Chapter 11 Brooke
Brooke
I've been walking for—honestly I'm not even sure how long now.
I always walk home after a workout class to cool off and soak in another twenty minutes of endorphin-filled bliss.
Sometimes I grab a coffee from the corner shop or a smoothie from the wellness place right down the street from the gym, but today?
Today I've used every block—and more, apparently—to stew over mine and Drew's little run-in.
I passed my apartment at least five minutes ago.
But the slight October breeze and constant whirring of cars taking their passengers to work or the store—or the moon for all I care—crafted the perfect backdrop and white noise for dissociating over something that shouldn't have even happened in the first place.
Drew kissed me.
He fucking kissed me.
Right in the middle of the goddamn street.
So, there was no tongue involved. And it lasted maybe a total of three seconds. But this was no kiss from my grandma, God rest her soul. No, this was a you know you want me kiss that held up the entire sidewalk.
Who does that besides Golden City's star forward? I should have known the Flames' number twelve doesn't mind causing a scene. People slowed down, gawked, some stopped altogether. But he didn't notice. I guess he's immune to that by now.
I'm pissed at him. Not just about the kiss, but for not dropping all this.
I'm trying to do Levi a favor, and honestly, I'm having fun.
I spent hours last night splicing footage and adding in images to create a post to highlight the team's first win.
And it came out great. Turns out creating reels and pairing them with the perfect song might be one of my strengths.
If I could just apply that same energy to finding myself a solid man that's not a half-dozen years younger or at least one that listens to me.
Or, better yet, a job that might exist two months from now.
The truth is, if I was giving Drew even the slightest green light, I'd probably love this whole thing.
I want a man who takes charge. Who goes after what he craves and can put me in my place—almost. But I'm not giving him that signal.
I've told him no, and he's acting like this anyway.
I say it's not happening, and he asks me out.
I blow it off, and he smacks his lips to mine.
Add in everything else and it's exactly how I would expect someone his age to behave.
He's certainly not doing himself any favors.
I know there are people all over the world in their mid-twenties who are perfectly settled.
Hell, Blake seems to have come out of the womb with his life sorted out.
But not those throwing parties in their penthouses, with a different woman on their arm every night or a reputation as Golden City's bad boy.
I didn't wait this long to settle down only to be let down instead.
Drew takes the ice every game to be the center of attention—to make big moves, leave a lasting impression.
It's not a bad thing, just not exactly what I'm looking for.
I don't want someone who constantly seeks validation from the world.
I'm where I am this late in life because I haven't cared what people think.
Even if Drew magically had the epiphany that I had six months ago, it would take him at least that long to get to the point that I'm at—and even I barely have a handle on what the hell I'm doing.
Not to mention that I have six years on the guy.
I'd have to imagine that growth would be proportional.
If it took me half a year to make the switch at my age, it'd take him way longer than that.
As if my mother can hear my ticking clock from across the city, my phone starts buzzing in my bag. When I pull it out, Grace is written across the screen, mocking me with its irony.
"Hello, Mother."
A scoff crackles through the speaker. "Hi, Brooke."
I glance around, finally noticing where I am—leave it to my mother to ground me without even trying. I'm entirely too close to Drippy's coffee not to make a pit stop.
"What's up, Mom," I ask, crossing the street—and my fingers—hoping she doesn't ask me about, well, any part of my life at the moment.
My lips tingle with the reminder of Drew's, and I shove the thought of telling my mother a professional hockey player kissed me on the street into my back pocket in case I ever feel like giving her a coronary.
"Are you coming to dinner tonight?"
I reduce my pace leading up to Drippy's as if I'll be able to remember the nonexistent dinner plans we had if I'm moving at a slower speed. "Mom, it's Monday," I say, pulling my phone from my ear to triple check that it is in fact not Family Dinner Night.
"It's also Amy's birthday," she answers back.
Bringing my fist to my forehead, I mouth the word fuck as I approach the door.
"You forgot, didn't you?"
I roll my eyes. "When did we make these plans again?"
"Via group text on Saturday, Brooke. The one you didn't respond to until you sent a thumbs up emoji at the end of the conversation."
A quick memory rolls through my mind of my phone dinging continuously while I was taking pictures of the team, the drop-down notifications blocking my view.
It didn't take long for me to silence the messages.
When I finally opened the thread, a few dozen unread texts riddled my screen, and rather than catch up, I sent the emoji blindly instead.
"Oh, that's right," I lie.
"You didn't read them, did you?"
"No, I did, I just—"
"Brooke..."
"I didn't."
I step to the side to let a middle-aged man in ahead of me, smiling at him as if that somehow redeems me. "I'm sorry, Mom, I just had a lot going on this weekend, but I'll be there."
She sighs, and I can visualize her disappointed face on the other side of the line as clearly as the scent of Drippy's tempts me through the cracks in the door.
I didn't forget my sister-in-law's birthday in general.
Kelli Cooke's new book is already wrapped in confetti paper and tied up in a satin bow, sitting on my dining room table next to Amy's favorite non-alcoholic wine.
But I also didn't know we had dinner. It seems I've had a few other things—and people—on my mind recently.
"What time?" I ask just to further rile Mom up.
"Six, Brooke. Dinner is always at six."
"Like it has been every night for thirty-one years," I say overtop of her same words. "Yes, Mom, I know. I was kidding."
"If only you could build a life on that humor," Mom says passive aggressively, her voice two octaves higher than it normally is. "I'll see you tonight!"
"See you then!" I mock in the cheeriest voice I can muster.
Hitting the end button as fast as I can, I inhale one long, deep breath and shove my phone back into my bag before pulling open the door to Drippy's. I've never needed an extra large cup of caffeine as much as I do right now.
Stepping onto the stoop of my parents' brownstone, I brace myself for what's to come.
It's not all bad—Blake and I are really close, and I love his wife Amy.
My niece, Selah, is almost two, and we already have a bond that could rival some of the best out there—Bonnie and Clyde, The Wet Bandits, Adam Sandler and Kevin James.
But the rest of the attendants are way less cute and a lot more of a pain in my ass.
I love my parents. They kept me safe and fed and put up with more than they probably bargained for. But I always felt like I was on the outside. Like I was playing a game and losing because I didn't know the rules.
Blake belonged. He was all solid grades and good behavior.
Always falling into step with Mom's predetermined plan without so much as a hiccup.
He coasted through his teenage years—no late-night partying or questionable piercings like another Larkin I know—and then kept right on track through adulthood.
He and Amy went to the same college. He studied physical therapy, she studied nursing, and they both proceeded to land great jobs.
Soon after, they got engaged, then married, and finally, bought the exact house I always pictured them in—red brick, welcoming front porch, and white picket fence to seal in the perfection.
That was never me.
I was always more bull than porcelain. More winding roads than Adult Highway, always detouring off of the more predictable path.
My parents never said the words outright that they were disappointed in the way I acted.
But it was there in Mom's backhanded comments and Dad's heaving sighs that cut through the silences.
I used to make light of it. Mom would complain I never had a boyfriend, and I'd hit her with, "Well, at least a nonexistent man can't knock me up!
" Dad would ask me over and over if I was sure there was nothing he could do to convince me to go to college, and I'd answer with, "At least this is one thing I'm sticking to! "
But the humor only dulled the sting.
I can see the good in growing up on my own—the independence it gave me.
The way I don't need anyone to make me feel whole.
How I accept myself and my life for who and what it is, only deciding now that I'm ready to make any alterations.
But that doesn't change that when I step through these doors I'll be the one dodging passive-aggressive remarks and being compared to a brother in a whole different league.
With one more deep breath—and one last regret that I didn't buy full-alcohol wine along with Amy's—I grab the knob. But before I can even crank my wrist to turn it, the door flies open, and Mom's pink cheeks and raised brows meet me at the door.
"I win," she says in a cheerful voice only I could spot as proceeding an insult. "We took bets on when you'd show. I said 6:05, and it's..." She lifts her arm to read her slim-banded watch. "6:04."
And there it is.
She smiles at me with only one corner of her mouth lifted. "So, I win."