8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
I ’m slow to wake the next morning. Through heavy eyelids, I check the time on the clock.
10:36 a.m. But considering I didn’t fall into bed until 2:30 a.m., that’s not exactly that late. Especially when you add in the extra hour I spent tossing and turning in my childhood bed, unable to turn off my racing mind.
The tangle of thoughts comes back full force, effectively waking me up.
How good it felt to get out and spend an evening dancing, just for the sake of having a good time.
How fun it was to be there with Brooks, our parallel energies synthesizing exactly like they used to.
The fun being dampened by my encounter with Sketchy Guy.
Being rescued by a very protective Brooks. His commanding voice as he ordered the guy to leave me alone. I bet that’s the voice he uses when he’s scolding students who cross the line. It was kinda sexy.
No! Stop it, Teegan! No associating anything about Brooks with the word sexy. Get a grip!
I roll out of bed before my thoughts can sidetrack any further. Wrapping my throw blanket around myself, I lumber down the stairs, feet moving on autopilot.
Although my parents may not be together anymore, they’ve done their best to keep things amicable. That included my dad signing our house over to my mom in the settlement, giving Logan and me a small semblance of “normal” to return home to when we visit. I’m grateful again for that fact as I walk the familiar path from my room to the kitchen without consciously thinking about where I’m going.
“Morning, honey!” my mom says in a chipper but soft voice. She knows I’m not naturally a morning person. I see a plate of pumpkin streusel muffins on the counter, and my mouth immediately starts watering. “There’s caramel macchiato creamer in the fridge,” she says as she pours me a cup of coffee.
“Thanks, Mom,” I reply, swallowing a yawn. I grab the creamer from the fridge, along with the jar of Mom’s homemade cinnamon butter. Mom heats up one of the muffins in the microwave for me while I doctor up my coffee.
“How was last night?” Mom asks.
“It was really fun,” I reply, smearing butter on the steaming muffin. Taking a large bite, I moan with pleasure. “I’ve missed your baking,” I add. The compliment is sincere, although it’s also a diversion to buy time before the inevitable. I can’t avoid telling my mom that Brooks is back. Not after last night.
“Where did everyone wind up staying?” Mom had generously offered to house anyone who needed a place to sleep after our outing, so it’s a valid question. But the answer is the point of no return for the Brooks conversation.
I take another bite of muffin.
“Actually, most everyone had to cancel,” I begin. “Only one other person was able to come, and he stayed at his dad’s house.”
“Oh, really? What’s his name?”
Another completely valid, non-intrusive question. It’s simply one I wish I could avoid.
I clear my throat. “Ummm, well, ironically enough, as it turns out, when the small group formed, it just so happened that one of the guys who joined was . . .” I trail off, avoiding eye contact with what I know is my mom’s piercing stare. “It was Brooks.”
Silence. I dare a quick peek at my mom’s facial expression. Her very shocked facial expression.
“Brooks as in . . . ?” she questions.
“ Brooks , Brooks. ”
“Brooks Murphy?” she clarifies. But it doesn’t really sound like a question.
I nod.
“Oh, boy.” Mom blows out a breath.
“But it’s fine!” I say. “It caught me off guard at first because, I mean, what in the small world are the chances? But we’re both mature adults. We’ve grown and changed. We can handle being friends! We are handling being friends.”
“Okay.” Her tone of voice says the word as a statement, but her eyes clue me in that it was more of a question.
“It’s really okay,” I reassure her. “I can handle it.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not seventeen anymore. We had fun last night without it being awkward at all.”
I completely leave out all irrelevant information, such as Brooks’ pensive expression while singing “Love Story.” Or him rescuing me from a drunk man. Or the brush of his fingers against my elbows. Or the melancholy heartache in my chest that won’t dissipate.
“If you say so,” she remarks. “Wait—you said that he was staying at his dad’s house. What about Angela? Are she and Steven not together anymore?”
My expression falls at her question, and I can see on my mom’s face that she senses the answer before I even explain Brooks’ loss.
“Their poor family. Oh, that’s so heartbreaking,” Mom says, dabbing tears from her eyes. “Angela always was a special soul.” I nod my agreement, unable to say anything more.
“Well, how’s the rest of life going?” my mom asks.
Appreciating the opportunity to move on from the sadness in the room, I tell my mom about all of the different groups and individuals I’m leading with Arrow this year. We discuss my job extensively before pivoting to hers. I love the way her demeanor lights up when she talks about her executive assistant role.
“Of course, you’re killing it, Mom,” I praise her. “I’m not surprised at all that your boss gave you a raise already.” She blushes at my compliment, but I can tell how much it genuinely means to her.
“When’s the next time Logan will be home?” I ask .
“Probably not until Christmas,” Mom replies with a sigh. “He’s taking some big guys’ fishing trip over Thanksgiving week. Something about better rates. But he promised he’d be here for a week at Christmas. I’ll go visit him in St. Louis sometime before then.”
I drain the rest of my lukewarm coffee before announcing, “Okay, I desperately need a shower.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell you that you smell, but . . .” Mom trails off with a cheeky grin. I roll my eyes at her before retreating to my room to shower and get dressed. I have about four hours before Brooks will pick me up to drive back to Brooklyn, and I’ll need every possible minute to prepare myself to spend another three hours alone with him.
“Let me get this straight. You spent every summer during college at the beach ?” Brooks glances over at me as he asks the question, a teasing grin on his face.
I slap him on the arm, light enough he won't swerve the steering wheel but hard enough to express my displeasure at his prodding. “We were not lying out on the beach all day! Yes, we were in Florida, but Summer Projects were a lot of hard work. Especially as a leader. You’re working a full-time job plus doing all the meetings and group Bible studies in the evenings and on the weekends. I barely slept. I swear it wasn’t all fun and games.”
“But there were still fun and games. At the beach for eight weeks.” His lighthearted tone and taunting smirk reveal that he’s still having too much fun messing with me.
I cross my arms with a huff. “You’re impossible.”
Brooks’ head falls back as he laughs. “You know I’m just teasing you. In all seriousness, that sounds amazing. I wish I could have done something like that during college. And it’s awesome that, as a staff member, you’re able to create that experience to help more students grow spiritually. Is Summer Project your favorite part of the job? ”
“ Hmmm , it’s one of my favorite parts for sure,” I reply. “I love anything where I get to be with people and help them feel included. The nice thing is that even though I have consistent meetings on my weekly schedule, there’s wiggle room each day for spontaneity. If I have a deep conversation with a girl and she’s interested in talking more, we can grab lunch or coffee the next day. Or I can spur of the moment go hang out at one of the sorority houses after a meeting.”
“Sounds like a great job description for you. Fun. Flexible. People-oriented. Checks all the Teegan boxes,” Brooks observes.
“Yeah, I guess so. I’m just not sure if . . .” I trail off, not sure where I was taking that thought. Surely my brain wasn’t planning to admit to Brooks that I’m contemplating moving on from my job. It’s a thought I’ve hardly allowed myself to dwell on, much less announce to anyone else. But every time he talks about his job, it makes me more and more interested in pursuing education again. It beckons my mind to dwell on the possibility. But that doesn’t mean that I should be looping other people into my confusion yet. Especially not Brooks.
Do your job, Brain, and keep a tighter rein on my tongue! I can’t go around confessing personal things like that to Brooks!
“You’re not sure if . . . what?” Brooks prods.
“I don’t know. It’s nothing,” I evade, staring at the Kansas plains rolling past my window.
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
There’s silence, aside from the music playing from the stereo in the background. Brooks doesn’t say anything else, clearly waiting for me to fill in my thoughts.
“I’m not sure if I want to keep doing it. If I want to recommit to staying on staff or not,” I say after the long pause.
“Okay,” Brooks states.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay,” he says again. He looks over at me briefly. “You don’t have to keep doing the same thing if you don’t want to. Try something different. Nothing’s stopping you.”
“But it’s hard to argue with a job that fits my personality so well and makes a huge difference in people’s lives,” I contend.
“It’s not the only job that would fit your personality, Teegan. Or the only job that makes a huge difference in people’s lives. There’s nothing to say you can’t change it up,” Brooks doubles down.
“Have you ever thought about doing something other than teaching?” I ask, shifting the focus off of me.
Brooks huffs a laugh. “Only every single April since I started teaching. But even though I’m exhausted at that point in the school year and start questioning every life choice I’ve ever made, in the end, I never feel like God is calling me away from teaching. I’ve only ever felt confident in staying. At least, so far. But if that ever changes, I won’t back away from giving something else a shot,” he finishes with a shrug.
I hum, considering his thoughts. I changed course once to come on staff in the first place, even though I enjoyed all my hands-on classroom experiences in college. Maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to change course again?
The serious tone of the conversation (and my internal monologue) is making my insides feel itchy. “I still can’t believe that you’re a teacher,” I comment with a light tone. “Never ever would I have guessed that in high school.”
Brooks smiles. “I’ve changed in a lot of ways from who I was in high school.” His smile tightens, and the itchy feeling gets worse. He continues, “Teegan, I really need to tell you how sorry I am. I need to explain—”
“It’s fine! Let’s not rehash the past!” I interrupt with a shrill voice. We can’t go there. I can’t go there. It hurt too much. I can’t feel that again. Can’t think about it. “I forgive past you. We’ve both grown up now. Let’s just keep moving forward.”
I don’t look directly at Brooks, but I see him swallow hard in my peripheral vision.
“Tell me more about The Hangout,” I quickly redirect. “I mean, I know about the program in general since Lana used to volunteer there. But tell me about what you do specifically.”
Brooks takes the bait, thank goodness. “Some weeks, I float around and chat with students who seem less included in the groups. A lot of times, I’m in the rec area playing basketball or other sports with the students in there. I recently coordinated with the Townsend basketball team to organize a tournament over the course of several weeks, before their season begins. I think that will help draw even more guys to come, and then hopefully they’ll continue to stick around.”
“That’s amazing, Brooks,” I say, impressed. “A girl in one of my Bible studies, Sofia, used to be an English Language Learner student at The Hangout. Lana was her tutor. Now Sofia is at Townsend as a student and volunteering as a tutor at The Hangout. I should go visit her there sometime.”
“You should definitely come check it out,” Brooks says with enthusiasm. He grins. “It would be fun to show you around.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. “So you’re hoping to start a similar program in KCMO eventually?” I ask.
Brooks nods. “Yes, I hope I can. So many students in the district would benefit from having a place to go after school, a place to belong. A way to make positive connections in the community. Ideally, I’d love to offer the program more than once a week if we could pull it off. Anything to give more students access to productive community.”
Hearing Brooks talk about his vision for the KCMO district intrigues me. We both grew up extremely privileged—in financially stable, two-parent households; received good educations from our school district; graduated from college with no student debt (thanks to my parents and to Brooks’ athletic scholarship). My experience working with college students from all different backgrounds and upbringings has made me appreciate the upper hand I had in life. It’s inspiring and compelling to see the ways that Brooks is leveraging his advantages to pull others up as well.
“Tell me more about the Bible studies you do at Townsend.” Brooks’ question pulls me out of my thoughts. He continues, “I confess I still feel a little foggy about what exactly your day-to-day job looks like.”
I laugh in response. “I know. It doesn’t really make sense unless you’ve experienced it firsthand. I lead four different small groups in addition to our large group events, plus I meet one-on-one with girls who want to deepen their faith and grow their leadership skills.”
Brooks’ eyebrows raise, though his eyes stay on the road. “That sounds like a lot . ”
“I guess so. It’s exhausting sometimes, but I really do love it.” I give an overview of the Bible studies I lead, highlighting the irony that TriAlpha was our rival house in my college days.
“Ooo, building bridges with the enemy, huh?” Brooks teases.
“Something like that,” I say with a giggle. I can’t help myself. “This semester, I took over meeting with a group of seniors on Friday mornings because Rachel, our head staff woman, recently had twins. They don’t like to sleep much, so she asked if I could cover the early morning group this fall.”
“Oof, early mornings plus Teegan. What an explosive combination,” Brooks says with a quick smirk in my direction.
“Har har,” I scoff. “It might not be my favorite time of day, but I’m managing. And exactly when did you turn into an early bird?”
Brooks shrugs a shoulder. “College plus basketball equaled a pretty demanding schedule, so the only time I could read my Bible was early in the mornings. I slept through my alarm a lot at first, but eventually it grew into a habit to wake up early. Which helped prepare me for teaching.”
We pull into the Brooklyn city limits, and my heart deflates a little, knowing our time together is coming to an end.
“Would you want to grab some dinner before I drop you off? I heard there was going to be a pop-up restaurant event in Center Square this evening,” Brooks says.
I want to say “yes” so badly. Too badly.
You cannot get sucked back into Brooks’ gravity, Teegan. You can’t do this again.
“I can’t,” I respond quickly, before my impulsive heart overpowers my mind. “Uh, my weekly video call with Amaya and Lana. I have to do that. So, no time for dinner, even though the pop-up restaurant sounds super cool.”
Never mind the fact that I still have another two hours before our rescheduled time.
Brooks’ hopeful expression falls for a split second before he smiles again. “The Beefs, right. Can’t keep them waiting. It was nice of them to bump back the time of your call by a few hours today. ”
“Yes, it was. They’re the best!” I say it with enthusiasm, but then trail off to silence again.
A few minutes later, Brooks pulls up in front of my duplex. “I’ll carry your duffel bag inside for you,” he says, moving to open his car door.
“No, no! I’m fine. I got it!” I reply, quickly getting out of the car. Grabbing my bag out of the back seat, I shut the door a little too hard, wincing at the sound.
“Teegan, wait!” Brooks calls out the open passenger window. “Take the rest of the Sour Patch Kids. You know I won’t eat them.” He holds the bag up, and I accept it from his hand.
“Thanks for the ride. And for going with me this weekend,” I say.
“I had a lot of fun.” There’s sincerity and something slightly sad lacing Brooks’ voice as he says it.
“Me too.” There’s sincerity and something very sad lacing my voice. I rush up to my front door, giving only a brief wave over my shoulder before shutting myself inside.