22. Brooks
Brooks
“If I had a dollar for every time I said
‘don’t do something stupid’ and he did it anyway,
I’d retire.”
— Davis
The metal structure of the truck doesn’t give easily, but after forty minutes of kicking the driver’s side door with the heel of my boot, the latch finally shears with a sound like a rifle shot.
I roll out of the tilted cab. My knees sink six inches into the gray, smoking ash of the collapsed railway platform.
My right shin is bleeding where the dashboard crumpled against my leg, a sharp bite of pain that goes away the second I take a lungful of the air outside.
The smoke is thick—heavy with the oily carbon of the hemlock roots—but it’s blowing over the ridge now, rising up into the northern gap as the cold front from the lake finally brings the rain.
The first drop hits the back of my neck like a small piece of lead. Then another. By the time I find my flashlight in the ditch line, the sky opens up, a hard, straight downpour that hits the glowing peat bogs with a massive, collective hiss.
“Brooks!”
Davis’s voice cuts through the dark from the upper logging trail.
The high-beams of Pumper Two tear through the wet hemlocks, casting long, shaking white bars across the wreckage of my utility truck.
He’s out of the cab before the rig fully stops. He’s sprinting down the embankment, his boots sliding in the thickening mud, his eyes locked on the smoking hole.
“I’m here!” I yell back.
Davis reaches the edge of the wash, his chest heaving. He grabs my forearm, his grip frantic, his eyes raking over me—the blood on my shin, the soot caked in my lashes, the unnatural tilt of the truck.
“Jesus, Lawson. You look like hell. We saw the flare from the crossroads—Fred thought the floor gave out under you.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my leg gives a treacherous jolt of pain that makes me lean hard into him. “The leg’s just scraped. What’s the status on the lower line?”
Davis doesn’t let go, his knuckles white as he keeps me steady. He’s breathing hard, his face a mask of residual panic.
“The rain’s a godsend. It’s drowning the bogs out, top down.
The state crew’s pulling the secondary trench.
It’s over, Brooks.” He shifts his gaze to my leg again.
“You’re coming back to the station. You need the medic to look at that gash, and I’m not dragging you back in a box because you decided to play hero and ignore a compound fracture. ”
“I’m not going to the station,” I say, pulling my arm free. I reach into the cab of my wrecked truck to pull my white helmet out of the mud. “I’m walking the shortcut down through the culvert lane. Sophie’s at the house.”
Davis stares at me. He looks at the dark, impenetrable wall of the woods, then back at me.
He knows as well as I do that I should be going for a medical check and that I’m leaving a state-registered vehicle in a ditch.
He hesitates, his mouth opening to recite the regulation, but then he catches the look in my eyes.
He lets out a sharp, frustrated breath, shaking his head. “If you pass out in the culvert, I’m the one who has to explain why you’re dead in a drainage pipe. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” I say, turning toward the tree line.
“Lawson!” he calls out.
I stop.
Davis walks over, his expression softening into a tired, grim sort of concern. “Go on. We’ve got the ledger covered. But if I don’t see you at the shift change tomorrow, I’m sending the whole squad to tear your house apart.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and I turn into the dark.
? ? ?
The lane is completely silent under the steady, rhythmic drumming of the rain. The wind loses its teeth, turning into a lazy, wet breeze that smells of damp earth and the sweet, clean scent of the pine needles.
Ember’s front porch is dark but I don’t use my flashlight. I know the alignment of the steps by heart.
I push the screen door open with a soft click.
The house is freezing, the air thick with that deep, old-plaster chill that sets in the second the wood stove goes out.
“Ember?” I whisper into the dark.
Nothing comes back but the sound of the rain against the tin roof of the mudroom.
I move down the short hallway toward the parlor, my boots making no sound against the rag rugs.
The door is halfway open.
In the center of the new bed Ember bought, Sophie is completely buried beneath three layers of patchwork quilts.
Sitting on the floorboards right next to the mattress, her back propped against the cedar frame, is Ember.
She is fast asleep, her head tilted uncomfortably to the left so her temple rests against the edge of the mattress. Her face is pale in the green glow from the hallway, her curls completely wild, falling across her nose and cheeks.
On the floor next to her boots is an old review copy of a novel and her watercolor tray.
My chest does a tight squeeze.
I slide my arms beneath the weight of the quilts, lifting Sophie up against my chest. She doesn’t even open her eyes; she just lets out a small, wet grumble and shifts her head until her nose is buried directly into my jacket, her small fingers locking onto my collar by reflex.
“Dad,” she mumbles.
“I’ve got you, bug,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
I carry her out of the farmhouse and down the muddy path to our house next door. I let myself in, navigate the darkened hallway, and lay her down onto the small mattress with the pink sheets.
I pull the comforter to her chin, untie her tiny sneakers without waking her, and set them by the closet door. I press a kiss to her forehead, standing in the quiet dark for a moment just to listen to her breathe, before I turn and head back out into the rain.
When I step back into the farmhouse, the air feels heavier, charged with the lingering presence of the night.
Ember hasn’t moved. She’s still slumped against the bed frame.
I slide my right arm behind her shoulders, my left beneath the crook of her knees, and lift her up. Her head drops instantly into the hollow of my shoulder, her gold curls spilling across the dark canvas of my jacket.
Her eyes snap open halfway up, blinking wildly against the dark hallway as she tries to figure out where she is.
“Brooks?” she whispers. Her voice is small, thick with sleep. “Brooks, the—”
“Everything’s fine, city girl.”
I ease her down onto the mattress, but I don’t pull my hands away immediately. I stay leaning over her, my forearms braced on either side of her shoulders, the green light from the kitchen radio casting long, dim angles across her face.
“You look like hell, hot neighbor,” she whispers. A tiny, tired line of a smile breaks through her mouth.
“You did good tonight,” I say. “With Sophie. I know it meant a lot to her.”
Ember lets out a long, quiet breath, her fingers relaxing slightly under my thumb. “We danced. I think I completely ruined Marge’s sugar budget, but we held the perimeter. It was… it was just a nice way to spend the evening, Brooks. It wasn’t anything more than that.”
I feel my jaw tighten.
That should reassure me. Instead, something in my chest tightens.
Because Sophie doesn’t do “nothing more than that.”
Sophie loves with her whole body. Completely. Instantly. She doesn’t ration affection or hold pieces of herself back in preparation for disappointment.
If someone shows up for her, she makes room for them without hesitation.
And Ember keeps showing up.
The casual ease of her answer, the way she makes it sound like a temporary favor performed during a power outage, grates against the raw, defensive walls I’ve spent years building.
“Don’t do that,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.
Ember shifts on the pillows, her brows drawing together as she props herself up on one elbow, looking at me with genuine confusion. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say, looking past her toward the dark window pane where the mist is streaking the glass. “Like she’s a temporary project. Like you’re just visiting, playing at being a part of this, and then you’ll be gone when the weather turns.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re unfair.
Ember has never treated Sophie like an obligation. If anything, she pays too much attention. She kneels when Sophie talks to her. Remembers things. Listens seriously to stories about kindergarten politics and goats and constellations.
Ember freezes, the sleepiness evaporating from her expression, replaced by a sudden, sharp indignation. “A project? Brooks, what are you talking about? I spent all night trying to keep her calm while you were out there. I didn’t think of her as a ‘project.’ I thought I was helping a friend.”
“It’s the truth,” I say, and the words taste like bile.
The memory of Lauren’s empty closet, the sound of that white sedan pulling away, and the way Sophie still waits at the window—it all surfaces, a tidal wave of resentment and terror.
“I can’t do this to her, Ember. She cannot know about this. About us. Because if you’re just here for the novelty of it, she’s the one who pays the price when you inevitably decide this valley is too small for you.”
“We haven’t done anything!” she says, sitting up fully now, her voice rising to match my own. “You’re projecting a whole lifetime of ghosts onto me. Where is this coming from? I’m just trying to keep your daughter happy in a storm, and suddenly I’m a villain? That’s a pretty lousy thing to say.”
“We both know where this is going,” I say, pacing a small, tight circle away from the bed.
“You crossed half the country because something in you wanted a different view out the window. That’s not criticism, Emmy.
Hell, half the time I think it’s admirable.
But people who can change their lives that fast don’t usually stay still forever. ”
I sigh. “Right now, the light looks nice through the maples and you like the quiet, but when the first frost hits, the reality of this place settles in. And if Sophie thinks you’re part of our lives, I’m going to have to sit on the edge of her bed and watch her heart break all over again.
If anything happens between us, nobody can know. Not Sophie. Not the town. No one.”
For a long three seconds, the only sound in the room is the low, rhythmic hiss of the transistor radio in the kitchen.
Ember stands up. Her feet make a soft, flat sound against the rag rug as she steps into my space until she’s standing six inches from my chest, her head tilted up to meet my glare.
“Then no one has to know,” she says, her eyes searching mine, desperate and defiant.
“If you want to keep this between us, fine. We can sneak around, Brooks. I can keep a secret. But don’t tell me what you think I will do, and don’t use your daughter as a shield because you’re terrified of having something to lose. ”
“I’m not using her as a shield,” I grunt, my hands tightening into fists inside my pockets, my knuckles aching. “I’m protecting her.”
“You’re protecting yourself,” she says, the anger draining away, replaced by a devastating clarity. “I’m here because I want to be here. But stop assuming I’m going to run the second things get difficult. Give me some credit.”
“It’s not about credit,” I say, my hand finally coming out of my pocket to touch her wrist. “It’s about the fact that she already loves you. I see the way she looks at you. I’m terrified that if I let myself lean into this, I’m just setting her up for another abandonment.”
Ember’s eyes soften, the fight leaving her posture. “I love her too, Brooks. It’s not a temporary thing. It’s not a game. I’m not trying to replace anyone, and I’m not trying to play house. I’m just here.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. My thumb moves over the soft skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse, grounding myself. “I know how to manage the station. I know how to dig a trench. I don’t know how to handle this, too.”
“You don’t have to handle me,” she whispers, a small, real laugh catching in her throat. She steps closer, her forehead resting against my shoulder for just a second. “Just don’t push me away because you’re scared of the future.”
The urge to pull her all the way against me is a heavy, physical weight in my chest, but I just keep my hand steady on her wrist, letting her lean against me until her breathing slows down.
“Go back to sleep, Ember,” I say softly, my jaw resting against her hair for a brief second before I step back. “The rain’s stopping. You’ve got a long shift at the bakery tomorrow.”
She looks at me, her eyes dark and heavy with sleep. She nods once, a small, tired movement, and slides back under the patchwork quilt, pulling it up to her chin.
“Goodnight, hot neighbor,” she murmurs, turning her face toward the wall.
“Goodnight, city girl,” I say.
I stand there in the narrow strip of green light for a minute, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders until her breath deepens into sleep. I turn on the heel of my boot, move down the quiet hallway, and let myself out into the wet, mounded grass of the driveway.