Chapter Seven
As I wait for Brooke to open her front door, I take a second to steel myself. The last two visits to her place had been like
walking into a sleep-deprived war zone. It’s almost impossible to believe this is the same Brooke who, just two years ago,
was doing tequila shots off a cruise ship railing while screaming “I AM THE QUEEN OF THE WORLD” in a homemade toga.
She’s the first of my friends to have a baby and I’m fast learning that parenthood is not for the weak. Baby Benji might be
tiny, but he’s transformed my always-polished best friend into someone who considers dry shampoo a complete beauty routine
and that gummy bears count as a food group. Last time I stopped by, she’d answered the door with one boob still hanging out
from feeding Benji, and hadn’t even noticed until I gently pointed it out. The time before that, she’d burst into tears because
she couldn’t find the TV remote—which had been in her hand the whole time.
Not that I blame her. From what I can tell, having a newborn is like running a marathon while solving differential equations
and trying to keep a very loud, very demanding tiny human alive. All on approximately thirty-six minutes of sleep.
I shift the paper bag in my arms, loaded with her favorite takeout and a coffee each. If nothing else, I can make sure she
eats something with actual nutritional value today—plus a secret stash of sour gummies, because I’m not a monster.
The first time I came by after Benji’s birth, she was collapsed in a La-Z-Boy and managed to lift up her head long enough to mutter “bat wings” before I could go in for a hug or offer congratulations.
I must have looked confused because she quickly added, “My vagina. I swear to God, Harriet. It looks like I have grown bat
wings down there. Why did no one tell me? All those birth classes with the perineum massaging and breathing techniques. All
those damn what-to-expect books. No one breathed a freaking thing about this. Not one word. So in case you ever decide to
breed, know this: It’s going to be a damn Gotham City mess down there. Bat. Wings. Capital B.”
I knock again, harder this time. She has to be home—we literally just texted about my bringing food. This time I hear a muffled
“Door’s unlocked!” that sounds more like a hostage cry for help than an invitation. Stepping inside, I am hit by the unmistakable
smell of what I can only describe as eau de new parent exhaustion: a potent mix of diaper cream and doing your best.
“Hey, girl.” Brooke stumbles into the hall, barefoot, in a pair of gray fuzzy pajama pants and what looks to be one of her
husband’s business shirts. “See these bags?” She points at the slight puffiness under her eyes. “I could take them shopping
at Costco. Thank God you’re here. I was starting to think the outside world was a fever dream.”
I grin, following her into the living room and carefully navigating through what looks like a Babies“R”Us bomb explosion.
“I come bearing contraband,” I say, holding up a real coffee and a bag from her favorite Korean place.
Brooke’s eyes light up. “You really are my best friend. Today I ate baby carrots dipped in vanilla yogurt. I was so hungry and couldn’t figure out what to make for breakfast. I feel as if my brains are getting literally sucked out of my boobs or something.
All I seem to have the capacity to think about is locating the spit-up rag.
But please don’t get sick of me.” Her tone is lighthearted but I sensed an undercurrent of seriousness.
“Sorry, you’re stuck with me. Forever.” As I make my way to the kitchen, I hear what could generously be described as a banshee
with tonsillitis gargling a can of nails.
“And that’s a wrap on nap time.” Brooke makes her way to the baby swing set up with a view of her side garden—daffodils, pansies,
and snapdragons popping bursts of color along the tall fence.
“And how’s my favorite little Benji Boy?” I call out.
“Ready to audition for Les Misérables. I swear he could hit the notes to ‘One Day More’ already.”
I grin, waiting until she picks him up and settles on the couch to nurse. Playing waiter, I slide-shuffle over with her caffeine
lifeline, placing the paper cup on the end table coaster with a triumphant “ta-da”! Next to it, I place fried chicken and
rice cakes on a skewer.
“God, Harriet,” she says, her tone suddenly serious, “I’m so glad you’re here right now. Oh, and I’m grateful you’ve been
helping Gale out—he just told me all about it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?” My plan had been to sort of elegantly lob that bomb into a conversation today, but she already knows.
I chew on my lower lip, watching Brooke’s exhausted face. She’s always been fiercely protective of her little brother, especially
since he got picked up by the NHL. I’ve seen her shut down any friend who so much as looked at him twice. “He’s been going
through it, and I’ve been starting to get worried.” Brooke takes a sip of her latte before exhaling long and slow. “Oh my
god, that tastes so good. But really—it’s been awful seeing him struggle like this. The press has been vicious. With me stuck
in new mom mode, I just . . . I’m so grateful you’re going to be around him more.”
My stomach lurches. Here’s Brooke, my best friend since forever, who convinced our entire senior class she was psychic for three months just to mess with our chemistry teacher.
Who’d crashed a stranger’s wedding reception because she swore the couple “looked like they needed better dancers” and ended up becoming friends with the bride’s grandmother.
Who’d clung to me through her mom’s funeral, who’d trusted me with every dark moment after her dad’s accident, who’s shared every fear about her own son inheriting that same darkness—and less than twelve hours ago, I’d been pressed against her brother’s couch with my tongue licking his mouth.
“I know it’s not like when we were younger, but you’re family,” Brooke continues, bouncing Benji gently. “After everything
with Dad, and then losing Mom . . . he needs people who know him, his roots. It can’t just be me anymore.”
The guilt crawls up my throat. I take a too-large swallow of coffee, trying to drown the memory of Gale’s hands on my waist,
the soft sounds he’d made when I’d—
No. I can’t risk it. Not this friendship. Not Brooke. Especially not when Gale is the only family she has left, the little
brother she practically raised after everything fell apart. Brooke has always been fierce about protecting him, and getting
involved with him now would be crossing a line I can’t uncross.
Some things are too precious to gamble.
I try to focus on Brooke telling a story about her nanny search, but my traitor brain keeps dragging me back to Gale’s couch
last night. The weight of Gale pressing me into the cushions, my fingers digging into his shoulders. The desperate sound he
made when I bit his lower lip. His hand sliding under my sweater, rough calluses against my skin. Everything too hot, too
much, not enough.
The solid muscle of his thigh between my legs, my hips rocking against him without meaning to. His mouth on my neck, breath
ragged. The way he’d groaned my name like a prayer—
“It’s been such a thing.” Brooke’s voice yanks me back. “I swear half of the applicants just want to meet Gale.” She shifts Benji to her other breast, and shame floods my system.
I force a laugh, like my body isn’t still humming from his touch. “I mean, imagine if they leave their numbers tucked into
Benji’s onesies.”
Brooke chuckles, then winces. “Oof, don’t make me laugh. I don’t want to pee myself . . . again. It’s like my pelvic floor
decided to take an extended vacation. I thought it would be better by now. I might need to go see a physical therapist or
something. Add it to the list of things I don’t have time to do.”
“You should write your own book. Shit to Definitely Expect.” I stifle my own giggles.
“Sorry, sorry. You came here to catch up. How about we talk anything other than my complete lack of personal hygiene or a
social life?” Brooke suggests wryly.
“Hey now, I find that peak entertainment.” I lean forward to clink cups with her.
As our laughter subsides, a more pensive mood settles over the room. Brooke’s expression grows serious, and she shifts Benji
over and begins to gently burp him.
“I have to fill you in on the latest with Dad. I’m going to take a wild guess that Gale hasn’t mentioned it.”
I shake my head, leaning in. Their dad has always been a conversation killer. The golden boy of the NHL who threw it all away
one drunk night in Vegas, leaving his family with nothing but headlines about the people he killed and the crushing gambling
debts.
“He’s . . . not doing well,” Brooke continues, her voice tight.
“His heart’s failing. The care facility says it’s just a matter of time before .
. .” She trails off, bouncing Benji against her shoulder.
“Sometimes I look at my son and get so angry, you know? How could Dad do it? He had everything. And he just . . . threw it away. Then when Mom got sick . . .” Her jaw clenches.
“Three months after diagnosis. That’s all we got.
Begging the insurance company until we were hoarse, and they still denied her the trial treatment like she meant nothing.
If we’d had Dad’s money, instead of him blowing through everything on God knows what . . .”
I reach for her hand. What do you say to someone who lost both parents in such different but equally painful ways? Their mom,
who’d given everything to keep them afloat, gone before she could see Gale make it to the NHL. Their dad, just . . . lingering
in that care facility like a fallen god who barely knows his own name.
“I’m so sorry, Brooke,” I manage finally. “It’s too much.”
She nods, blinking back sudden tears. “Part of me is heartbroken, knowing my dad is slipping away like this. But another part . . .”
“Is still angry,” I finish for her.