16. Brooke
brOOKE
I haven’t been scared for a date in years.
Well—technically not since junior prom, when rumors started floating around that Ryan Doogley was going to ditch me for Tinsey Williams. That disaster only got avoided because I showed up with Timothy Keiths instead.
The Timothy Keiths—hottest guy in all of fucking Austin, my go-to revenge ammunition back then and my very cooperative beard now.
He’s been helping me hide my sexuality from my God-fearing parents since senior year of high school, and he’s always down to play the part—charming smile, hand on the small of my back, the whole Southern gentleman act.
Which only made it worse for Ryan when Timothy went pro our freshman year of college and Ryan… yeah, he’s still riding the bench, pretending JV glory means something past seventeen.
But that—that was the last time I felt nervous about a date.
Because with guys? I’ve always known I could do better.
Better car. Better money. Better body. Bigger dick.
There was always more, and I never had to settle. It was like online shopping with a little more sweat and slightly worse lighting.
But women?
Women are a whole different goddamn universe.
I didn’t even realize I was gay until that one sleepover at Taylor’s.
My best friend, my cheer captain, the girl with the perfect hair and a whole drawer of matching pajama sets.
We were watching Burlesque , and I remember being obsessed with Christina Aguilera.
Like… not in the “wow, I wish I had her waist” kind of way.
More like, “holy shucks, I would ruin my life for that woman” kind of way.
I think I said something about her ass. Twice. Taylor noticed.
Two experimental makeout sessions and one fake ID later, we snuck into a lesbian bar in Dallas.
And let me tell you— everything made sense after that.
All the half-hearted boyfriends, the confusing hookups, the constant sense that I was faking it through my own love life.
Gone. And right when I decided I was going to live my life at Haven University just how I wanted, I see the coolest girl in my entire life.
Jasmine Rivera is…shoot. Are there even words that do her justice?
She matches me—word for word, beat for beat. Like we’re fluent in the same secret language. She makes me laugh without even trying, and the way she looks at me…like I’m everything she’s ever wanted in life. Like I am the center of her universe.
Even when she’s mad—especially when she’s mad—there’s something in her eyes that sees me. The real me. Like she’s dissecting all the layers I’ve spent years armoring myself with and still deciding, yeah, I want that one.
And don’t even get me started on the way she looks.
She’s a rockstar-coded wet dream. Full stop.
Those red highlights in her blonde hair catch the light like fire when she tilts her head just right.
Subtle curves that she doesn’t play up—but damn, does she own them.
And that smile? That tiny, guarded, teasing little smirk she only ever gives me?
Yeah. I was a goner from day one.
And it does not help that I’ve changed my outfit six times like a lovesick teenager stuck in a sapphic fever dream. I’ve tried polished, chill, rich-girl casual, effortless-thirst-trap, I just threw this on but I totally didn’t … and nothing feels good enough.
Because how the hell do you dress for someone who makes your heart beat like a bass drop and your brain forget how to form full sentences?
I glance down at my current outfit: skinny jeans, my trusty brown cowboy boots, and a slightly-too-cropped crop top. Totally not me. I want to scream. Because God as my witness , this cannot be the look I go down in.
I mean, to go from stealing someone’s wallet to being dumped for looking like a country popsicle is not the way I’m getting kicked to the curb.
“Taylor,” I groan into my phone speaker, flopping backward onto my bed, “please tell me this top makes me look hot and not like I should be selling beer at a rodeo.”
On the other end of the call, Taylor snorts. “You look like a queer rodeo Barbie, and I mean that as a compliment. But no, you’re not wearing that. Try the mesh top with the black jeans. And accessorize , slut.”
I groan louder. “Why is dressing for girls harder than boys? I used to just flash a little cleavage and boom—done. Now I’m obsessing over neckline symmetry and whether or not my aura is coming off too needy.”
“Because women see women,” Taylor says. “And you’re used to men who only see boobs.”
“Um…what does that say about you, hetero?” I snap, sitting up sharply and pulling off my t-shirt.
“It says I am fine with sexual manipulation, because these bad girls,” she says pulling up her boobs higher on her chest. “They could end wars and start revolutions.”
I kick off my shoes as I start to unbutton my jeans. “I’m sorry, are you seriously comparing your country bumpkin self to Helen of Troy ?”
“No comparison necessary,” Taylor says with a smug grin, sliding her hands down her sides like she’s on a runway. “Baby, look at me. I am delicious .”
And, to be fair, she’s not wrong.
Taylor looks like she time-traveled out of a '90s supermodel campaign—long legs, lean build with just the right touch of curves, and an ass that older women in our neighborhood have definitely paid surgeons to replicate.
Her naturally highlighted chestnut hair falls in those effortless waves influencers try to fake, and her big brown doe eyes? Deadly.
One trembling lip and I swear she could convince half of Texas to secede just to name the new nation after her.
“Tay, not helping!” I groan, yanking my jeans down and kicking them off. I’m left standing in my favorite white lace bra and matching thong, trying not to spiral into full first date panic.
“Just go out like that! ” Taylor beams.
I march to the phone and jab my pointer finger at the screen. “If you’re going to be zero help, I will hang up on you.” Then I glance at the clock and shriek. “Tay, she’s going to be here in ten minutes! ”
“Okay, okay, real talk— the fuck-me slip. ”
I freeze. Then gasp. “I totally forgot about that slip, but we are not calling it that. You know how I feel about cussing.”
“Sorry, princess.” Taylor drones with an overdramatic bow of her head. “We’ll call it the make him or her sweat slip, better?”
“Much better.” I nod making my way to the closet.
It’s a black-and-white floral slip dress that tailors at the waist, has a v-line so deep it stops below my sternum and little flair on the hem that ends mid-thigh.
I bought it specifically to annihilate my ex, Gerald, after he cheated on me with Tinsley.
Had him crawling back by halftime of the homecoming game.
But I was already in Timothy Keith’s lap by then.
I yank the dress from the back of my closet, shimmy into it, and grab my brown over-the-knee cowgirl boots. It’s giving hot, feminine, Southern chaos.
Taylor gasps on FaceTime. “Now that’s the look, and cussing or not, that is a fuck me slip dress .”
I smirk at my reflection in the mirror, tugging my curls—now fallen into soft waves—into a high ponytail, leaving two loose strands to frame my face just right.
A quick swipe of my trusty lip gloss, a warm brown smokey eye, and just like that, I’m ready to make someone’s daughter question her life choices.
“Ten out of ten, would flirt shamelessly,” Taylor adds, pretending to fan herself.
“You’re literally married.”
“ Details. ”
Before I can roll my eyes again, there’s a knock at the door. My breath catches.
I toss the phone face down on the bed, give myself one last once-over, and head to the door.
When I open it, Jasmine’s standing there, slightly out of breath, her fist still half-raised like she was just about to knock again.
“Holy shit, ” she breathes, eyes dragging over me with such blatant appreciation I feel heat climb all the way up my neck. “You look like a fucking goddess.”
I laugh, stepping aside to let her in, but not before giving her a once-over of my own.
She’s in fitted black leather shorts, a ripped vintage tee knotted at the waist, and a cropped moto jacket that clings to her like sin. Her lips are glossed, her earrings small silver hoops, and the necklace hanging low against her chest glints with every movement.
Total rockstar energy. Effortlessly cool. And dangerously pretty.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I say, trying to sound casual even as my brain short-circuits.
She smirks. “Not bad, huh?”
I shut the door, and walk past her. “I said what I said.”
Jasmine leans in close so the scent of cinnamon and the spice of bourbon invades my senses. “Your blush is saying something different though.”
The smooth rumble of her whispering in my ear almost makes me miss a step. Jeez Louise tonight is going to be a tease.
“Alright, so let me get this straight,” Jasmine wheezes, half-choking on a laugh, pointing a limp fry at me like it’s a mic. “You are a pageant queen, an internationally ranked horseback rider from Austin, Texas, but draw the line at barbeque ?”
“Why are you laughing?” I giggle, snatching a fry off her plate and tossing it at her. “I just don’t like it! It’s all sticky and smoky and smells like regret.”
Jasmine takes the hit like a champ, popping the fry into her mouth with a smirk. “I mean, I thought you were a Texas girl through and through. You don’t cuss, your daddy’s a pastor, you wear boots that could kick through drywall, and somehow— somehow —you’re anti-ribs?”
“I am a Texas girl!” I protest, grabbing my milkshake and clutching it to my chest like it’s a sacred text. “I even got the cowgirl boots to prove it.”
“Nah, I’m so sorry, babydoll,” she drawls, leaning in close across the vinyl diner booth, eyes sparkling. “I’m gonna have to take that Texan card. Gimme that badge.”
“ Excuse me!” I shriek, eyes wide, scandalized in the most dramatic way possible.
“No true Texan hates barbeque.”
“No!” I shoot back. “No true Texan can’t ride a horse. ”