Chapter 12
TWELVE
brOOKE
Everyone finally left yesterday after I convinced them several times that I’d be okay on my own.
I love them for caring, but I’m relieved to have the house to myself again, to breathe without feeling watched or hovered over.
They leave all the food behind, which I’m definitely not complaining about since it means I won’t have to cook for a few days. Not that I would have.
I don’t normally eat like this. Carbs usually come with at least a little guilt attached. Right now though, I honestly don’t care. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone actually attacked me, and if leftovers help keep me upright while I sort through that, so be it.
Knowing I’m still a mess, I do something I’ve never done before.
I pull up Mark Reynolds’ contact and stare at his name longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the call button while my stomach twists.
I almost talk myself out of it. Almost. Then I hit call and bring the phone to my ear before I can change my mind.
My phone feels heavier than it should in my hand as it rings, my foot bouncing against the leg of the kitchen chair like it’s got a mind of its own.
“Brooke?” Mark, my boss, answers on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically, then wince because that’s a lie I say way too easily. I clear my throat. “Actually… I’m calling because I need to take the week off. Personal stuff.”
There’s a brief pause on the line. Not the bad kind. The processing kind. “You?” Mark says, surprised but not annoyed. “Taking time off?”
I huff a quiet, nervous laugh. “I know. I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud before.”
“You haven’t,” he says dryly. “I usually have to force you to leave your desk.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “I’ve just got some things I need to deal with. I can reroute my clients to the team and push the listings I was supposed to handle.”
“Brooke,” he cuts in gently, “you don’t need to justify it. Take the time.”
Relief hits so fast it almost makes me dizzy. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says firmly. “Take all the time you need. If you need anything at all, you call me. We’ll cover whatever comes up here.”
My shoulders sag like I’ve been holding them up around my ears for a week straight. “Thank you. Seriously. I’ll make sure everything’s handed off clean.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Mark replies. “Go take care of yourself.”
We hang up, and I set my phone down on the table, staring at it for a second like it might ring back and tell me this was all a mistake.
I shut my laptop and stare at the calendar.
Three showings cancelled, two meetings pushed to next week, and a long email to some clients explaining that I’m “out of the office for personal reasons,” which feels both too honest and not honest enough at the same time.
My fingers hover over my mouse like I might undo it all.
Book myself back into the chaos just to pretend none of this happened.
That I’m fine because I’ve always been fine.
Instead, I curl up on the couch with a big blanket and get lost in a book.
I read all damn day shutting out reality. It feels good, it feels safe.
The next morning, sunlight slips through the blinds instead of my alarm ripping me out of sleep.
For a second I lie there disoriented, heart waiting to slam into panic that never comes.
My room smells like clean sheets. The ceiling fan hums steady overhead.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling longer than necessary, letting my body decide whether it trusts this moment or not.
When I finally sit up, my legs feel heavy, like they’re not convinced yet.
I walk into the kitchen barefoot and make coffee without rushing, watching the steam curl up like a living thing, warming my face.
I sit at the island with my hands wrapped around the mug and take a tentative sip.
Sweet baby Jesus, I love my first sip of coffee in the morning.
I watch as sunlight crawls across the floor in slow stripes.
Halfway through my coffee, the loneliness sneaks in and catches me off guard.
It settles heavy in my chest, makes me restless, like I need something to keep my hands busy and my brain distracted from the fact that I’m here by myself.
I never really thought being alone bothered me before.
I’ve been too busy being a badass realtor, a super sister, the best aunt, always moving, always needed, always doing something that mattered.
I never stopped long enough to ask if anything was missing.
Sure, the idea of having a partner has always lived somewhere in the background, like a someday thought I could get to when life slowed down. Now I’m wondering if I waited too long. If I kept choosing to be busy because it was easier than being vulnerable.
At the same time, the thought of going on another date anytime soon makes my stomach roll.
My palms start to sweat just thinking about it.
What if I can’t do it again? What if my body never forgets what happened?
What if this one night quietly rewrites the rest of my life? How does anyone come back from that?
Needing to get out of my head and do something, I lace up my sneakers and walk the neighborhood midmorning listening to my favorite true crime podcast. By the third block I’m feeling mildly better.
When I get back home, I clean because my hands need something solid to focus on.
I wipe down the counters even though there’s nothing on them.
Fold laundry I’d been ignoring for a week.
Toss expired mail. Line shoes up by the door until they’re straight like little soldiers.
There’s something calming about making the world behave when my head still feels unpredictable.
I freeze halfway through wiping the coffee table when my brain suddenly replays the way Rev sat on my couch, solid and quiet and unbothered by the chaos in my head. My phone is in my hand before I realize I picked it up.
Me:I You good?
I stare at the message like it might bite me, then delete it.
Me: Thanks again for staying the other night.
I delete that too.
Me: Hey.
Delete. I set the phone facedown on the table and go back to scrubbing an already spotless table harder than necessary.
By Wednesday afternoon I’ve almost convinced myself I’m fine enough to run an errand alone.
I need milk and a few things to make some meals since I’ve gone through everything my sisters brought over.
I’m halfway through the grocery store, when a man steps too close behind me in the fruit section and my body locks up like a startled animal.
My breath goes shallow and my palms go damp around the basket handle.
My brain goes blank in that stupid, useless way.
Instead of going to check out like a normal person, I abandon the basket and walk out without buying anything.
In the car, I sit gripping the steering wheel until my pulse slows back down, heat rising behind my eyes even though I’m annoyed at myself for reacting at all. That poor man did nothing wrong and I acted like a skittish animal. “It’s fine,” I mutter out loud to the empty car. “You’re fine.”
My phone buzzes.
Bella: I made too much food again. Come help us eat it.
I text back immediately.
Me: On my way.
At Bella’s, baby Jax climbs me like a jungle gym and smears something sticky on my cheek.
Bella laughs so hard she almost drops a dish towel.
Bri steals half my fries without asking and calls it “sister tax.” We argue about a reality show like it’s a moral debate.
Being there makes me feel most like myself.
Now it’s Thursday and I just pulled into a parking lot.
I’m sitting here longer than I need to, hands resting on the steering wheel while a couple of people walk in and out of the building ahead of me.
My chest feels tight, like my lungs aren’t quite getting the message that nothing bad is happening right now.
After another few seconds, I shut the engine off, grab my purse, and get out before I can change my mind.
Inside, the front desk is straight ahead with a clipboard on the counter and a small sign that says Sign In.
I write my name, the time, and check the box marked New Patient, my handwriting smaller and neater than usual because my hands don’t feel steady.
The receptionist takes the clipboard back and tells me to have a seat.
I choose a chair along the wall and set my purse on my lap, wrapping one arm around it without really thinking about it.
A guy across from me scrolls on his phone with the volume turned up just enough to be irritating.
Someone coughs behind me. A clock ticks on the wall. The waiting makes my nerves crawl.
My phone buzzes. It’s Bella, sending a picture of baby Jax with something purple smeared across his face.
Me: What the hell is all over his face?
Bella:
I laugh quietly, the sound surprising me, and some of the tension eases out of my shoulders.
“Brooke?”
I look up to find a woman standing in the doorway holding a tablet.
“That’s me.”
“Come on back,” she says. “I’m Dr. Palmer.”
I follow her down the short hallway, my steps a little stiff, like my body’s bracing for something even though my brain knows I’m safe.
The office opens into a small, comfortable space.
A couch sits against one wall with two cushioned chairs facing it, a low coffee table between them.
Framed art hangs neatly on the walls, nothing flashy, just soft colors and simple shapes.
Quiet music plays somewhere in the background, low enough that I don’t notice it until I actually stop moving.
The room smells clean and faintly pleasant, the kind of neutral that doesn’t demand attention.
“Have a seat wherever you’re comfortable,” she says.