10. Brooke
Brooke
Monday afternoon, my phone vibrates against my desk. An unknown number is texting me. Frowning, I reach over and scan the message.
Unknown
Hi Brooke, it's Calvin. Where is the baseball card? I want it for my son.
Furious tears gather in the corners of my eyes. His son? He got that lady pregnant, and this is how he tells me? Why did he have to tell me at all? Literally, all I want from him is to disappear from my life forever.
"You okay?" Felicity looks over at me with a gentle frown.
I force myself to smile back. "Peachy."
"Uh oh," Darrell pipes up. "She used the P word."
Christ, I'm not gonna get out of this. "Really, I'm fine. Calvin texted me from his new beau's phone."
"Seriously? What does he want?" Andrea scowls .
"Baseball cards that I don't have. I think he's doing this just to mess with me," I mumble and chew on a hangnail.
"Knock knock." Dustin walks up and raps his fist against the trendy exposed brick wall. "Oh, no. Is this a bad time?"
"Nope. Great time. Is it two already? Wow, time flies," I babble, feeling my cheeks flush red with embarrassment. Dustin nods, concern knitted between his brows. Grabbing my laptop, I follow him back to his de facto office: Conference Room B.
He ushers me inside and gently closes the frosted glass door behind us. "I hope you had a nice weekend."
"I did, thank you," I reply, blushing even harder.
"Good. I did as well. Unfortunately, we still have some things to go over. Uh, considering how Friday's meeting went." He coughs and looks away from me.
Inexplicably, the tears welling up behind my eyes burst forth, and a ragged sob rips out of me. I try to cover my face with my cardigan sleeve, but Dustin's concern deepens before I can hide from his gaze.
"Oh, god. I'm sorry. Shit, did I say something wrong?" He scurries over and puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Shit, should I not touch you?"
"It's fine," I wail and grab for the stack of napkins next to his bagel. "I'm fine. Totally good. I just… need a second."
"Sure, of course. Take all the time you need." He squeezes my shoulder. "Can I ask… did I do something wrong? "
"No!" I squeal. "No, not you. My shit bag ex-husband—I blocked him last week, finally, and I felt so good—but he texted me from his new girlfriend or fiancée? I don't know who she is, actually. But I think he texted me from her phone asking about some stupid fucking baseball cards because he wants them for his son."
"Oh, wow," he breathes. "Is this—did you know?"
"Of course, I didn't know!" God, I hope the soundproofing on this stupid conference room works. "That's how he told me. And I know I don't have anything left of his. I moved out and only took my things. I'd never take his baseball bullshit. I don't even like sports."
"I know you don't," he mumbles. Before I know it, he pulls me out of my chair and his strong arms wrap around my shoulders. I bury my face in his cable-knit sweater and let out another sob. He smells so nice and clean. Like fresh laundry and that pine soap. It's not overbearing like how some men drench themselves in cologne. It's understated and classy.
Dustin has always been understated and classy. I'm just a big, loud, obnoxious jerk. And I'm getting snot on his sweater.
"I'm so sorry," I say as I push myself back. "God, I'm sorry."
"For what? Wait, don't answer that. You don't have anything to be sorry for." He trails the back of his hand on my cheek and wipes away my tears. "You're perfectly you."
Somewhere outside of the conference room, a desk phone rings and I freeze. I remember where we are. Fear grips my organs, and I shove myself back again. We're in the office, and we're not doing this. I grab another handful of napkins and clean up my face.
"My apologies for the unprofessional display, Mr. Sanders." I sniff again. "What can I do to help facilitate our onboarding?"
"Brooke, I—" He cuts himself off and looks down at his sweater with an affectionate half-smile. "If that's what you need right now, sure. But please know that I care about you. Professionally, I mean."
"Yes. Professionally. This is very professional. I am a businesswoman," I announce with a slightly unhinged giggle.
"Absolutely. A consummate professional, even." Ugh, his smile. Why does he have to be so cute? He really grew up and grew into his bone structure. The years have been kind to him. Even the little crow's feet near his temples make him look elegant, refined. A mature king.
And I feel like a dumb green-haired kid. Like I'm an immature woman flailing in the wind, trying to find my way in the world after the divorce. Apparently, that includes sobbing like a baby into my ex's sweater in the conference room .
"So, professionally speaking, you mentioned MIT licensing for some of your open-source code. Or was it all of your open source?" He reopens his laptop and taps away at the quiet keyboard.
"Most, yeah. I think some teams use Open BSD. Of course, it's all intermingled. I can assure you, though—all of our licenses are current and compliant." I can do this. The last of my tears dry up as I force myself into work mode.
"Excellent. I expect nothing less from you, Ms. Dunne."
"Please, it's Moore."
He looks up from his laptop, mouth slightly agape. After a beat, he smiles, and I stop myself from literally swooning at the affectionate joy in his eyes. "Of course. Thank you, Ms. Moore."
Huey's automatic feeder whirrs to life and deposits his one-third cup of kibble. My hefty boy—not fat, just thick—leaps from his cuddle spot on my lap and crunches on his dinner happily. As far as he knows, he's got it made. A human servant for warmth and under-chin scratches, a robot that feeds him twice a day, and another robot that cleans up his litter box .
I feel guilty whenever I spend the night at Janine's, though. My sweet boy always bonks his head against mine extra hard when I return. Eve, one of my roommates, always lets him sleep in her bed when I'm away. She grew up with cats and loves having him around. But she has a crazier schedule than I do and the auto-feeder was the best way to ensure my boy stays fed and happy.
Once he finishes off his dinner, he returns to my lap and slowly closes his golden eyes. I gently scratch under his chin in the perfect spot until he falls asleep. His blocky head tips to the side and little cat snores fill the relative silence of my bedroom. God, he's adorable. I swipe open my phone and snap a picture. Instinctively, I send it to Janine. My thumb hovers over Dustin's contact info.
Would he care about my snuggly boy? Is he a pet person now? What if he hates pets? He always doted on his family's dog, but that was years ago. People change.
Powering through my momentary anxiety, I send Dustin the photo. Seconds later, he sends back a heart-eyes emoji.
Dustin
Who's that pretty girl or handsome boy or distinguished gender-neutral friend?
"Yessss," I hiss out, and Huey cracks open his eyes to glare at me. I gently pat his little nose and smile at the rumbling purr that erupts from his chest. "Apologies, king. Please return to your slumber."
This is Huey. He is the most important man in my life.
As he should be. Treat him well.
Holding my breath, I type out a rather risky message and squint my eyes shut as I hit "send."
Do you want to meet him?
In a professional capacity?
For some stupid reason, anxiety and a little bit of sadness squeeze my throat. Dustin's right. I shouldn't complicate things. We shouldn't complicate things. But what's complicated about two old friends talking about cats? Nothing, that's what.
Exactly. Very professional. This is team building, right?
Right. Where am I going?
Why are my hands sweating? Am I a hormonal teenager? Regardless, I give him my address and gently scoot Huey from my lap. If Dustin is coming over, I need to do a quick tidy-up and warn the roommates. Or whoever's home .
Luckily, my room isn't a trash pit. It never is. I quickly make my bed and fluff my pillows for that classy-but-lived-in look. My bathroom trash needs to be emptied, and it wouldn't kill me to run some glass cleaner over the mirror. That won't take me very long. If I time it just right, I might be able to take a quick shower before he gets here.
Scurrying to get my chores taken care of, I poke my head out of my bedroom and assess the common area. The kitchen is a wreck, but it's always like that. And I refuse to be the house mom. At least the coffee table is mostly clear. I shove old take-out containers (most likely from Ricky) into the trash and hustle back to my room for shower supplies.
Chancing a glance at my phone, I see his "on my way" text from about fifteen minutes ago. I still don't know where he's staying. I assume somewhere in Manhattan, so I've got either thirty minutes or over an hour. In another stroke of luck, the hot water blasts out of the showerhead immediately, and I get to work.
Sometimes, an everything-shower is exactly what a gal needs to feel human. With my deep conditioner in my hair, I work on shaving my legs. I briefly consider shaving my pubic hair but decide against it. It's natural. It's normal. And he's already fucked me once—not that I think anything is going to happen! It's definitely not. Nothing is going to happen .
This is going to be a very friendly, very platonic, old-friends get-together where he meets my cat. That's all. Extremely casual. I repeat that as a mantra in my mind as I quickly towel off and slip into my favorite dress. The plunging neckline, fluffy skirt, and lavender fabric always make me feel like a queen.
Checking the time, I smile and hoist my bag of laundry from the bathroom. It wouldn't hurt to start a load. Plus, if anything unprofessional starts to happen, I have the built-in excuse of needing to switch it over to the dryer. But like I said, nothing is going to happen. This is just insurance.
"What up, B?" Ricky saunters out of his room, can of spaghetti rings in hand.
"Oh! Sorry, am I being too loud?" I whirl around, heart pounding in my chest. "Wait, can you hear the washer and dryer from your room?"
"Nah, you're all good." He sniffs and slam-dunks the empty can into the trash. "You look fancy. Going somewhere?"
Shit. "Uh, no. I'm having a friend from work over for a little bit."
"Cool. She hot?" He grins.
"Yep." Honestly, there's no need to explain that Dustin is a man. Ricky will be Ricky. "You, uh… you working tonight? "
"I'm always working, B. I'm up forty thousand yuan as we speak. Should be closer to eighty by the time the floor closes. And then next week? Oh, I'm gonna be livin' large." He rummages around in the kitchen cabinets until he pulls out another can of spaghetti rings.
"Forty thousand… what is that in US dollars?"
"About five grand, give or take." He wrenches open the pull ring and slurps the sauce directly. Yuck.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I see Dustin's here. I scamper to the door and smooth my hair down, fluff my skirt, and adjust my cleavage. Perfection. Sweeping open the door, I plaster what I hope is a sultry smile on my face.
"Hello, Dustin." I lean against the door frame.
"Hi—wow. Hello." His piercing blue eyes sweep over my frame and linger on my cleavage. "You look… incredible."
"This old thing?" I huff out a laugh. "Just kidding. This is my favorite dress and I never get any chances to wear it, so… yeah. Come on in; it's bonkers cold out."
He follows me in and just like I had hoped wouldn't happen, Ricky is still lurking around the kitchen with his canned pasta. "Sup, I'm Dustin."
"Hey. Ricky." My weirdest roommate gives Dustin a once-over. "B was right—you are hot."
"Oh, my god," I mumble. Leave it to Ricky.
"She said that?" Dustin smiles. "What else has she said about me? "
"Nope! Not doing this. Thanks, Ricky—I'll take it from here." I blast him with my most charming smile and usher Dustin to my room, where my chunky boy lies sleeping on the freshly made bed. His little orange belly is on full display and I honestly can't think of a time when he's looked cuter.
"That's a good boy." Dustin nods approvingly. "So, uh, Ricky?"
"He's one of my roommates." I cringe. "I have… five."
His eyes widen in surprise. "Five? Wow. Really doing the whole Brooklyn hipster thing, huh?"
"I guess. I mean, after the divorce, this is really just what I could find." I sigh. "So… you've met the cat."
"I have," he agrees. "Listen, Brooke, I really don't want to poke at old wounds. Or any wounds. But you've mentioned the divorce a couple times—would I be out of line to ask about it?"
Dammit, he's right. I heave out another sigh and plop down on the bed next to Huey. He chirps awake but doesn't move. "You wouldn't be. It just… it sucks, you know? You don't get married with the intention of breaking up down the road, right?"
"Definitely not." He perches on my loveseat, which is thankfully clean of any late-night snacking crumbs. I watch with keen interest as he unzips his coat and folds it into a little square, placing it on the cushion next to him. His sweater rode up a little when he took off the jacket, and my eyes hone in on the little strip of exposed skin.
No. Stop it. This is professional. This is platonic. Right?
Right?