Chapter Five
Brooke
I decide to soak in a bath. The water’s too hot at first, hot enough that I shiver, but I don’t care. I slide down until the water laps over my shoulders and close my eyes.
It’s not pain, exactly. Not from that anyway. The split condom, while traumatic, is an easy enough fix. I’ll get the morning-after pill when I land in New York tomorrow, and besides, I’m not even in my fertile window.
That part about Matthew’s clean bill of health doesn’t scare me either. I know he is safe.
What does is everything else.
I blow out a long breath and lean back against the tub, trying to relax, but my mind keeps circling back to one thing. It’s stupid, really, with something as huge as potential motherhood hanging over me, but it’s not the condom that’s bothering me.
It’s Brooke Masters.
Those two words, the way he said them, like some shiny badge of honour. Like he was checking something off a bucket list. And God, I hate that it got to me.
I know I’m hot. I’m not vain, but I’m not blind either. I know what I look like, I know the effect I have. And I know how people see me before they know me.
Back in high school, I had this massive crush on the quarterback.
And when I say massive, I mean Mrs. Delgado written in the margins of every notebook, hearts drawn around our names, pathetic teenage fantasy level.
So, after prom, when he got that hotel room, I said yes.
It was my first time, and I felt… special. It was special.
Until the next morning.
Until I glanced at his phone while he dropped me off and saw his post, right there on his stupid Facebook group.
Just smashed with Brooke Masters #FirstTime #Goals #IDidIt #NoLongerAVirgin
It shattered me. He tried to laugh it off, to act like it was a joke, but I knew the truth. He didn’t want me. He wanted the trophy. The bragging rights.
And just now, when Matthew said that, I just had sex with Brooke Masters, it felt the same. Like all over again, I was just a box to tick. A story to tell. The nerd who finally screwed the hot girl on their first date. If this even was a date.
I blow a handful of bubbles into the water, watching them pop one by one. Maybe I’m overreacting. He probably didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I should give him the benefit of the doubt.
But screw him.
Who says that?
And why did I expect better from him?
A knock at the door makes me glance over just as it creaks open.
Matthew stands there, hovering in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s welcome.
His hair is messy, his chest bare except for a pair of boxers, and there’s this hesitant look on his face that would almost be endearing if I weren’t still seething.
He steps inside quietly and lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat, staring at the floor. For a while, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, until I finally roll my eyes.
“I’ll get the morning-after pill tomorrow,” I say flatly.
“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If… if that’s what you want.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What- you want a baby?”
He shrugs, and the sight of it, the casualness of it, makes something hot flare up in my chest. “I wouldn’t mind.”
My jaw drops. “You wouldn’t mind? You just said you wanted your freedom, and now you want a kid? Why, because it’s with Brooke Masters?” My name tastes bitter in my mouth.
His spine straightens, his jaw tightening. “First of all,” he says, voice steady but low, “I’d love a kid because it would be ours. Not because of some name. And second, I only said that because you asked. I was being honest, not pushy.”
I clench my jaw, water sloshing as I shift in the tub. “So, I’m wrong to be upset that your first thought after sleeping with me was to pat yourself on the back?”
“Jesus, Brooke, I didn’t mean it like that,” he snaps, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’ve always liked you. I just never thought this, us, would ever happen.”
“Why?” I shoot back, though I already know.
Matthew exhales, meeting my gaze for the first time.
“Did you see me in college? I was the chubby kid in the hoodie. The nerd who sat in the back hoping no one noticed him. And you-” He laughs without humour.
“You were you. Popular, beautiful, untouchable. I spent years trying not to make a fool of myself every time you walked into a room.”
I stare at him, heart pounding. “So, this is just some fantasy come true for you?”
“No,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “It’s not about proving anything. It’s about finally being with the person I’ve wanted for years. And maybe I was an idiot for how I said it. But I didn’t sleep with you to brag, Brooke. I slept with you because I still care.”
I squint at him, studying every inch of his face, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his fists clench like he’s holding himself together, the twitch in his jaw that betrays nerves he’s trying hard to hide.
In this light, his hair looks even lighter than usual, almost golden, like the boy I used to know instead of the man sitting here now.
He shifts under my gaze, his brows knitting. “What?”
I lean back against the edge of the tub, tilting my head. “I’m just wondering,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend, “whether I believe you.”
His shoulders sag a little, the fight slipping out of him. “I’m sad,” he says softly, “that you even have to question it.”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug, pretending it doesn’t sting even though it does. “Men tend to notice the shiny hair and the legs first,” I murmur. “Not the girl attached to them.”
Matthew’s jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
Because he knows, he saw then first too.
Matthew
I stand at the arrivals exit wondering when, exactly, my life tilted into farce.
Two weeks since Paris. Two weeks since the best day I’ve had in years ended with a polite “I’ve got an early flight” and a door closing soft enough to feel like kindness and final enough to feel like a verdict.
I texted the next morning. Nothing.
Called when I landed back in New York. Voicemail.
Texted again, shorter this time, like fewer words might be less to ignore.
And now I’m here, at JFK Terminal 4, holding a sign like an underpaid chauffeur and an overpaid idiot. brOOKE, in block letters I rewrote three times because the first draft looked unhinged. Every sliding door sighs open, spilling tired people and rolling suitcases and my dignity onto the tile.
She’s going to think I’m a stalker.
Lenny in HR already does. “Matthew,” he’d said, pinching the bridge of his nose after I asked (begged) for her crew roster, “I’m never taking your call again.” Then he took my call again and told me what I already knew: I need therapy, not a manifest.
I shift the stupid sign to my other hand. The cardboard edge bites my palm. A kid nearby is holding a stuffed zebra by the tail; every time he swings it, the fin slaps his dad’s jeans with a wet thwack. A driver next to me flashes a laminated placard: Mr. Ken. Professional. Calm. Not dying inside.
What am I even doing?
Answer: trying not to let a perfect thing die because I was clumsy with one sentence. I didn’t mean it like a trophy. I meant it like a prayer finally answered. But intentions don’t count at baggage claim.
The automatic doors breathe another crowd at me. A wave of perfume, jet fuel, and the specific fatigue of people who’ve been awake in three time zones. No Brooke. I check the arrival board again, like the numbers might rearrange out of pity. MARX UNITED 312, LANDED.
I consider leaving. I consider dignity. I consider that I’ve already failed both today.
A security guard ambles by, eyes lingering just long enough to make me acutely aware of how much I resemble a man about to propose to someone who is not expecting it. I lower the sign a fraction, as if that helps.
My phone buzzes. I fumble it so badly I almost drop the cardboard. It’s a message, from Lenny.
LENNY: do NOT be weird
LENNY: stand like a normal person
LENNY: signs are fine. stalking is not.
LENNY: also i’m blocking your number
I huff a laugh I don’t feel. “Stand like a normal person,” I mutter, straightening my shoulders. I try a smile that says casual friend hello, not I’ve spent fourteen days replaying the way you laughed on a bridge over the Seine.
More people. More rolling suitcases. No Brooke.
I lift the sign again anyway. If this is pathetic, it’s at least honest.
Because the truth is simple and stupid: I want another chance to say it right. Not I just had sex with Brooke Masters. Not the headline. The real thing.
I miss you. I’m here. Tell me I should go, and I will. Or tell me where to meet you for coffee, and I’ll be there early with two cups and fewer words.
The doors sigh open again.
And then she’s there.
Brooke.
She walks out with the rest of the crew, a cluster of navy uniforms and rolling suitcases, laughter bubbling between them. Except, she’s not laughing. She’s not even talking. Her head is down, eyes fixed on the floor.
God, she’s not going to see me.
I straighten my shoulders. No. Not this time. I’m Matthew fucking Basen. A grown man. Not some fumbling idiot hiding behind a piece of cardboard.
I take a deep breath, drop the sign onto a nearby luggage cart, and step forward.
“Brooke.”
She stops mid-stride, startled, her eyes lifting to meet mine. And just like that, every clever line I rehearsed evaporates. The dark smudges beneath her eyes peek through her makeup, and something tightens in my chest.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
Her lip trembles. Then her whole face crumples, and before I can process it, tears are spilling down her cheeks.
“Hey, hey…”
I reach for her, pulling her into my arms right there in the middle of the terminal.
People glance as they walk around us, but I don’t care.
Not one damn bit. She shakes against me, quiet sobs wracking her body, and I just hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles down her spine.
After a moment, when the sobs taper into silent tears, I crouch and pick up her bag. “Come on,” I murmur.
She doesn’t protest when I guide her through the sliding doors and out into the warm New York air.
She doesn’t speak as I flag down a cab or when I rattle off my address to the driver.
She just leans into me, exhausted, her head resting against my shoulder like every ounce of energy has been wrung out of her.
The ride is quiet. I want to ask what happened, to fix it, to do something, but right now, silence feels like the kindest thing I can give her.
When the cab slows in front of my building, I press a couple bills into the driver’s hand and step out, looping her bag over my shoulder. She follows, still silent, still distant. I lace my fingers gently through hers and guide her inside.
The elevator, finally fixed after weeks of being out, is waiting on the ground floor. We step inside together, the hum of the cables the only sound between us. She leans against the wall, eyes half-lidded, and I resist the urge to pull her into my arms again right there.
But I wait.
I wait until we’re inside my apartment, small, quiet, perfect for me. I drop her bag just inside the door and turn to ask if she’s hungry, if she wants tea, water, anything… but the words never make it past my lips.
Because Brooke is already walking, almost mechanically towards the bed in the middle of the room. She doesn’t even bother to take off her heels. She just sinks down, sideways into the mattress, and stays there.
For a moment, I stand frozen in the doorway, my heart cracking in a dozen directions I don’t know how to fix. Then I cross the room and kneel beside her. Gently, I slip one heel off, then the other, setting them on the floor.
“Hey,” I whisper, though I don’t even know if she hears me.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, close enough that my side brushes her knee. My hand finds the curve of her side.
I want to ask what’s wrong. If she’s hurt. Who I should kill. Every question burns at the back of my throat, clawing to get out. But I don’t. I force myself to stay still, to let her move through whatever storm she’s caught in. To let her feel instead of drowning her with my panic.
She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at some point on the wall. And then, slowly, her shoulders start to shake again. Quietly at first, then harder, until her breath breaks in short, ragged gasps that make my chest ache.
Instinct takes over. I slide closer, lying behind her, my chest pressed to her back. My arms wrap around her trembling frame, holding her together as best I can, even if I can’t fix a damn thing. Something big must happened for her to react like this.
“Shh,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
For a long time, there’s nothing but the sound of her sobs and the soft thud of my heartbeat against her back. Then, through the cracks in her voice, she manages three small, words:
“My dad’s dead.”