I’m going to need reinforcements in the morning.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Maddie chirps, letting herself into the house with her emergency key. Too many people have easy access to this place. I pad over to greet my friends at the door, shoulders sagging.
“We brought coffee and croissants from Soundview,” Jordan says behind her.
“Mmmm, the almond ones?” I ask, eyeing the brown bag she’s holding.
“Obviously! This momentous occasion calls for only the best pastries this side of the Long Island Sound.” Jordan hands me a coffee. “Americano with oat milk and a splash of brown sugar syrup.”
“You’re simply the best,” I sing to her, attempting to make myself feel better before we unpack the mess that is my life. Literally.
Maddie laughs. “Are you quoting Tina Turner or Schitt’s Creek?”
I shrug. “Both.”
Jordan holds up another bag from Soundview. “Got sandwiches for later, too.”
“Alright, B,” Maddie says, clapping her hands together and scanning my living room. “Where’s the clipboard? What’s the plan? How are we tackling the closet of doom? I’m assuming you have a checklist? A timeline? Where is it?”
Jordan eyes every surface looking for a signature Brooke Spencer checklist. Coming up empty, she looks at Maddie, then to me.
The girl who has a plan for every scenario doesn’t have a plan for this. I blow out a long breath, my eyes and nose beginning to sting. Mom’s voice in my head keeps the tears at bay once again.
“No plan, no checklist. I have to face it head-on.”
“Oh Brooke, if you weren’t about to burst into tears, I’d be giving you so much shit right now.” Jordan pulls me into a hug, and I melt in her arms.
“That is why you’re such a good friend,” Maddie teases, and wraps her arms around the two of us. A few tears fall while they hold me, but I don’t let them see. I shake my head and our group hug dissolves.
We put the sandwiches in the kitchen, and I hope they don’t notice the pan I never use on the drying rack.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
We walk down the hall to what Caleb called my Monica Geller closet.
Tears still threaten to burst, but I smile thinking about that.
He’s not wrong. It’s very Monica of me to have a secret messy room in my otherwise pristine house.
I’m still grappling with my feelings around Caleb snooping and seeing this room, but right now, I’m glad for the humor.
I open the door. Jordan and Maddie stand behind me, waiting.
Oh god.
It’s worse than I remember. And Caleb saw this.
How mortifying. A few months ago, in a fury of anger and disappointment, Mom helped me pack up all the boxes.
The gifts, the cards, the special-ordered decor, the unsent invitations—and the dress.
I’d forgotten about the dress, with its lace that matched my bride’s earlier this summer.
I can’t see it from where I stand outside the room, but I know it’s hanging in a garment bag behind a stack of identically gift-wrapped boxes.
Williams-Sonoma signature paper. I know it well.
The various wine glasses. Twelve red wine, twelve white wine, and twelve champagne flutes. More than anyone ever needs.
Mom refused to hire movers or ask anyone for help. Even when sweet Mr. Edwards next door offered, she shooed him away. It was just the two of us schlepping boxes and bags from the car into the house. Once we got it all in, I shut the door and haven’t opened it until today.
“Okay,” I say, rolling my shoulders back like I’m going into battle. It sure feels like one. An emotional one. “Um…” I turn around to Maddie and Jordan. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Lucky for you,” Maddie says, stepping into the room, assessing the situation.
“I’m an expert at post-breakup purging. I’ll admit, post-broken engagement isn’t going to be as easy, but we’ve got this.
Is there anything you want to keep? You got some fancy shit at that bridal shower.
It shouldn’t all go to waste because Judy meddles too much and Kent’s a schmuck. ”
“I’m with Maddie.” Jordan follows her into the room. “I’m more of a burn-it-all-down girl, but you really wanted some of this stuff at one point, right? Let’s start there.”
With my friends in the room, it’s not so scary. I cross the threshold and turn in a small circle, taking inventory.
From the outside, the bridal shower was perfect.
Mom had the Spencer Soirees office transformed for the occasion.
Office furniture removed and put in storage for the weekend.
Rentals brought in to accommodate over fifty guests for a tea luncheon.
Cocktails and appetizers outside on the front porch.
It’d been a beautiful late April day. One of those days that made you feel like spring had finally arrived.
I hate being the center of attention. It’s one of the reasons I love being a wedding planner.
I’m part of the excitement, but all eyes are on the couple instead of me.
It’s my job to blend in and remain unseen.
Afterward, I’m celebrated and thanked for doing an excellent job.
The right amount of attention and praise.
The expensive bridal shower was only a small taste of what was to come.
Mom had an over-the-top wedding planned for me and Kent, though neither were what I wanted.
What I wanted rarely mattered to Mom, but planning kept her off my back.
It made her happy. I’d learned long ago that life’s easier when she’s happy, when she’s in control and ensuring things are to her liking.
That everything is perfect. Which it all was… until it wasn’t.
I don’t even remember what most of this stuff is.
Gifts from the registry we made, mostly with suggestions from Mom.
She insisted on accompanying us to Williams Sonoma and then to Crate & Barrel.
Kent even gave her the login to our accounts.
Each item on that list was picked in preparation for a life of hosting holidays as husband and wife in Kent’s modern, cold, way too big home. What could I possibly want to keep?
My eyes land on something light blue.
“The cookware,” I say, pointing. “The nice Le Creuset stuff.”
Maddie and Jordan look at one another, eyes wide.
“Brooke, you don’t cook,” Maddie says. “Like at all.”
“Do you even know how to turn on your stove?” Jordan asks.
I hadn’t told them anything about yesterday. I sent a message on our group text last night, Cleaning THE ROOM tomorrow, need you both! They’d been hounding me to deal with it, so they didn’t ask why I was suddenly so eager to clean it out.
“I…might cook…one day,” I say. “And no, of course I don’t know how to turn on the stove, but it can’t be that hard.”
“Okay, what’s going on, Brooke?” Maddie’s arms move to make a W and don’t stop moving as more words tumble from her mouth.
“Out of nowhere, you’re ready to clean out this room.
We get here and there’s no plan. You! Brooke Spencer.
Who always has a plan for everything…nada!
Now, out of all the expensive gifts you got at your bridal shower, you want to keep the cookware because you might learn to use the stove and cook… one day?”
I’m failing to come up with any excuse to throw them off the scent of what prompted me to tackle this trauma today.
Any other reason that I’d want to keep it.
The skillet Caleb had christened making grilled cheese was the first engagement gift Kent and I received last fall, from some distant relative of Kent’s whose name I can’t remember or never bothered to learn.
It made its way into the kitchen well before things went to shit.
They might buy the same excuse I gave Caleb yesterday. It’s better than getting into the whole truth right now.
“You got me. It’s for the aesthetic. They go with the vibe of the kitchen and match the skillet I already opened. They should all live happily together, remaining as clean as the day they were made.”
“Okay…” Maddie says, eyes studying me. “That makes a lot more sense.”
Phew. It’s not a lie. They should all live happily together. They’re too pretty. I may not cook, but I know quality when I see it.
“These are so fucking heavy,” Maddie says, carrying a box to the kitchen. “I’ll find a spot for them. Might have to rearrange your fancy napkins though.”
“Don’t you dare!” I say.
When I turn to Jordan, she’s staring me down with an ear-to-ear grin on her face. She bites into an almond croissant, getting crumbs all over the floor and shakes her head.
“What?”
“Caleb was here, wasn’t he?” she whispers.
God, she’s good. Jordan has always known how to read people.
I swear sometimes she knows what I’m thinking before I do.
She has this sense. She watches people and knows what’s coming next.
And she’s there to capture it, whether you like it or not.
It’s why she’s such a damn good photographer.
“Please don’t tell her yet,” I plead.
“He cooked for you, didn’t he?” She smirks.
Jordan can read people but she’s not a mind reader. “How did you know that?”
“You’ve never had any interest in cookware.” She takes another small bite of the croissant. “And I saw the pan on the drying rack.”
“He did cook for me,” I say, grinning. “Grilled cheese.”
“Shit, like the good old days.”
“I know.”
“Did you…?” She raises her perfectly sculpted brows twice in quick succession.
“No! Absolutely not!” I grab the croissant from her and take a bite.
It melts in my mouth so deliciously I’m not even mad that I’ll have to vacuum up the crumbs.
“I had a migraine attack at the office, he helped me and brought me home. We talked for a while and ate grilled cheese like we used to. Then he left, but not before telling me he accidentally went into this room.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit.”
“What’s shit?” Maddie walks back in to grab another heavy box.
“Soooo much shit in this room,” I say, grabbing one of the smaller boxes, a set of ramekins maybe. I follow Maddie out of the room, mouthing please to Jordan.