23. Brooke
brOOKE
Brooke: Okay so you rock my world and then disappear off the face of the earth -- rude.
Brooke: Hello? Your wife is worried about you.
Brooke: Seriously Jaz, where are you?
I stare at the unanswered messages, jaw tight, thumb hovering over my phone like it might bring her back if I just tap it hard enough.
It’s been three weeks—three whole weeks—since that date that felt like it cracked something open in my chest, since the kind of kiss that makes you believe in second chances, and hands that made me feel wanted in a way I didn’t know I needed.
And now? Nothing. Jasmine Rivera has up and vanished like a ghost—no texts, no replies, no trace of her in class or on campus. It’s like she got what she wanted and dipped, and I’m left feeling like a damn fool for believing in anything else.
I’m no stranger to being let down. Hell, I’ve been ghosted by better liars and cheated on by boys who didn’t even pretend to be careful.
But this? This hits different. Because Jasmine didn’t just flirt and leave—she saw me.
She held the parts of me I usually hide.
She kissed me like I was worth every breath.
And then she left like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.
And I hate how much I still care. Hate that I keep checking my phone like a girl in a bad country song.
Hate that I’m still hoping for something—anything.
But the worst part? The part that makes me sick to my stomach in the quiet?
If she walked through that door right now, with her soft grey eyes and that kiss-me mouth and that goddamn low voice that says my name like a secret—I’d still want her.
I’d still forgive her.
Maybe that makes me naive. Maybe it makes me a fool. But I was raised to ride out storms, not run from them. And Jasmine? Jasmine’s a hurricane. Wild, magnetic, devastating in ways I didn’t know I could crave.
I’m not gonna lie to myself—I’m obsessed.
Not in the scary way. Just in the “every time I laugh I wish she was there” kind of way.
In the “I still hear her voice when I’m trying to pray” kind of way.
I haven’t felt so… myself with anyone before.
Not Timothy. Not Taylor. Not even my best friends, who love me to pieces but don’t always see me.
Jasmine didn’t need all the details to understand the parts I’ve never said out loud. She saw who I want to be—who I am when I’m not carrying everyone else’s expectations.
And now she’s gone.
I don’t know if she’s ghosting me or if something worse happened, but the ache in my chest doesn’t care either way. I stare at our old messages, rereading her last emoji-laced flirt like it might crack open a portal.
Finally, I type what I’ve been too proud to say:
Brooke: At least send me an emoji so I know you're alive.
I tuck my phone back into the little white purse hanging off my wrist and take a deep breath.
The bathroom smells like lavender soap and old church tile.
I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, blink hard at my reflection, and step out of the stall.
The sound of the choir rising from the sanctuary beyond echoes faintly through the hallway, and I brace myself.
It’s the second Sunday of the month. Which means I’ve got a pew to sit in, a smile to fake, and a post-service dinner with my parents and Timothy—my beard boyfriend, handpicked and parent-approved.
The golden boy of our church circuit. The one every mom at Sunday brunch insists will be the next savior of Texas football.
Timothy, with his perfect smile and quarterback shoulders. Timothy, who says things like “you’re too pretty to be gay” and thinks quoting Corinthians counts as flirting. He’s sweet enough in that store-bought pie kind of way—bland, safe, easy to digest.
But the thought of sitting next to him in that pew, holding his hand under the hymnal while the preacher talks about sin, makes my skin itch.
Because all I want is to be somewhere else. With someone else. Someone who hasn’t texted me in three weeks.
The door slamming open startles me and I grip the sink roughly taking a sharp inhale.
“Brookie?” My mother’s smooth southern belle accent curls around me and I relax at the soothing tenor of her voice. “Oh there you are. Dad and I are going to run home to get the roast out the oven. Timmy is waiting for you in the lobby.”
“Alright mama,” I call out, slapping the water on and pushing my hands under the lukewarm water.
She walks up to the mirror, the soft click of her heels echoing through the empty church bathroom, and I catch her reflection before she speaks.
My mother. Always impeccable. Always composed.
Her honey-blonde hair is curled just right, not a strand out of place, and even in the shaky fluorescent lighting, it glows like it was lit from within.
She’s still wearing the pink silk church dress she’s had since I was in middle school—the one with the delicate buttons down the front and a matching belt cinched perfectly at her waist. It hugs her like it was tailored yesterday, not a decade ago, and somehow, she still looks exactly the same. Timeless. Untouchable.
She has my eyes—those golden hazel ones—but hers flash with specks of green and something sharper behind them.
Judgment. Precision. A gaze that has always felt like an x-ray, like she’s looking for the fault line before I even open my mouth.
And as I stand there in front of the mirror in my sensible kitten heels and this stupid soft-pink cardigan she insisted I wear over my sundress, I feel about two inches tall.
Just like I did when I was twelve and she told me not to slouch because “good posture is a reflection of a good upbringing.”
Even now, she’s flawless. And I’m still the crooked picture on her perfect wall.
She tucks a strand behind her ear, and her eyes dart to mine in the mirror. “You alright, darling? You've been biting at the bit all day.”
I pull my hands from underneath the water and shake my hands slightly. “I’m alright.”
She hums—a soft, disbelieving sound that says more than words ever could—and pulls a paper towel from the dispenser with crisp, practiced grace. When she hands it to me, I snatch it from her so fast she tuts under her breath, that familiar sharp tsk that used to mean try again, Brooke .
I keep my gaze fixed downward, pretending to blot my hands dry, hoping she'll just walk away. But the second my eyes drop to my rose-gold heels, she moves—quick and precise—pinching my chin between two manicured fingers and tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet her eyes.
“You want to tell me anything, you know, before your daddy can see through your lies.” Hers squint to a line and I swallow.
I shake my head slowly. “No Mama, I promise. It’s just midterm season. I really want an A in my political science class.”
“Oh honey,” she drawls, her fingers sliding off of my chin as a smile spreads across her face. “You don’t need no politics when Timothy is good and ready to take care of you.” She looks at her reflection one more time and fluffs up her hair. “He's going to be a rich man.”
I nod, tossing the paper towel into the trash. “I know, Mama. I keep him happy.”
She looks me up and down, before turning to the door with a small chuckle. “I know you do. Now hurry, future rich men don’t wait. No matter how pretty the girl is.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I turn back to the mirror, swiping on a thin layer of lip gloss with hands steadier than I feel. I have to remind myself—every time I step into this place—that this isn’t really me. This is the version of Brooke du Pont that fits the frame.
The Brooke who recites Bible verses like lullabies, who plays piano at garden parties to make the ladies sigh and the men smile.
The Brooke who once snuck cigarettes with her best friend Taylor behind the barn, and still knows how to slip a wallet from a jacket without making a sound.
The Brooke who pretends to love Timothy Keiths, football, and God—always in that order.
This girl in the mirror, draped in ivory and pale pink, her dress reaching mid-calf, her red curls cascading perfectly down her back—she’s not me. She’s the du Ponts’ masterpiece. Their pride. Their polished doll.
I’m the one underneath. The one they don’t see. The one they wouldn’t want if they did.
I rub my lips together and paste on my Sunday best smile—the kind that stretches just wide enough to look polite, just soft enough to keep people from asking questions—and push open the bathroom door.
The foyer is humming with post-service chatter, the faint notes of organ music drifting through the air like smoke. My rose-gold heels click against the marble floor as I step into the light, spine straight, steps measured.
I spot him instantly.
Timothy’s standing near the entrance to the sanctuary, shoulder propped against a column, that easy golden-boy grin plastered across his face. He’s laughing at something Michael Richards just said, probably some outdated joke dressed up as Southern charm.
Timothy looks like every Southern mama’s dream come to life.
Broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair that sweeps across his forehead in just the right way, a jaw so sharp it could cut glass.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was carved in a lab to sell varsity letterman jackets and church marriage retreats.
He glances over his shoulder as I walk up, his eyes skimming over me like I’m the love of his life.
He doesn’t say anything, but the way his mouth tilts says enough to the onlookers -- it says I am irrevocably in love with Brooke du Pont .
I smile back, the perfect little church girlfriend that loves him back.
“Mr. Richards,” I say sweetly, stepping up beside Timothy like I’ve always belonged there. “It’s been a while.”