15. Dustin
Dustin
Brooke lurches up from the bed, head on a swivel. "What time is it?"
"About seven. Are you hungry?" I ask, looking for my phone. I don't particularly want to brave the outside world. Out there, it's cold and gray, but in here, it's warm and bright. This is the kind of weather food delivery was invented for.
"Yes—shit, going back to Brooklyn is going to be a nightmare on the subway." She rubs her eyes and roots around the floor for her discarded clothes.
"You know," I muse. "You don't have to go home. You could stay the night."
She looks back over to me, pulling her pants up. "I don't have a change of clothes. Or a toothbrush. Or a hairbrush."
"What a conundrum." I smile, proud of myself for thinking ahead. "I just so happen to have an extra toothbrush. It's new—in the package and everything, you can check—and while I don't have clothes for you, I do have a comb."
"Wow. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get into my pants." She laughs and shimmies her hips. Considering she's still shirtless, it's a mesmerizing sight.
"So what do you say?" I ask, ripping my eyes away from her incredible breasts. "Sleepover?"
"Ah, alright. You wore me down, Dusty. Honestly, it's probably for the best—shorter train ride with the cupcakes tomorrow. Let me just ask Eve if she can check on Huey…." she trails off, searching for her phone.
"How is my little orange son, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while."
"Your—he's good, weirdo." She laughs, not looking up from her phone. "Alright, the boy is taken care of. What do you want to do?"
"I was thinking we could get some delivery. Would you prefer pizza, Chinese, or Thai?"
"Ooh!" Her eyes light up. "Thai—Pad See Ew? With peanut sauce?"
I smirk. I knew she would say that. Good thing I already ordered.
Our bellies and hearts full (I hope—mine is, at the very least), we snuggle on the luxurious sofa and browse the streaming services for something to watch. I know Brooke likes old movies. Like, really old. Like pre-Hays Code old. I wasn't sure where to find any of those, but she has a subscription to something that has all of them. I make a mental note to set up a subscription for myself.
She picks Madam Satan , and we descend into a world of old-timey adultery and zeppelin debauchery. I used to give her so much shit for these old movies. I'd tease her relentlessly, proclaim them to be boring, and go fuck around in our suburban neighborhood.
Needless to say, teenage me was a fucking idiot.
I mean, I'm still not really a movie guy. Or a TV guy. I stare at screens all day for work, and I don't often find myself wanting to look at screens more . But if Brooke wants us to watch a movie? I'm watching the damn movie. I'm taking notes in my mind. I'm analyzing the plot. I'm surreptitiously looking up the actors. My mission is to take an interest in her interests, and I do not fail missions.
Unfortunately, my movie-watching companion is much more interesting than the transatlantic accents of yesteryear. It's so cute every time she misses the fried tofu puffs with her chopsticks. That familiar knot in my stomach makes its unwelcome return—I want this. I want her. Not just sexually, though that's fucking incredible .
I allow my fantasies to play out in my head while watching the film. I imagine her career rising through the ranks at Atmosphere, eclipsing my own. I imagine her tumbling into my condo in Chicago after work, stressed and anxious, but all of it melting away when she sees me. I imagine us living out those silly fantasies from high school and college. Maybe some cousins for Orion and Nova, you know, down the line. If she'd be open to it, I mean.
Sure, I've always thought of myself as a future dad. Nurturing the minds of tomorrow and supporting their interests. Taking care of them when they're sick. Actively listening when they have their first teenage heartbreak. Celebrating their wins. But if Brooke isn't interested in that? That's fine, too. I know she loves her cat. I'd be perfectly content to add another kitten to the household.
Jesus, I've got it bad. She's not even my girlfriend. She's my ex—the one who got away, so to speak. But she doesn't feel like she got away. Not when she's snuggled into my side, her breathing slow and even, every muscle of hers totally relaxed.
How can I make this happen? My whole life, I've had a plan. She threw a wrench into ours with that heart-shattering letter in sophomore year. I reeled; I flailed; I floundered. But I found my way. I'm sure I can find my way back into her heart again. Would it be inappropriate to pull out a SMART goal sheet ?
When she's asleep, maybe. After I tuck her into bed, I'll get out the laptop and get to work. I can see the template in my mind—
I briefly shake myself. She tenses under my arm but quickly relaxes again. Writing up a SMART goal sheet is probably the least romantic thing on earth, but maybe I can just… wing it?
I know I want her. I think she wants me back. Do I have the skills to attain this goal? Based on the fact that she's currently tracing abstract shapes on my chest indicates that yes, yes, I do.
But time? My tenure in New York has an expiration date. I have to get back to the Chicago office eventually. I'll move on to the next acquisition, the next onboarding phase, and on, and on. Fuck it, I'll make the time for Brooke.
As long as she'll have me.
Waking up with Brooke snuggled into my chest is the best feeling on earth. She stirs, and I watch her blink slowly, taking in her surroundings. When her gaze lands on my face, a genuine smile blooms, and it's infectious.
"Good morning," she whispers .
"Good morning. Coffee?"
"Yes, please." She extricates herself from my arms and stretches with a happy squeaking groan. I groggily stumble out of bed and head for the coffee maker.
Brooke doesn't move; she just rolls over and gazes out the window. I must admit, it's a pretty stunning view. The High Line trail snakes alongside the building and disappears out of sight. The city that never sleeps buzzes on the streets below, illuminated by the chilly morning light.
The only thing that perks her up is the burbling of the coffee machine and the scent of roasted beans floating through the air. I grab out the brown sugar and milk, just the way she likes it. I double up and pour myself an identical cup. We sit together in comfortable silence, sipping our respective drinks and watching the frozen outdoor scene.
I never want it to stop, but we have a mission for the day. "When do we need to go to Inwood?"
"Oh, let me check." She looks around the bed. "Do you, uh, know where my phone went?"
I grin. I plugged it in for her after she fell asleep. She thanks me after I retrieve it from the kitchen, which is where the most accessible outlets are located. She scrolls through her text thread with Darrell and taps the address into her maps app .
"The party isn't until two this afternoon, but it'd be good to drop the goods before then. One less thing for Darry to worry about. Plus, that gives us more time for the Cloisters." She smiles and clicks her phone screen off again. "Breakfast?"
I happily agree. Once we finish up our coffees and morning-time grooming, we head downstairs to the kitschy café on the ground floor. I haven't had the mind to check it out before, but it turns out to be a lovely spot. I have to hide a smirk when she orders her usual breakfast fare—Belgian waffle, powdered sugar, strawberries, and maple syrup—but she laughs out loud when I ask about the protein content of their vegetable omelet.
"Sorry!" she cackles. "It's just such a you question."
"Force of habit," I reply sheepishly. Turning to the unimpressed server, I grimace. "I'm sorry. It's fine. It's eggs—they're basically made of protein."
With our orders secured, she folds her hands together and grins at me. "What if the chickens aren't yolked enough?"
I cough into my water glass. "Jesus—what?"
"Y'know… the protein, eggs… gettin' yolked… get it?" She dissolves into raucous giggles, earning her concerned glances from the tables around us.
"Oh, my god," I groan into my hands. Buff chickens. Jesus.
Getting the cupcakes on the subway is a little harder than I expected, but we manage to secure the boxes and not take up too many seats. Fortunately, not many people are heading to the northern tip of Manhattan on a Sunday afternoon. We had to switch trains once—which was more than enough.
But when the train emerges from the underground track? Wow. I can only imagine how beautiful the tree-lined streets must be in the spring and summer. My stomach plummets as I realize I won't be here to see that. I'll be back in Chicago by then.
"Okay, so Jerry is going to meet us at the train stop to help with the boxes," Brooke announces.
"Jerry?"
"Darrell's husband." She grins. "Darry and Jerry. It's cute, right?"
"Darrell and Gerald, long-form?" I smile. "That is cute."
"You'll love him. And he'll stick out of a crowd—he's massive . Like, you know how kids tell each other my dad can beat up your dad? Jerry is the epitome of that. Though he would never. I think." She frowns in concentration for a second. "Maybe? If someone gave Fiona shit, Jerry could definitely intimidate the other parents, at the very least."
"Should I be intimidated?"
Brooke giggles. "Nah. Unless you're going to cause problems with a five-year-old . On her birthday ."
"Brooke. I would never, and I cannot stress this enough, never, ever cause problems for a five-year-old birthday girl." I school my face into a serious expression.
"I know. Hey, look! We're here!" She pops up and gathers as many boxes as she can grab before I get to them. The train shudders to a halt, and we pile out into the very above-ground, very freezing cold train station.
"Brooke!" A giant of a man with flaming red hair waves his hand above the small crowd. "Over here!"
"Jerry!" Brooke squeals and scampers over. I follow as best I can, but good lord, she is fast.
"Hey! Thank you guys so much—who's this?" Jerry looks me up and down with a slight frown.
"This is Dustin—we've known each other since high school." Brooke grins and looks up at me. "He's helping."
"This wouldn't be the same Dustin from Atmosphere, would it?" Jerry squints at me, and I try to give him an easy smile. "Darry didn't mention you two knew each other outside of work."
"Uh—" Brooke stammers. "Well, we're all busy, right? Gosh, it's cold. Let's get to your place! "
Jerry carefully grabs the bags of boxed cupcakes from Brooke and leads the way. He's got a bit of a sneaky grin, but he doesn't say anything until we arrive at their building. It's a nice place. Understated and decidedly working-class with red brick and concrete accents. Jerry and Darrell live on the second floor.
Their apartment is obvious by the giant balloon arch in the hallway. Brooke and I follow him inside, where Darrell rushes to and fro, putting up the last bits of party decor before the guests arrive. Jerry whispers something to Darrell with a half-smile, then excuses himself to hype up the birthday girl.
"Thank you so much, Brooke—and thank you , mister high school bestie. What are the odds?" Darrell grins like a cat. "Funny how you never said anything . Very funny."
"Hilarious." Brooke deadpans. "Where's the birthday girl?"
"Getting her hair done by my mother-in-law. Are you planning to stick around? I suddenly have so many questions." Darrell stares hard at Brooke, who (to her credit) does not break.
"Nope! We're off to the Cloisters for some culture." She pats my arm. "Dusty here has never been."
"Dusty? Oh, my god. Miss ma'am. You and I are going to have a talk ."
I'm starting to think my presence might have been a mistake. Maybe I should have hung back at the station and waited for her to finish up alone. What if this is how we get caught? Oh, god. Oh, fuck. What if we both lose our jobs, and Brooke hates me forever?