5. Brooke
Brooke
“Let me see you, Brookie,” Meemaw demands after I slam the door on Dr. Beckett Whistler.
What a pretentious jerk. It’s too bad, because he’s incredibly attractive.
Chocolate brown eyes, short red beard, strong, chiseled jaw, muscular arms that aren’t as jacked as Matt’s—but he has the personality of an ogre.
“Coming, Meemaw.” I let my shoulders slump. Dr. Beckett Whistler definitely was checking me out as I stood there, but he’s a jerk. So, that flare of attraction I felt at first, it just can’t be anything. How disappointing—again.
I make my way through Meemaw’s kitchen to her living room, where Matt sits with her on a faded floral couch.
Meemaw’s foot is elevated on a footstool, and the ancient rabbit ear antenna TV is on.
It’s playing a black-and-white episode of “The Beverly Hillbillies” because there’s Granny Clampett doing something questionable.
I force a smile as I join Meemaw on the other side of the couch. “Brookie Cookie.” Meemaw’s eyes flash with worry. “Sit.” She looks at the TV. “Wish I could find me some Texas tea.”
I sit and she turns her beady blue eyes to me.
“What’s wrong, gal?”
Matt snorts, but my glare over the top of Meemaw’s head turns it into a cough real quick.
“Nothing’s wrong, Meemaw.”
“Sure, honey. And you aren’t mad or upset, sure as idiots don’t ask dumb questions.”
I shake my head, trying to follow her train of thought, but failing.
“I’m tired from the drive, Meemaw,” I deflect, but I can’t tell her about Matt and Melanie with Matt sitting right there. And I don’t really want to tell her about Dr. Beckett Whistler either.
Meemaw leans into me and gives me a hug, and her familiar scent of butterscotch and moonshine, with a hint of lard, fills my senses.
“When do you have to leave, Matt?” Meemaw asks.
“Soon, Meemaw. Sorry I can’t stay long, but I have to get back.”
“You can’t leave till tomorrow,” Meemaw announces imperiously as she straightens. “I need you to help me around here. Such a strapping young man. Your muscles are enormous. Did you pay for those with that plastic surgery?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Matt scowls at me over Meemaw’s head.
“No, Meemaw, these are not from plastic surgery. I own a gym now.”
“That’s so nice you’re a gym teacher. Those kids with ADHD need that movement. I hear the dyes are to blame. But how will I be able to wear bright red if they ban all the dyes?”
Matt’s eyes widen. Meemaw has always been eccentric, but is this willful misunderstanding of information, or is she confused? Our Meemaw decoding skills are a little rusty. “Uh. Well, the dyes are food dyes.”
“What has this world come to? People are dyeing their food now?”
“Uh … yeah.”
Meemaw snorts. “In my day, it was enough to just serve it to a man, not try to entice him by making it look pretty.” She pats Matt’s arm. “You men need to stop being so high-maintenance.”
Matt’s eyes meet mine across Meemaw’s head. As a personal trainer and gym owner, he is particular about his food, and this conversation has spiraled out of his control.
Meemaw springs up as best she is able to with her foot in the cast. “Bring me my scooter, Matthew.”
Matt wheels a knee scooter over to Meemaw, and she slips onto it with surprising deftness. “All this talk of food has made me hungry,” she declares. “You’ll be wanting fried chicken?”
Matt grins. “Definitely, Meemaw. No one makes it like you.”
I have it on good authority that Matt won’t touch fried chicken unless it’s Meemaw’s.
He grins as he catches my not-so-subtle eye roll. “How can we help?”
“You”—she scoots past him into the kitchen—“can stay out of my kitchen, but Brooke needs to come. A woman needs to know how to make a man-pleasin’ dish.”
Matt holds back a laugh. “Welcome to the eighteenth century, Brooke,” he whispers as I pass him.
I use my small stature to swing my elbow into the soft spot just above his hip. He doubles over, but he’s still shaking with unreleased mirth.
If I can count on one thing, it’s that I never know what Meemaw will do next. And that the next few months of me living here and helping out will be … interesting.
We’re all up early the next morning. Meemaw, because she’s always up before the sun, and Matt, because he needs to head back to Michigan and Melanie.
I heard him talking to her on the phone last night, and I wanted to gag.
If I could have, I would have grabbed the phone through the wall and yelled, “ That’s my brother you’re talking to! ”
Unfortunately, the wall separating us is not soundproof, but it did prevent me from phasing through and throwing his phone into the nearest river.
At least he had to sleep on the lumpy pull-out couch while I got the guest bedroom. It’s a tiny pink square with a twin bed, and Meemaw’s craft supplies crammed into every nook and cranny, but it wasn’t the back-breaking sofa.
Meemaw can’t get down the steps to the driveway, so she says her goodbyes from the kitchen.
She whispers something into Matt’s ear, and he flushes while he shakes his head.
She leans in again, and both of them look directly at me.
Matt grins and winks before pulling Meemaw into a hug and placing a kiss on her wrinkled cheek.
“Take care of Meemaw, Brooke,” he says as we walk down the porch steps and over to his truck. “She’s a schemer, but I think you’ll have some fun if you go along with it.”
“Drive safe?” I ask, in twin.
“Of course,” he says back.
I swallow a lump in my throat. I have to say something about Melanie, about how he shouldn’t move too fast with her, but just as I open my mouth to warn him, an old, white, scuffed-up Toyota pickup truck barrels up the driveway, blaring loud music.
Dr. Beckett Whistler—again.
The windows are rolled down, and I catch a glimpse of his face. He looks haggard, sleep-deprived. He parks in the adjoining driveway and climbs out of his truck, turning to face us with his arms crossed over his chest.
Matt waves at him, but Dr. Beckett Whistler scowls.
Matt looks at me and grins. “That guy”—he tips his head toward the doctor—“is the one for you.”
I roll my eyes up to heaven and back. “Matt, just because you found someone doesn’t mean I ever will.”
“Hey.” He tips my chin up so I’m looking at him. “You are the biggest pain I know, and you need someone who is an equal level of obnoxious for you. That guy”—he jerks his thumb over his shoulder—“he’s got it.”
“Whatever, Mattie.”
He opens his arms, and I step into his hug. We joke and tease and are often physical with our antics, but the truth is, we need each other. We’re twins, and it’s hard when we’re apart. A lot of people don’t understand it because they don’t have a twin, but Matt is a piece of me.
Tears beckon when I straighten.
Matt smirks before climbing into the driver’s seat. “Go make friends. I’ve got a good feeling about him.” He shoots a finger gun directly at Dr. Beckett Whistler before putting the truck in reverse.
I stand there after Matt leaves, watching Dr. Whistler stare at his retreating blue truck with a frown.
Matt couldn’t be more wrong .