Chapter 5
Five
I got up early to run the next morning, hoping I could steady myself with as much normalcy as I could before Brooklyn picked me up for coffee.
I gave a friendly nod to the older man with the golden retriever, looped around at the Whale, and tried to keep my thoughts focused on the rhythmic pounding of my sneakers as they hit the wet sand.
That was the whole point of exercise, right?
To shut your mind off and focus on your body.
But traitorous thoughts trickled through in the silent split seconds between songs switching on my running playlist. What was I supposed to wear? What if he chewed with his mouth open or listened to crappy music like EDM or dubstep? Was this an actual date?
I gasped for breath as I abruptly stopped, linking my hands together on top of my head to stop my body from feeling like it was going to spontaneously combust. I’d done this run almost every day since I moved back, but I’d never felt my heart so eager to explode out of my chest. Even after I’d walked the rest of the way back home, I couldn’t rein it in.
It was like a wild animal that had gotten loose.
While I was out, Mom had texted me that she was going out to run a few errands (which to her probably meant Starbucks and HomeGoods), leaving me an empty house to tear through like a hurricane as I tried to get ready for something that didn’t seem as simple as getting coffee with a guy.
After inhaling half a peanut butter and banana sandwich, I dashed upstairs to shower and fired off a quick text to Mom.
NAT: sorry about the dishes in the sink. In a rush to leave
MOM: leave where?
NAT: coffee with a friend :)
Much in the same way Nikki didn’t need to be privy, neither did Mom.
For all any of us knew, this could be the first and only time I hung out with him, so there was no point in setting any of us up for disappointment.
I’d even kept certain details from Dad, which I never did.
Even writing it down felt blasphemous somehow.
After I showered, I turned my closet inside out before forcing myself to settle on a flowy long-sleeved white babydoll blouse and loose jeans. This whole outfit debacle really brought how alone I was to the forefront, because I had nobody to even consult on the five outfit changes I made.
At school, I had classmates and acquaintances, but I’d always been so focused on my writing and my work that actual friends seemed like a time constraint. But now, with all the waiting and all the time I seemed to have, an empty space had opened up in me, begging to be felt like a wound.
“Not too plain, and not too formal,” I said as I surveyed myself in the mirror behind my door. I tied my still-wet hair into a braid, and when I checked my phone for the time, a text from him popped up in my notifications.
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): be there in 10
“Okay.” I spun around to face Gracie. “This will be good. Right?”
Her ears perked up slightly, and drool trickled out of her mouth and pooled under her chin on my comforter. She eased her eyes closed, and I gave her a soft pat on her head before grabbing my bag and going downstairs where I could wait with more diligence.
Sitting on the stairs, I situated myself low enough that I could peer out the front window but high enough that he couldn’t see me and my peering when he arrived.
My heart lifted in my chest when a bright-red Wrangler with the top off pulled up to the curb in front of the house.
I watched with fascination as Brooklyn slugged back a can of Red Bull and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, raking his hands through his mess of hair. Devastatingly, hopelessly endearing.
“He’s just a boy,” I told myself before hoisting myself up and walking to the front door.
When I opened it, there he was, halfway up the steps to the porch.
“Hey, I was about to call you.” He grinned and pocketed his phone. “Were you waiting for me?”
“What? No?” It came out more like a question, and I felt myself stiffen. “I just happened to be coming down the stairs and saw you in the window.”
Which wasn’t technically a full-fledged lie. He seemed to buy it—for now, at least.
He grinned. “What can I say? I have impeccable timing.”
I could tell myself over and over again that he was just a boy until I was blue in the face, but the way my cheeks flushed and my stomach churned in his presence told me it was more than that.
He wasn’t just a boy. He was a boy who looked like he was ready to disrupt my whole universe.
With his haphazard mess of hair, his unintentionally cool faded T-shirt, and a crooked, white-toothed grin that was ready-made for making girls like me melt into a puddle, I realized how horribly unprepared I was for him, and I couldn’t let it show.
“Besides, who comes to the door nowadays? That’s what text messages are for.” I brushed by him as I walked down the porch steps, catching a whiff of that fresh and clean cologne of his.
“Uh, people with manners.” He chuckled.
“And you’re one of those people?” I played coy.
“I am. In fact, watch.” He strode ahead of me with those long legs of his and opened the passenger door of his Wrangler, and with a dramatic sweeping gesture motioned for me to get in.
“Cute.” I smirked at him as I climbed into the passenger seat.
“I know.”
>> <<
Cota Coffee was on the other side of the island, tucked away a block from the beach under a massive oak tree.
It even looked like a little treehouse, and faint jazz music fluttered from a hidden speaker.
But even in the shade, the late May heat was stagnant and thick, and I breathed a sigh of relief as Brooklyn came back out to our table with our lattes, the cups already dripping with perspiration.
“So, I should have told you this earlier, but I didn’t wanna freak you out,” Brooklyn said as he sat down across from me. “Cota is a locals-only secret spot. If you tell anyone about this place, you’ll be cursed for eternity.”
“I’ll take my chances.” I smiled, stirring my latte with the straw. “How long does one have to live here to be considered a local?”
“Well, how long have you lived here?”
“Technically since this past January,” I told him. “But I was finishing school, so I’ve only lived here full-time for almost three weeks.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Sky Valley.” I sat back in the wrought-iron chair and folded my arms over my chest. “When do I get to ask you a question?”
“Whenever you want.” Brooklyn mirrored my movements, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms, and I wished I hadn’t noticed how his biceps flexed against the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “Ask me anything.”
“Anything?” I echoed.
“Yeah, anything.”
I sipped my latte, contemplating my question carefully. Of course I wanted to know why he was at Otter House, but I wanted to know so much more than that. I figured starting with the basics was the best way to ease into it without sounding overeager.
“Fine.” I nodded. “Where did you go to school?”
“Clayton University.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Oh my god, that makes so much sense.”
Clayton University was the big, exciting D1 counterpart to the tiny liberal arts school of Sky Valley. They were a half hour drive apart, and the distance was about the closest thing about them.
Brooklyn, arms still folded and biceps still flexing, arched a challenging eyebrow at me. “You mean as much sense as you going to Sky Valley?”
“Oh, of course,” I said. “What sport did you play?”
“Why do you assume I played a sport?”
“Because nobody goes to Clayton unless they play a sport.”
Clayton was good at almost every sport, but football was the big one, and they were deeply steeped in tradition, like ringing the giant bell in the clocktower that loomed above the football stadium at the beginning of every game while “For Whom the Bell Tolls” by Metallica blasted from every speaker in the building.
I, of course, had only learned all of this against my will by being in such close proximity to it practically my whole life. Football in the South was a whole thing—it just wasn’t really my thing. Hence my enrollment at Sky Valley, the school without a football team.
Brooklyn snickered. “Sounds like something someone who went to Sky Valley would say.”
“You still haven’t actually answered my question.”
Brooklyn paused, and thank god he was wearing sunglasses because I was sure I would have melted like chocolate in the sun under the heat of his gaze. “Baseball. Full scholarship. Satisfied?”
“I just like knowing things, that’s all.”
“What else do you wanna know?”
I steadied myself and let out a sigh, trying to focus on the rivers of condensation on the side of his coffee cup instead of my uneasy reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. “Why do you go to Otter House?”
“I knew that was coming.” He snickered and held his hands up. “You sure you want to know?”
I sat up rigid, realizing I might have flung myself over a line that was not meant to be crossed. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable, or—”
“It’s okay, I really do want to tell you.” He heaved out a breath and ran his hand down the side of his face. “But first you need to understand, I have this really serious allergy. It’s really only developed the last few years, but it’s fucked with me pretty bad.”
“To what?” I leaned forward in my chair, as if I could catch the words I was so eager to hear.
“Every time I do oxy, I break out in handcuffs.”
It took me a moment to digest what he actually said, and when I looked up at him, I was met with a toothy grin that spread wide across his sun-stained cheeks. His brilliant laugh filled the little patio again, and I swore I could feel other peoples’ eyes on us.
I scoffed. “You really think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
“What? It’s not a joke,” he insisted, still laughing between words.
“God, Brooklyn, are you always like this?” I asked him.