Chapter 22
Brooks
“W hat’s on the schedule for this week?” Judith asks, handing me my morning smoothie.
“I’ll be working late on Wednesday, but other than that I should be home on time.” I have yet to decide if I’m going to Vegas next week, but I’ll need to figure my shit out soon so I can tell her. Each night is different. One moment, we’re texting and flirting after I sent her flowers for our one-month anniversary, and the next, she’s grinding her ass in some guy’s groin, and I’m fuming, ready to put her in the past.
Jared had to remind me how news articles bend the truth for the sake of ratings and clicks. Rob confirmed it was nothing. Now I’m back to square one, unsure what to do next. I was ready to offer her my world, ready to ask her to take a chance on me, but now I have doubts.
Judith turns to clean the blender, and I return to my iPad, catching up on the morning news. Presley dances her way into the room, pausing at the table to grab a quick bite of eggs before continuing her twirling. I can’t help but laugh when she suddenly strikes a Michael Jackson pose and sings, “She’s bad.”
“You’re about to be badly late if we don’t get moving,” I say.
Judith looks at me with a quizzical expression, and her head tilts in surprise because I rarely take Presley during the week.
I swallow the last of my drink, reach over the bar, and drop my cup into the sink. “My meeting isn’t until later, so I’ll walk her to dance camp.”
“That’d be awesome. I can attend the earlier yoga class.”
Presley and I stroll hand in hand down the sidewalk. It seems hotter out here than they forecasted. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, prompting me to loosen my tie and undo the top buttons of my shirt.
“Daddy, what’s wrong? You have a weird look on your face?”
“It’s just really hot. Are you hot?”
“No.” She stares at me. “You look red.”
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I motion for us to continue walking. The quicker I drop her off, the faster I can escape the scorching heat.
“Mr. Handley,” Ms. Ramstead says, greeting me at the door of the dance facility. Concern fills her face as she holds the door for Presley. “Presley, why don’t you go stretch?”
With a quick “I love you,” she scurries under Ms. Ramstead’s arm, but the teacher’s gaze remains fixed on me. “Are you feeling all right?”
My stomach pinches. “Actually, I don’t think so.”
She holds the back of her hand to my forehead. “You’re not hot.” She takes a step backward. “Something’s going around. Didn’t Presley have it a week ago?”
Shit! I’m too busy to be sick.
“I think it’s the weather. It’s pretty hot out here,” I say, clutching at any excuse, hoping she’s wrong. She chuckles and shakes her head before heading inside, muttering something about NyQuil. I barely reach home, rushing to the first trash can I find.
That’s how it starts.
That was the beginning of my death sentence.
I can’t recall the last time I was sick with a stomach bug, but it seems to make up for lost time. It’s hitting hard and fast, and I feel like I’m being run over by a train at both ends. I’m completely drained, with nothing left to offer the toilet gods.
“C’mon, make sure you’re taking sips now and then.” Judith came over to save me. Literally. She holds out my drink, tilting the straw to my chapped lips. It’s the last thing I want to do. Drinking requires energy. I don’t have any. I shake my head. “Brooks, stop being a baby and open your mouth.”
I’d flip her off if I could lift my hand.
Instead, I stubbornly follow her advice and take a tiny sip of the blue liquid. The fear that it’s going to come back up is instant. My stomach tightens, and I blow out heavy, quick breaths through my nose. As Judith places a cold rag on my forehead, a wave of relief washes over me. My stomach settles, and my breathing becomes more regular.
“I hate you caught whatever Presley had,” she says sympathetically.
I nod weakly in response, grateful for her care and attention. I hold my hand over hers. “Thanks for staying with me.”
“Of course. I’m always here for you.”
My eyelids grow heavy, and I welcome the embrace of sleep. I drift in and out of consciousness, tossing and turning throughout the night. When I wake, I feel better. I’m thinking it’s over. Then my insides twist. My esophagus is on fire. When is this going to end? My groan causes Judith to come running. She does all the things. Gives me meds, wraps me in blankets, and makes sure to force down more liquid.
“You’re the perfect mom,” I say, my body trembling. “I’m so glad me and Presley have you.”
She smiles as she gives me some more meds. “You know I love both of you.”
“And I love you, Gracyn,” I mumble, closing my eyes again, drifting to sleep.
* * *
I rub my beard, stretching as I wake up the next morning. Rolling my head to the side, I notice it’s ten o’clock already. It’s not until then that I realize I’m not on death’s bed anymore. My stomach grumbles, as if telling me it’s better and wants something to eat.
I grab my phone to text Jared that I survived. There are a million texts, but it’s the top one that grabs my attention. When I open it, I stare at the conversation between me and Gracyn. One, I have zero memory of having.
Me: I need you. I wish you were here to take care of me.
Coffee Thief: What? Why?
Me: I’m dying.
Coffee Thief: WHAT!?!?!
Me: Of the stomach bug.
Coffee Thief: You’re dramatic.
Me: No, I’m lonely.
Me: And sick.
Wifey: Are you really okay?
Jesus Christ. Apparently, the stomach bug took on a mind of its own, changed her name twice, and slipped into her messages, looking for pity. I must’ve fallen asleep because I left her on unread. Shit. What do I do now? I tap my thumb against the edge of the phone.
Banging sounds coming from the kitchen pull my attention away from the phone. Who is being so noisy? And why?
Dragging my socks across the hardwood, I make my way out of the bedroom, tightening my robe around my waist. Judith slams a couple more cabinets and mutters under her breath to herself. When I clear my throat, she shoots me a piercing, icy glare. I may not be the most perceptive guy, but it’s clear she’s angry, and I suspect I’m the reason.
I regretfully ask, “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine.”
The universal code for it’s not .
“I made you some oatmeal,” she sneers, placing a bowl on the kitchen bar and then rolling her eyes, mumbling something again while she turns away.
“Did I do something wrong?” I wonder aloud, my mind muddled from the texts and hazy recollection of my actions over the past forty-eight hours. I raise my hands in a defensive gesture. “You can’t hold me accountable for anything during the last couple of days. I was on the verge of death and barely coherent.” I manage a strained chuckle as I sink onto a barstool. I lean against the bar on my elbows. “Thanks for sticking around. It means the world to me.”
“You already told me that.” Nothing like throwing appreciation right back in your face. “Right before you called me Gracyn .”
Shit.
I place the spoon down, taking a moment to gather my thoughts on how to explain the unexplainable. How the demon bug went rogue, and how I lost control of my actions and words.
She clutches the countertop, takes a deep breath, and shakes off her frustration. “Brooks, were you ever going to tell me that you were married?”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “It was a mistake. There was nothing to discuss.”
She levels me with her stare, obviously not believing the lie. “You’re married to the woman. Don’t you think that’s something you should have discussed with me, considering I’m the one having to field questions from your child?”
“If she has questions, she can come to me.”
“You weren’t here,” she snaps.
It’s a good thing I’m lacking energy at the moment because if I were running on all cylinders, those would be fighting words.
But clearly I’m fucking everything up. Time I fix it.