16. Brooke
Brooke
In theory, the walk from Darry's and Jerry's apartment to the Cloisters should be fine. In practice? In the first week of February? It sucks . I have half a mind to sprint back to my friends and promise to answer any—and all—questions if they'd just let me stand in front of their heater.
Dustin's been quiet since we left, as well. I can tell he's deep in thought, and I want to ask him if he's okay, but he's probably thinking the same as me. It's cold. Darry's questions were awkward. I don't feel like blasting my personal business all over the office, either.
"Oh, thank god," I whisper as the medieval doors come into view at the top of this curvy pathway. Truth be told, museums aren't really my thing. Too quiet. I mean, I can appreciate art as much as the next gal, but they were always Dustin's thing. Which is why I suggested it in the first place.
Two "suggested donations" later, we're slowly walking the halls of this veritable castle and slowly thawing out. Dustin's head is on a swivel, making sure he doesn't miss a single thing. We stop and admire the paintings, stone carvings, tapestries, stained glass windows, and metalwork. He excitedly points out the Hunt of the Unicorn series.
"It was a huge acquisition, and the craftsmanship is impeccable. The story is—well, you'll see." He snatches my hand and leads me to the beginning of the series, whipping his head between me and the art.
As I study the tapestries, the story of a unicorn unfolds. Men and dogs hunt in the woods, and a unicorn reveals itself, purifying the water for the men to drink. The men give chase, the unicorn fights—but it's too much, and it's captured.
I get it. I finally get it. Tears pour down my cheeks as I stare at The Unicorn in Captivity. A massive collar and heavy chain secures it to a tree in a disgustingly small enclosure. No other creatures in sight. Pomegranates fruit from the branches above its head, and a red substance—blood?—drips from its chest and hindquarters.
Dustin lays his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close, gently rubbing my arm. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The unicorn is a trophy for those men, something to tell others about and boast about their hunting prowess. They don't care about its well-being. They don't care that it shouldn't be captured. They don't care .
All of the feelings I haven't allowed myself to really, truly feel since my divorce rush forward. I was never Calvin's partner—not really—but I was a status symbol. A tick box on his life plan. Never mind my own hopes and dreams. In his mind, I existed to further his goals. My career didn't matter. My baking didn't matter.
I didn't matter. And he proved it, time and time again, when I found all of the evidence of him cheating.
"I matter," I whisper out loud between sniffling sobs.
"You matter so much." Dustin kisses the top of my head. "You are so important. You're brave and strong, intelligent, capable, competent… you matter so much, Brooke."
"And pretty." I manage to laugh.
"You're absolutely gorgeous, but don't do that." He cups my chin and I tilt my head back to look up at him through teary eyes. "Please don't deflect. I know you do that when you get compliments—it's understandable, but please listen to me. You're the moon and the sun. You're the whole universe, Brooke. You always have been."
"Always?"
"Yours, forever."
We ride the train back to Chelsea in relative silence. Dustin bought me a print of the Unicorn in Captivity from the museum shop—I tried to pay for it, but he'd snuck his wallet out before I could reach for mine. The rolled-up print feels heavy in my hand.
Calvin would never have done that. Even when we were dating, before things turned sour, when I was still excitedly in love. Sure, some of the signs were there—but I never wanted to see them. He was so good at being charming. He'd say whatever you wanted to hear. It all went a bit sideways after we got married. He got his status symbol; I got snide comments about climbing the career ladder.
But Dustin? He's so earnest. Truthful. I don't have to worry about him turning into a nasty clone of his former self. Every word he said at the museum—I believe them. Implicitly. I trust him.
Shit, I like him. I… more than like him. Yours, forever . I signed those words on so many notes and letters all those years ago. At the time, I never dreamed they'd be anything but true.
He's barely let go of my hand since we left the museum, either. He seems perfectly content to hold onto me until I make the choice to break the connection. And I really don't think I want to .
"Next stop is ours," he murmurs and places a gentle kiss on my temple. I nod and silently follow his lead, making sure we have all of our things before disembarking.
The platform is busier than when we left, full of people talking and hustling their way to wherever they need to go. But it all falls away when I look at him. Dustin. My Dusty. A hint of another chance at life.
"Hey, I wanna show you something." He smiles at me as we ascend the steps into the chilly wind.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, it's on my laptop." He shivers against the cold. "Remember how you asked if my date survey was on the company server?"
I perk up at the idea of a secret. "Yeeeeeah?"
"And I told you it's not?"
"Yeah?" I reply, getting a little more exasperated.
"Do you want me to show you how I did that?" He grins.
"Yes!" I let go of his hand and start jogging toward his building. "C'mon, keep up! What's all that protein breakfast for, huh?"
Giggling as we run, we make it back to the lobby of his fancy building out of breath and red-faced. The doorman looks at us in surprise before plastering his professional, customer-service smile back on. "Did we have an exciting day? "
"Oh, it's about to get better," I chuckle and wink at the man. His smile briefly falters as a light blush descends upon his cheeks.
"Well, please enjoy your delight of an afternoon." He punches the elevator call button for us and resumes his post by the door.
"Oh my god," I breathe. "He totally thinks we're about to have sex."
"Wha—oh. Oh. I mean, we could?" Dustin rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "If you're interested, you know."
"Oh, Dusty." I sigh. "You're not getting out of sharing your secrets that easily."
"Right, no, of course not."
One very excited elevator ride later, I burst into the corporate apartment and search for his laptop. It's almost hidden under a throw pillow on the (definitely very expensive) sofa, and I triumphantly hold it aloft. "Spillin' time!"
"I regret this already," Dustin grumbles but opens it up anyway.
I watch him log into another profile on the machine. He checks the authenticator app on his phone and puts that password in, too. Wow. Very security-minded. He inhales sharply and lets out a long, slow breath.
"Are you sure—"
"Yes!" I pound a fist on the coffee table .
"Alright." He taps an icon, and his cloud drive pops up immediately. "I partitioned the drive and only use my mobile hotspot. But there's something else, and I don't want you to laugh at me, okay?"
I nod and watch as he clicks through the immaculately organized folders. Personal, Education, High School, Transcripts… I almost huff out a sigh, but my name appears on the screen. There it is.
Brooke.
He keys in a numeric code when the folder asks for a password. I can't be sure—his fingers were moving too fast—but I think it might have been my birthdate. As the files load, my breath evaporates. My eyes nearly bug out of my head.
It's all the notes I wrote him. Every single one, scanned and digitized, named by the date I lovingly wrote in the top right corners. He clicks into the first one and every hormone-driven emotion poured into the note jumps out and slaps me in the face.
He kept them. He kept all of them. I reach over and hit the arrow key, bringing up the next one. And the next one. And the next. My loopy handwriting scrawls across each and every page, ending with "Yours, forever" on every single one.
Yours, forever.
Yours, forever.
Yours, forever .
He slips a hand around my waist and pulls me in close as my eyes fly across the screen. "You kept all of them?"
"Of course I did." He smiles down at me. "I loved you so much, Brooke. I don't think I even knew what love really was, not back then. But I do now. And I know that I love you."
Love? Present-tense? A slip of the tongue, maybe? Every possible explanation races through my mind until he crashes into me with a deep, soul-stealing kiss. His hands race over my body and clamp down, holding me, worshiping me. I don't even realize I'm holding him, too, until my fingers are tangled in his chestnut hair and pulling him closer, harder, more, more, more—
Maybe it's fucking stupid of me to want this. Maybe it's stupid of me to throw caution to the wind. Maybe it's stupid of me to want to figure out how we can make this thing between us work.
But god, I want it. I want him. I want this . I want us. I don't want to pick up where we left off, pretending that over a decade of life didn't happen. I want us, with all of our flaws and experience, to come back together with new hope and new dreams.
If only it were that simple.
"I love you, too," I murmur between frantic kisses. "God, I love you, too."
"Oh, I really hoped you would." He pulls back and smiles with sparkling tears gathering in his eyes. "I missed you. I missed you so much. And I'm so proud of everything you've accomplished. You're amazing."
"Really? I don't feel like I've accomplished much, I mean—"
"No. Stop. Listen to me. You graduated with honors and a CompSci degree. You didn't come back to our tiny-ass hometown. You stayed in New York, and you made it. You're amazing at your job—your name floated around the Atmosphere office before I knew who you were. Your team loves you. They respect you. Sure, you had some setbacks, but you rolled with them, and you pulled yourself up. I am so, so proud of you, Brooke."
His words roll over me like a perfectly warm blanket straight out of the dryer. And then the tears come again. I'm sobbing into his chest, shaking and crying, as he gently strokes my back and whispers quiet "I love you"s.
"I'm sorry I keep crying into your shirts," I squeak out between sniffles.
"Don't be. There's a washing machine. Are my shirts, um, absorbent enough? I can grab tissues?"
My wracking sobs turn to laughter at this beautiful, incredible, unintentionally hilarious man. "I love you so much, Dustin."
"I love you so much, too."