Back Home with Brooks Hart

1. ashton

one

ashton

. . .

Queen of New York City - Matchbox Twenty

Holy sweet mother of baby Jesus, that is one fine ass.

It’s round and it looks solid as a rock, filling out those worn-in light-wash jeans perfectly.

It’s attached to a tall, refreshing glass of muscled, tattooed water.

His hair is shaved on the sides but a little long on top and slicked back, ink swirling up the side of his neck.

I tilt my head to the side, clamping my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I swipe a card to unlock the turnstile.

I can’t tear my eyes from him. I lift my tote bag over the barrier as I stumble through, whacking my knee on the solid metal and almost losing my balance.

I hiss a quiet curse as I steady myself.

That’s what I get for being distracted by a piece of ass.

My glass of water spins around. The tattoos on his face are faded, and he’s a lot more gaunt than the face I expected to see.

His eyes are deep-set and beady, rather than the soulful gray orbs I thought I’d meet.

There’s no tiny silver ring through his nose.

No grin that once made me weak in the knees.

Who am I kidding—the grin that always makes me weak in the knees.

Turns out this man is just another New York City stranger, and the hope that lifted my shoulders drops them again just as quickly. Strangers turn into people I know turn into strangers again all too often in this damn city.

“No, I’m fine, just hit my knee. I’m hanging up now.

Bye, Ev.” I grab the phone from my shoulder and hit the red button on the screen, ending the call in the middle of my brother’s sentence.

I should feel bad, but that asshole married a woman he barely knows on a whim at two in the morning without inviting anyone to the wedding, so I’m kind of mad at him right now, anyway.

And he’s not really an asshole. He’s actually pretty great.

I toss my phone into the messenger bag slung across my chest as it buzzes, the screen lighting up with several incoming messages.

I huff out a long sigh, digging into the bag and wrapping my fingers around my phone again as I make my way to the elevator.

As usual, only two of the six in this corner are working, so they’re working overtime, taking forever to run people up and down all thirty-six stories of the building.

I hate coming here. I hate that my advisor could only see me on a Tuesday this week—my only day off—and it’s the one day she’s in her tiny cubicle office in this godforsaken forgotten sibling building of the college.

I kick at a corner of the wall and a piece of trim comes loose.

Another message flashes up on the screen and I unlock the phone, holding it up to read the messages while I wait for the world’s slowest elevator.

Everett

You’re still mad at me

I said I’m sorry Ashton

What else can I do?

I know I upset you and I’m sorry for that but I’m not apologizing for marrying Ruth

I love her and I know you will too when you meet her

I tap out a curt reply, too annoyed at everything today to deal with my big brother’s hurt feelings.

I said it’s fine.

See u in a few weeks.

The meeting with my advisor wasn’t even fucking worth it.

I sat across from her for all of two and a half minutes while she scanned the notes and commentaries from the chefs I’ve shadowed over the last eight weeks.

I listened to her hum and haw for another thirty seconds, and then she asked me what my next kitchen internship would be.

She typed my answer into some file on her laptop and three and a half minutes after arriving, I crossed the threshold and left her office.

A ten-minute walk and a fifty-seven-minute subway ride all for less than four minutes with the useless woman who calls herself my academic advisor is not exactly the way I wanted to spend my first day off in a month.

What I really wanted to do today was catch up on some sleep, and then spend some time with my favorite vibrating appliance.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

I’m talking about my stand mixer.

It’s one of those fancy big-brand ones in a limited edition metallic paint finish. It’s my pride and joy. A gift from Everett when I moved to New York for school.

Fuck. I should probably text my brother back with a little less attitude. I should probably apologize for being a bitch, too, but I won’t. He deserves some respect, but not that much. Not right now. He’s gonna have to earn that back.

Once I finally return to my apartment, after stopping at a taco truck for lunch on the way, it takes me all of twenty seconds to dump my bags on my bed, change into my rattiest sweats and switch on the Bluetooth speaker on the breakfast bar.

The studio loft is miniscule, but I don’t mind.

I prioritized kitchen space over living space—a sacrifice I was more than willing to make, and one I still don’t regret.

Given that this apartment is in the Bronx and on the very outskirts of New York City, it’s got a pretty decent sized kitchen.

I pull my mixer into the middle of the counter and hum along to a little Shania as I pull ingredients from every cupboard and the fridge. And then I survey the scene.

My mind rolls through the morning—from choosing my favorite lacy underwear to give myself a little boost, to meeting a cute puppy on the subway, to the meeting that could’ve been an email sent from the comfort of my bed—and eventually settles on that phone call.

I didn’t really give my brother a chance to talk.

And I was distracted by that guy in the lobby.

Of course it was just some city stranger—I don’t know why I entertained any other idea even for a second.

There’s no reason for him to be here. Not when his home is back on the ranch in Texas.

Texas. My heart aches for home, and for all of the sights, sounds, and smells of the ranch.

New York was supposed to be my coming of age, albeit a little late.

When I left Texas for the Big Apple two years ago, my only plan was to find myself.

To eat, pray, and love through all five boroughs and live like crazy, before going home and finding a nice southern boy to have babies with.

But then I met Declan, and I met Jessa, and for the briefest flash of time, I thought maybe I’d build a life and stay here.

Now I see blonde curls and tan skin on every face I pass in the street, and the subway makes me nervous in case we’re accidentally trapped in close proximity. I don’t even know what I’d say to either of them anymore, and somehow, that hurts even more than the anger does.

I know exactly what Mom would say if she knew about everything that happened.

She’d pull out one of Grandaddy Smith’s favorite sayings.

She’d say “Ashton, honey, God closed that door for a reason. Quit jigglin’ the handle.

” And she’d be right, too. Grandaddy Smith was always right about these things, and he passed that on to Mom.

Maybe that’s why I never told her about Declan or Jessa.

Declan and Jessa used to laugh at how often I said things like “ain’t” and “don’t”. I guess I’m thankful they never tried to correct me, but I know they found it amusing nonetheless. Looking back now with twenty-twenty hindsight, I think they probably thought I was a dumb hick.

Maybe I’m studying culinary arts and not something more academic, and maybe my brother and his friends never went to college at all, but none of us are stupid.

Our parents talk this way, and their parents did too.

It’s more a learned behavior than anything else.

Even still, I found myself learning and conforming to Declan and Jessa’s way of speaking instead, rather than being myself.

And I hated that.

Without even taking a minute to plan my bakes or think about what I’m doing, I’ve managed to prepare my kitchen for Everett’s favorite pumpkin blondies and chocolate chip cookies. Guess I should probably quit being such a pansy and call him back. After I get to work.

Once the pumpkin blondies are cooling on a wire rack and I’ve prepared a batch of raspberry-white chocolate muffins and thrown them in the oven, I get to work on the cookies.

And after I’ve done that, I bite the bullet.

The guilt of my attitude during our last conversation gnaws at me, and there are only so many more things I can bake before I can’t put it off any longer.

“It’s me,” I say as he answers. I swipe my bangs from my eyes using the back of my hand. I’m covered in flour, knuckles-deep in chocolate chip cookie dough as my kitchen fills with the sweet, spicy scent of pumpkin, white chocolate, and cake.

“I got that.” My big brother’s familiar, smooth voice warms me from the inside out.

I’m only wearing one of my ear buds, but it’s enough to hear the broad smile in his tone.

The bright, telltale clinking of Mom’s glass sun catchers and the singing of the whippoorwills in the background are enough to know he’s sat out on the back deck of the main house.

The slightly muffled, distant sound of movement tells me I’m probably on speakerphone.

I can just imagine the early evening glow, the lowering sun, the warm breeze.

A stark contrast to the chill of the Atlantic air and the dramatic, overcast sky of the city.

“Don’t say anything you don’t want the cows to hear, you’re on speaker. You still mad at me, Ashey?”

“Yeah,” I sigh dramatically. I don’t even try to hide the small smile that forms. “Gonna be mad for a while, Evvy. Gonna be real mad. You’re gonna have to really work hard if you wanna make it up to me.”

Everett sighs, though I can still hear the smile, and I swear I can hear the rolling of his eyes, too. “What do you want?”