Chapter Six
Brooke
I sit back against the bed, Matthew’s T-shirt hanging loose on my frame. A smear of cheese clings to my thumb from the slice we just shared, and I swipe it away with my tongue.
“Hey,” Matthew says, catching my wrist before I can finish. “I’m trying to be nice here. Please.”
The plea in his voice is so earnest, so pained, that I can’t help but smile.
He lifts my hand toward me with a theatrical sigh. “Go on then. Lick away. If my suffering is what it takes to make you smile again…”
That earns him a bigger one, and I shake my head. “I don’t even know why I’m so upset over this,” I admit quietly. “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. Or throw money at the show.”
“It’s your father,” Matthew says softly. “He might’ve been a dirtbag, but I’m sure he was good once.”
I nod. “No matter how hard I try to forget, I can’t. The memories, the good ones, they’re still there.”
Matthew shifts, stretching out horizontally across the bed after dropping the empty pizza box to the floor. I lean back against the headboard, my eyes roaming his tiny apartment. It’s cozy, lived-in without being messy, warm in a way that feels like home.
“It’s nice,” I say. “Your place. Cozy.”
He arches a brow.
“You should see the room I rent,” I add with a dry laugh. “The mice have fleas.”
Matthew just purses his lips, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile.
I tilt my head back against the wall and let out a frustrated sound.
“He was a dad.” The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
“For the first ten years of my life, he was a dad to me. A good one. He taught me how to punch strangers offering me chocolate, in the junk, obviously.” I huff out a shaky laugh.
“He punished me when I threw a bowl at Stella. He ate the pancakes I made on Father’s Day even though they had egg shells in them. ”
My voice cracks on the last word.
I stare down at my hands, twisting the hem of Matthew’s shirt between my fingers. “And then one day, he wasn’t that man anymore. One day he was just… gone. Replaced by someone I didn’t recognize.”
I bite my lip and glance out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of yellow and white. “It started small. He didn’t want to go to the park anymore. Then he didn’t want to be around me anymore. Then he did want to take me to Disneyland, but if I asked about it, he’d get angry.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “Mom kicked him out so many times, but he always came back. And once I was old enough, I realized he was using us, Stella and me, to do it. I convinced my mom to… to stop. To not let him come back anymore. To not forgive him.”
I press my lips together, swallowing hard. “She listened.”
I already told him all this years ago, but he quietly listens like it’s the first time.
“And what did he do?” My breath hitches.
“He broke in to steal from us. And Mom… she knew it was coming. She’d already moved us to New Jersey.
It was her last night at the old apartment before she was supposed to hand over the keys and join us.
Everything was packed. The only things she had left were her phone and twenty bucks. ”
My hands curl into fists. “He took that when he killed her. Twenty dollars. He took her life because he realized we were leaving and he had lost. He took her from us.”
The words tremble in the air between us. “And then he turned himself in. Like that made it okay. Like his regret somehow brought Mom back.”
I look at Matthew then, blinking through tears. “I went to see him, you know. Before you and I reconnected. I took a few days off and went to the prison he’s in. I wanted to look him in the eye and tell him to leave us alone, to leave Stella alone.”
I wipe at my face, my fingers shaking. “Instead, he said he was sorry. He said he was dying and he needed me to hear it. And my response…” My voice cracks again, thin and hollow. “My response was to tell him good riddance.”
Matthew’s hand slides over and brushes my ankle. The touch is gentle, grounding. I manage a small, broken smile.
“I found out when I came back from Paris,” I whisper. “I turned my phone on and there it was, the voicemail. He was gone.”
I let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “I didn’t have any leave left, and it’s not like I cared, so I tried to ignore it. But…”
“You couldn’t,” Matthew says quietly.
I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t sleep without seeing us, as a family, before he fell off the wagon, before the drugs. Back when we were happy.” My chest tightens. “And now I wake up, and I’m scared to close my eyes again because…”
I take a shuddering breath. “Because I’m an orphan.”
Matthew doesn’t fill the silence after that. He doesn’t try to fix it or tell me it’s going to be okay. He just keeps his hand where it is, warm against my ankle, a quiet reminder that he’s here, without demanding I say anything else.
After a while, he clears his throat. “Take a few days off and-”
“I can’t,” I cut him off.
“You don’t have PTO,” he says gently, “but the airline has bereavement leave-”
“Bereavement means base pay,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Not overtime.”
He blinks, surprised, and I sigh, softer this time.
“I went through this phase where I realized I get to fly all over the world and have all this experience, the excursions… and I did. A little too much. I kind of dug myself into a credit card hole. That’s why I’m living in someone’s basement, I’m trying to pay it off. ”
Matthew is quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he says it. “Stay here.”
I laugh, because it’s so absurd I have to. “What?”
“Stay here,” he repeats, steady and certain. “Give up the crappy room and stay here.”
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “We literally just reconnected. I ghosted you for two weeks. And now you want me to, what, sleep in your bed?”
He points at the sofa near the door. “That pulls out.”
“Matthew, I’m not-”
“I’m not asking as a girlfriend,” he cuts in, his voice soft but firm. “Though I’d love that someday. I’m asking as a friend. My friend Brooke is going through something, and I want to be there for her. Let me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going, leaning forward, his eyes searching mine. “Besides… you can’t keep going like this. You’re running on fumes. You need sleep.”
The words hang in the air. I want to take him up on it so bad but I know I won’t. I just don’t wanna be alone.
Stella wanted me to come stay with her but I can’t do that. She has her own kids to take care of.
I bite my lip, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Will you… hold me?”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at me, like he’s making sure I really mean it. Then his lips curve into the softest smile.
“Of course,” he says gently. “Come here.”
I crawl under the blanket as he moves behind me, the exhaustion in my bones heavier than gravity. He shifts closer, slinging an arm around my waist, while the other cushions my head. My head finds the space beneath his chin; my ear pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
I close my eyes, drifting off before I know what’s happening.
Matthew
My arm is numb. Completely, hopelessly numb.
And Jesus, how hot is she? Not in the sexy, heart-racing way, though, God knows, there’s that too, but in the actual sense. Like I’m curled around a space heater disguised as a human. She’s radiating warmth through the blanket, through my T-shirt, straight into my bones.
But I don’t move.
I lie there, perfectly still, while Brooke finally, finally, gets the sleep she’s been needing for God knows how long. My fingers tingle, my shoulder’s screaming, and I know I should shift before I lose circulation completely, but I can’t bring myself to break the moment.
Because this, her breathing slow and steady, the tiny sighs slipping past her lips, the way she unconsciously presses closer in her sleep, this is worth every second of discomfort.
Eventually, though, reality nudges at the edges of the moment. Once the sun dips, the rays will come straight through the window and hit the bed. I should pull the blinds now, before that happens. I should probably move.
I stay anyway.
Until she stirs.
At first, it’s just a twitch, a small, unconscious movement. Then a soft sound escapes her, a half-formed word, and she shifts restlessly against me. My chest tightens. She’s dreaming.
“Shh…” I murmur, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Without really thinking about it, I start humming, a tune I barely know from some random reel I scrolled past days ago. My singing voice is objectively awful, but it doesn’t matter.
It seems to work.
Her breathing evens out again, the tension melting from her body. She rolls onto her stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, and I take the opportunity to slowly, carefully slip my arm from under her.
It’s pins and needles the moment it’s free, but I don’t care. I slide off the bed as quietly as I can and cross to the window, pulling the blinds shut so the setting sunlight won’t wake her.
Then I turn back to look at her, curled up, peaceful, her brow finally smooth instead of knotted with grief.
And it hits me, sudden and fierce, how badly I want to protect this. Protect her.
I glance around the room. It’s not like I can exactly disappear into another room, unless I want to spend the next few hours locked in the bathroom. So, on silent feet, I wander into the tiny kitchen and pull open the fridge. There’s food, but I could always use more.
I debate it for a second. Then I go.
The store’s only a block away, and I’m back in less than thirty minutes, quick enough that she won’t wake up alone. The rest of the afternoon I spend on the sofa, doing nothing, just… listening. Every sigh, every little shift makes my heart jump.
It’s nearly eight when Brooke stirs, stretching languidly before her eyes flutter open.