Chapter 2
brOOKE
“Tomboy Brooke” was no more—I’d left her back in Birch Hollow. Moving away to Boston for college had allowed me a chance to finally start fresh and shed eighteen years of tomboy conformity, the outer layer I’d projected in order to fit in with the neighborhood boys.
In college I had found a love of feminine fashion, and I especially loved wearing dark skinny jeans, oversized sweaters, and cute boots in the fall.
I felt like the quintessential early-aughts New England girl, traipsing around the Boston campus with fall leaves crunching underfoot and an infinity scarf around my neck.
My first college act was to join a sorority, overhauling my childhood persona and placing myself far out of reach of any remaining sporty, tomboy nature.
I hid my childhood knowledge of sports trivia and love of The Goonies, molding my personality into New Brooke.
New Brooke got hair blowouts and pedicures, gave makeup tips, and only went to baseball games to whisper with her sorority sisters about the boys’ firm butts in their baseball pants. New Brooke was the life of any party.
This was all before the diagnosis, of course.
Now, as a young adult, I felt like I’d found a happy medium.
I kept my nails on the short side, but always fully manicured.
I kept my dark brown hair long, alternating between its natural smooth and straight texture and curling it into full, loose waves.
I had to pull it back for work, but even in my scrubs, I never left the house without my undereye concealer, my perfected eyebrow tint, and a coat of black mascara. Work Brooke had to be pulled together.
At home, I finally allowed myself to relax.
I kept a home-only wardrobe of comfy sweats and faded tees in my favorite fabrics.
Comfort was of the utmost importance, and I chose fabrics that didn’t irritate my eczema, which had significantly worsened over the years.
The sweats and comfy clothes were also particularly important for my stiff and achy joints.
After I graduated with my Bachelor’s of Science in Nursing from UMass Boston, I had used my sorority connections to find a nursing job in the city.
My own doctors warned me that I might find a nursing job—with all those hours on my feet—too taxing.
But I’d wanted to be a nurse nearly half my life, and I was determined to see it through.
Work was exhausting, but with the right inflammation-reducing medication, I could make it through my shifts, though without more than an ounce of energy left to spare.
So my days off were spent in lounge mode, flipping through magazines, catching up on shows, and cuddling up with my sweet two-year-old red golden retriever, Maple.
My social circle had shrunk dramatically since my sorority days.
Honestly, I didn’t miss it much. Sorority events were occasionally fun, but that life had almost always felt like a performance for me.
It’s like I had swung so far from trying to project the perfect tomboy image, and instead spent four years trying to project the perfect girly girl. Neither was really me.
And nowadays, I just didn’t have the physical or social battery for social events beyond work. Other than my roommate, Whit (who also happened to be my favorite nurse co-worker and absolute best friend), I rarely interacted outside of work.
Whit was midwestern-weather-girl beautiful, classy and natural with light brown hair streaked naturally with blonde.
She kept her hair shorter than mine, and it had a natural waviness I envied.
Freckles dotted her light olive skin. She had a thrift-store slash designer-chic style of fashion, with stylish shaggy bangs and bright green eyes that popped under dark lashes.
Like I said, total stunner.
Whit and I had initially bonded over both being taller-than-average females (I was 5’7” and she was 5’9”), and our shared adversity during clinical rotations had cemented the friendship in a forged-in-fire, sisters-in-arms kind of way.
As fate would have it, Whit was a homebody like me, so we often spent nights having movie marathons of our favorite classic rom-coms. We’d eat chicken-and-avocado burritos and drink sparkling white grape juice out of champagne flutes, laughing together until our eyelids felt heavy and we stumbled off to bed.
Another amazing thing about Whit was that she never questioned me when it came to my physical or social limits.
She was one of the few people who knew about my early-stage rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis, and she knew that consuming alcohol was a big no-no on my medication.
I could have the occasional glass of wine, technically, but it always exacerbated my side effects, and I’d end up even more exhausted.
It just wasn’t worth it for me. Being a 23-year-old non-drinker definitely caused a few questions and sideways glances out in public, but thankfully, at home with Whit, I never felt that pressure.
After today’s shift, I felt particularly run down.
My joints had their telltale tingling and burning sensations, and I knew I was in dire need of an evening in my sweats with my feet propped up.
By the time Whit arrived home, I was already sprawled out on the couch, my face makeup-free and my hair flowing loosely across my shoulders.
She plopped down on her preferred side of our comfy beige couch and gave Maple a rub of greeting.
I rubbed my neck and let out a sigh of relief as the joints slowly cracked.
“How’s our pretty girl doing today?” she asked affectionately, causing Maple to flop onto her back in a silent request for belly rubs.
“Being the smartest and sweetest, as always,” I cooed. “I’ve started adding to her training. Watch this. Maple, go get meds.”
Maple hopped off the couch, trotted to my room, and returned with a pill bottle gently clutched in her jowls.
“What a good girl, Maple!” Whit exclaimed. “Seriously,” she said to me, “that’s impressive. Think we could train her to take over our shifts? Today was brutal.”
We let out twin groans of exhaustion, our “Oh-thank-God-that-day-is-over” noises, then shared a knowing grin. It was nice to be able to wordlessly communicate with someone who knew exactly what your day had been like.
“I swear, it doesn’t matter if you’re on day shift or night shift. Two o’clock is the witching hour. Pushing through that halfway point is the worst.”
I groaned and nodded my agreement.
After spending a few minutes reclined on the couch, Whit popped back up and got to her feet.
“Grabbed our mail,” she said, dropping my half unceremoniously in my lap as she wandered toward the kitchen of our small duplex. “Water?”
“Please, yeah, thanks.”
A luxe midnight blue envelope caught my eye as I leafed through the small pile of bills and junk mail.
“Fancy. Late Valentine?” Whit ribbed me, returning to the living room and placing my water on my side table.
I chuckled, shaking my head. In high school I’d really been too focused on academics and volleyball to consider dating.
I had a couple boyfriends in college, but it never got serious.
All in all, my love-life had been pretty absent until the last six months, when I’d been swept off my feet by the arrival of a new doctor at our hospital, Boston General.
Brock met all the criteria on the serious-boyfriend “checklist”—GQ-model handsome, good job, committed.
He was eight years older, which meant unlike many guys my age, he was ready to settle down.
He had a good job and was financially secure.
His dark hair was always perfectly coiffed, and his teeth were remarkably white.
He could’ve been cast as a more stoic McDreamy.
The first couple months of our relationship were a whirlwind of fancy nights out at the opera or the ballet.
Brock had fantastic taste and a sophisticated upbringing, and with him I got to explore the more high-society side of Boston.
During the winter we visited the holiday markets, saw a Christmas-tree lighting, saw The Nutcracker.
We visited the Fine Arts Museum and took a helicopter tour of Boston.
We ate at all the best restaurants in the city.
As the months progressed, Brock and I set a standing Thursday night date night.
I spent a night or two per week at his Boston loft apartment, which had a sleek and minimalist black-and-white design with large floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Boston Skyline.
I’d met all his friends and more recently his sister, all of whom exuded that same effortless put-togetherness that I wished I could achieve.
I appreciated that with Brock, he said what he meant and meant what he said.
Since we’d met he had pursued me single-mindedly, making his interest towards me clear.
With my limited energy, I had found out quickly after college that I didn’t have any patience with dating games of cat-and-mouse or the push-and-pull of casual dating relationships.
So it was nice to know I had a steady boyfriend, a date to any social occasion or holiday event.
I mean sure, I didn’t imagine I could sit around in sweats doing jigsaw puzzles with the guy (did he own sweats?
I don’t think I’d seen any in his closet), but Brock was a safe, smart choice.
He brought me a dozen red roses every week before our date, which I kept in a glass vase in my kitchen.
Freshening them up each week made me smile.
My eyes focused back on the midnight blue envelope in front of me, and I noted the Vermont return address. I flipped it over, opened the flap, and pulled out the cream-colored cardstock.
“Birch Hollow High Class Reunion,” Whit read over my shoulder. I tossed it on the coffee table.
“I probably won’t go.”