23. Brooke #2
Michael’s eyes rake over me, not even bothering to hide it. “Miss du Pont,” he says, voice smooth like bourbon left out too long. “Looking like springtime itself.”
I laugh softly. Not because he’s funny—but because I was raised to laugh at men like him. Because it’s easier than making a scene. I push slide a strand of my hair behind my ear and flash a smile that looks like heaven to a guy like Micheal Richards.
“I am so sorry to interrupt you two gentlemen, but you know Mama doesn’t allow people to be late to her dinner table.”
They both chuckle politely, and Micheal grabs his belly with one hand as his hand points a pudgy finger at me. “You better get then. A du Pont woman is no joke.”
Timothy slides an arm around my shoulders and nods. “Don’t I know it.”
We turn to walk away, as Micheal calls after us. “ I’ll be betting on you boy! Go Tigers!”
Timothy puts a fist up as we cross the threshold to the church, yelling. “Go Tigers.”
The people loitering outside yell in approval, and my stomach drops at the attention. Timothy Keiths is this town's golden boy and I am the golden church girl. People are biting their nails in anticipation for our future wedding. I should be happy.
Timothy opens his car door for me and I slide in. The minute I buckle in he slides in, slams the door, and sighs out aloud.
“Your daddy is going to kill me if I don’t propose soon,” Timothy mutters, tugging at the knot of his tie. His fingers work it loose with practiced ease, but he glances at me from the corner of his eye like he’s only half-joking.
“I’ll kill you if you do propose,” I grumble, kicking off one rose-gold heel and rubbing at the sore spot on the side of my foot. He slides a piece of gum between his teeth, grinning like the menace he is.
“You know back at UT, I’m hot stuff, du Pont. There’s a line of ladies just waiting for me to say yes.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t stick. “Please, you say that like you’re not hot stuff here.”
He smirks. “Yeah, but here I gotta behave. Over there, I’m king of the frat basement and the photography darkroom.”
“If I was straight,” I say, waving a hand like I’m setting up a dramatic monologue, “Timothy Keiths would be the dream. Nice country boy with a truck and a six-pack of morals, can tie a tie and make a mean apple pie. You’d be unstoppable.”
He chuckles. “Say it louder. Boost my ego, Brooke.”
“You are hot stuff, Keiths,” I moan playfully, dragging my fingers up the back of his neck in mock seduction. “I mean just—ugh!” I fake-swoon against the seatbelt.
“Alright, alright. Cut the theatrics.” He groans, swatting my hand away.
“I’m just saying, in another life?” I drop my voice low and throaty, “You’d be mine. I’d make an honest man out of you.”
“You’d ruin me,” he says with a dry laugh, blowing a bubble and letting it pop loud. “And you know it.”
We giggle as his hand drifts to the gearshift as we make the final turn, and I brace myself.
Because here it comes. The gates swing open on their own—of course they do—and the gravel crunches under the wheels of his truck like the earth is wincing. The driveway curves in that way that’s meant to be elegant, but all it does is stall the moment before impact.
And then it’s there. The du Pont house.
All white brick and black iron. Columns tall enough to scrape the sky. Wraparound porch with hanging ferns that are watered more consistently than some of our relatives. The kind of house people write songs about. The kind of house that’s supposed to be a legacy.
To everyone else, it’s perfect. To me? It’s home, and my personal prison.
Timothy pulls up to the front steps, the truck easing to a stop like it knows we’re about to step onto a stage.
Before I can even unclasp my seatbelt, he leans over with that lopsided grin of his and murmurs, “Tuck in that bottom lip and smile, baby. We got three hours of pretending we’re the poster children for Southern love. ”
I smirk, rolling my eyes but falling right into step like we always do. “We only gotta do it forty-seven more times.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Forty-seven,” he repeats, shaking his head like it’s both a curse and a blessing. “Then we’re home free.”
I giggle, the familiar rhythm of our little pre-dinner mantra softening the tension in my chest—right up until the heavy front door creaks open and Henderson steps out, as poised as always in his pressed black jacket and polished shoes.
“Welcome home, little du Pont,” he says, sweeping into a formal bow as he opens my door.
“No, Henny,” I say quickly, sliding out of the truck and shaking my head with a soft laugh. “We’ve been over this.” I pull him into a hug before he can protest. “You don’t bow to family.”
His body stiffens like always, but after a heartbeat, his arms wrap around me with quiet affection.
Henderson might wear the uniform, might call me Miss du Pont like it’s written into his bones, but outside of Mama, he’s the one who raised me—brushed the tangles out of my hair, taught me how to make sweet tea, slipped me candy when I cried over scraped knees and high expectations.
Timothy drums his knuckles against the roof of the truck. “What’s up, Henny!”
Henderson sighs, stepping back just enough to glance over my shoulder at Tim. “Mister Keiths, must you make so much noise?”
“Henny,” Tim drawls, already hopping down from the driver’s seat with that cocky swagger, “I’ve been noisy since the womb. You’ll have to take that one up with my mama.”
A weary shake of the head. “Mister and Missus du Pont are waiting for you both in the dining room. But I’ll be seeing you later.”
“You better,” I smile—one of the rare, real ones that doesn’t feel carved out of obligation—and he presses a soft kiss to my forehead before slipping back up the stairs.
We follow him into the dining room, and he opens the door announcing our presence. “Timothy Keiths and Brooke du Pont.”
I walk into the room first and almost moan at the scent.
The dining room smells like rosemary and butter—Mama’s roast glistening at the center of the long mahogany table, flanked by crystal dishes piled high with mashed potatoes, golden biscuits, and roasted carrots and parsnips.
The silverware gleams beneath the chandelier, and the white linen napkins are folded into delicate swans— because of course they are.
Timothy helps me into my chair right next to Daddy before taking the seat beside me, ever the perfect Southern gentleman.
I can feel the eyes on me, even before grace is said.
My father, Howard du Pont, looks like a salt and pepper aged gentleman in a full three piece suit, but when he looks at us he smiles past me at Timothy.
“Now that’s a roast,” Timothy grins, trying to lighten the mood. “Mrs. du Pont, you’ve outdone yourself again.”
Mama beams, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Well thank you, sweetheart. It’s an old family recipe.”
Daddy hums in agreement, and after a quick grace, he carves into the roast with slow, deliberate movements. The silence stretches for a bit, save for the clink of silverware and the occasional polite comment on the weather. Eventually, Daddy glances toward Timothy, his voice calm and measured.
“So, how’s football treating you, son? Heard you’ve got scouts sniffing around UT’s spring game.”
Timothy straightens with that easy charm of his. “Yes, sir. Coach says I’ve got good chances if I keep my head down. Got a meeting with a recruiter next week.”
Daddy nods, clearly pleased. “Good. Discipline, focus—that’s how you win in this world.”
The silence creeps back in like a thick fog, wrapping around my chest, pressing heavily.
I clear my throat and flash a smile, a little too wide, a little too bright. “Well, Daddy, college is going great for me too. Mr. Johnson said I’m basically a shoo-in for?—”
“I know how college has been for you,” he cuts in, not even looking at me as he passes the gravy boat to Mama.
The blood drains from my face. “You didn’t ask.”
He looks up now, and the room gets cold. “Didn’t need to. Word travels fast when my daughter’s out on the quad making out with other girls in broad daylight.”
Timothy chokes on his water.
“And don’t get me started on what the security cameras picked up at the ranch,” Daddy continues, cutting into the roast like it’s done something wrong. “You think we wouldn’t find out?”
Mama’s lips twitch in panic, but she keeps her tone soft. “Let’s not do this right now, darling?—”
“No, let’s,” he snaps, glaring at me like I’ve dragged mud into his cathedral. “You want to act grown? Let’s talk about grown consequences.”
Timothy sets his fork down. “Sir, I don’t think that’s fair?—”
“This doesn’t concern you, Timothy,” Daddy barks, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “You’re doing your part. It’s my daughter who can’t seem to remember where she comes from.”
I sit there, stiff in my pale pink dress, my fingernails biting into my napkin under the table.
“God didn’t make you this way,” he says, low and venomous. “You’re choosing to spit in the face of everything this family stands for.”
“Howard,” Mama warns again, voice breaking.
I lift my chin.“You’re wrong. God loves me, and he made who I love.”
“You have no right to speak on God!” Daddy roars, slamming his palm down so hard the silverware rattles. My body jolts like a bullet’s just been fired. The room shrinks, spins, then freezes—all while my hands stay tucked neatly in my lap, like a good little doll.
“I was made in His image,” I say, voice rising before I can stop it. “I am His child. I am yours.”
The silence breaks with the sharp, unforgiving crack of Daddy’s hand across my cheek.
The sound echoes louder than the cry that rips from Mama’s throat.
“Howard!” she gasps, flying to her feet, but I’m already stumbling backward, the sting spreading down my jaw like fire, my vision blurred by tears I won’t let fall here—not here.
Timothy stands, but he’s too late. His chair screeches across the tile as I push mine back, napkin fluttering to the floor like a flag of surrender.
“You will never see that girl again. You hear me? Or I will cut you down where you stand, girl. You will not bring shame to this family!” He speaks through his teeth, spit flying out the corner of his mouth and I back away.
“I see that girl again and you will be dead to us.” He snarls, and I turn before anyone can stop me.
My heels pound against the marble. My breath chokes in my throat. My skin itches with shame. I don’t even hear what they shout after me—Mama’s voice soft and broken, Timothy’s loud and panicked. I don’t stop.
Not until I’m in the foyer.
Not until I’m out the door.
Not until I’m alone behind the barn, sitting on the cold stone steps in the pink dress I used to love, clutching my sides like I’m trying to hold myself together.
The tears come hard now, full and ugly. I can’t breathe through them. My face throbs. My ribs ache from holding everything in. I cry like I haven’t cried in years, like I’m mourning someone—maybe I am. Maybe it’s me.
I don’t know how long I sit there, head against the siding, lip trembling, heart broken and pulsing in my throat.
And then my phone buzzes.
I blink through the tears, hand fumbling into my purse.
Jasmine : Life’s been hectic. But I miss you.
That’s it. One line.
But it’s the one I needed. Because somehow, that girl—the hurricane, the soft and sharp storm I haven’t been able to stop loving—is still out there, and that is the one thing right now I can hold on to.