Chapter 17 Brooke
Brooke
Stepping into my apartment, I close the door behind me, and the first thing I do is bang my head against it. "Why?" I groan, my voice sounding every bit as obnoxious as Drew probably thinks I am.
I was doing so well—ignoring his flirting, staying level-headed, keeping my mind on the future prize. But almost ten hours together was just too much. I couldn't take it anymore.
I did okay in the morning, only glancing up occasionally to scan his chiseled body, which thanks to his tattoos, is quite literally a work of art.
I even maintained my cool when he admitted that our night together might have meant something to him—despite that I stupidly agreed.
But after the smoothie incident, I started wearing down… quickly.
Wrapping myself up in his t-shirt didn't help—the one that smells like him and hangs on me three sizes too big, yet still looks adorable tied up in a knot.
Neither did the moment right before we sprayed green juice all over his apartment where he was nothing but cute and approachable.
But then to see him at the photoshoot? I thought witnessing the surreal parts of his life would bring me back to reality, but it only drove me crazier.
Justified or not, it bothered me to see other women hang on him—in real life rather than through photos on the internet.
But when he barely looked at them—his eyes on me rather than the leggy blondes beside him—I didn't know how to react.
The last thing I thought I'd see was my Drew living in his world.
It got me thinking more about my talk with Ivy.
About how there's not a one-size-fits-all solution to life.
How it's okay to change and having a destination is great, but the journey there might be the best part.
Seeing this side of Drew today, the one where he was two people at once—the guy the world knows and the one I'm really starting to see—made him even more irresistible.
But who says it has to be all or nothing?
There was a time not long ago that I used to mentally reprimand my mother because she sees the world in black and white—follow the steps or you're doomed to fail.
But like Ivy said, maybe it's okay to have a destination and still figure things out along the way.
Maybe I can want stability without shutting out every person who doesn't tick all the boxes.
Maybe the goal is still the same, but the path there is a little…
beautifully gray. Or at least that's where my brain—and honestly, my sex-deprived vagina—were steering my thoughts when we left the Tom Ford set.
So, now, I'm sitting here, my forehead pressed against the door, trying to decide if inviting Drew in was brave or unhinged. Was it a bold, healthy risk? Or was it just me caving under the weight of lonely nights and thoughts of him, trying to justify why letting him in might actually make sense?
Before I can decide—or give myself a concussion—my intercom rings. I jump backward, then freeze, as if whoever pushed the button can now see inside my place. An anticipation flies through me. Did Drew change his mind?
Without second thought, I hit the buzzer by my door, allowing the person to enter. I guess the reasoning doesn't matter anymore—my variety of excuses, irrelevant after just one day together—because the second I think he's here, my body springs to action, welcoming him in.
Actions speak louder than words, Mystery Girl.
Ugh, maybe Drew was right.
Bounding sideways toward the mirror by my door, I run my hands through my hair and readjust his t-shirt. I make a mental note that I should probably give it back to him, but part of me hopes it'll be his to clean up after his visit to my apartment.
A few moments later, there's a quick knock at the door. Moving toward it, I inhale deeply. It registers how most of what I'm feeling is excitement. That our day doesn't have to end after all. That he came back.
That he's here.
Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, I rip the door open, a smile on my face and heat in my eyes. "I thought y—oh."
"Are you sick? You look a little flushed?"
I freeze completely, my mouth still open as Alex pushes through the door. She bumps past me, heading straight for the kitchen. "I brought sweet potato tacos from that truck you like," she calls to me as I continue to linger in the doorway.
I remain motionless, actively trying to wrap my head around how completely wrong I was in thinking it was Drew.
To say I'm disappointed would be an understatement, and that alone blows my mind.
I knew I was having second thoughts about how I felt about us, but to be borderline annoyed to see my best friend?
"I'm losing it," I whisper to myself. Shaking my head clear of the chaos, I reset and present with my typical attitude. "Well hello, Alex. Good to see you too. Hey, why don't you come on in?" I say loud enough for her to hear while throwing the door closed and rolling my eyes.
Alex shoots me a glare jokingly before sliding a brown bag across the counter and reaching into my fridge. "How was your day with Drew?" she asks, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane still ripping through me.
"Uh..." I take the bag in my hands, rubbing the rough paper between my fingers, my mind actively trying to process what the hell kind of rollercoaster ride my emotions just took. "It was good," I say eventually. "Ya know, to be expected."
Alex pauses, her hand halfway to my wine glass cabinet. "That's it?"
I shrug, my eyes wandering everywhere but to hers. "I don't know. I guess?"
She slides her arm back down, twisting both across her chest. "Spill."
"Spill what?" I ask, reaching past her and pulling out two glasses. I pop the cork on the chilled white she took from the fridge and look at her sideways.
"Please tell me you didn't sleep with him… again," she says warningly.
I click my tongue, filling one glass. "I did not sleep with him.
" I move to the other as Alex waits for me to continue.
I watch the liquid fall into the cup as I pray she fills the silence.
When it's clear she isn't going to, I huff out a breath.
"But I think I want to," I add quickly, slamming the bottle on the counter.
"I knew it!" she cries, grabbing her drink. "Brooke, no. We talked about this!"
"I know," I groan, taking a massive gulp of much-needed alcohol. "But Al, you didn't see him today."
She sets her glass on the counter and leans her hip against it. "Listen, I know he's all abs and aesthetics. And he's got those tattoos and that chain. And don't get me started on the hair that you just wanna—"
"Okay, slow down there, wifey," I cut in, shoving her hand back down that was raised to act out her words.
Alex clears her throat and takes another sip of wine. "Sorry," she mutters.
"Levi's been busier lately now that the season's kicked up, hasn't he?"
"So much," she says, bringing her glass back to her lips.
"Imagine how I feel," I say only partially under my breath.
"But that's not even what I'm talking about.
" I nod toward the couch and walk over, plopping down on one side while Alex takes the other.
"He just seems so unlike what I expected," I set my glass on the coffee table and pull a pillow into my lap.
"Yes, he's Drew freaking Anderson, which means he's smug and edgy, but I'm into that.
Especially when he's also kind of sweet, and sort of funny, which I like, and.
.." I sigh, letting my head fall backward into the cushion.
"I don't know, maybe I was too quick to judge. "
I stare at the ceiling, waiting for Alex's opinion. When it doesn't come, my neck rolls to the side to see she's sitting there, chewing her lip. "Say it," I grind out.
She winces like she's trying to hold back whatever it is that's sitting on the tip of her tongue. When my eyes go wide, telling her to spit it out, she squeezes hers shut. "He's twenty-five, B."
Lifting the pillow, I smother my face in it and groan. "I know," I whine. I let the cushion slowly fall back into my lap. "But maybe that doesn't matter?"
I glance back at Alex, who is wearing a polite smile. "Maybe," she says, her voice an octave higher than it should be.
I stare at her blankly. "Go on."
"Listen," she huffs. "He seems really nice.
He signed all those jerseys for Cooper's team last year, and he is pretty great with him one on one.
But, age aside, you see him in the papers.
Plus, there's the recreational drug use I still don't have details on.
I'm not saying there's anything wrong with how he lives—not technically—but you're trying to move on from that kind of life. "
I blow a breath through my lips as Al pulls her phone from her pocket. "Whatever," I say, brushing it off. "It doesn't matter, anyway. He apparently had something to do after our day together, so he's probably out with some famous singer."
"Actress," Alex corrects.
"What!" I snap forward, trying to regain my composure as Alex peers at me from over her screen. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice dramatically tempered.
She tilts her phone toward me, and I lean into it.
A picture fills the screen—Drew in a black button-up shirt, black jeans, and his boots, his arm draped over a woman in a silver beaded mini-dress.
The photo is on Golden City's gossip page with the headline, "Is Anderson Putting the Sin in Sinclair? "
"That's the girl from Zombie Tsunami," I mumble.
And he was literally just here.
"Oh, I know," Alex says. "Thanks to you, she's my son's newest obsession."
I offer her a closed-lip smile despite now being pissed at both Drew and Cooper.
Alex twists the phone back toward her and continues swiping on the screen as my stomach churns. Is Drew serious? This was what he had to do? Who he had to do?
I know I'm nothing to him. Hell, we're nothing to each other besides a player and a temporary social media manager for the same team. But with how things have been—with how things ended—I didn't think he'd be running off my stoop just to meet another girl.
He's the one who told me actions will speak louder than words.
Tonight, I think both of our efforts are screaming at the top of their lungs.
So, I only half-invited him in. But I put myself out there!
And it was pretty clear that he understood what was going on in my messed-up mind, which also really says something.
For him to skip right over it and into some zombie slayer's bed tells me everything I need to know.
With that thought, and the rest of the wine that shoots straight to my head, I take a deep, clarifying breath. "Okay, then," I say sharply. "That settles that."
Alex looks up at me as if she doesn't believe it. "I'm serious," I add. "Name one time I went after a guy who didn't want me back."
She purses her lips and tilts her head side-to-side as if she's thinking. "I got nothing."
"Exactly. And I'm damn sure not starting now. I'm getting settled, not settling."
Even if it's Drew.
"Well, alright then," she says, grabbing my empty glass from my hand. "One more to celebrate."
I nod definitively as she stands from the couch.
This does call for celebration. The last ten hours—no, the last week—all I've been doing is fighting with myself.
I can't want Drew. I do want Drew. It would never work.
But maybe it could. Putting down roots is my goal.
Putting down roots is a mindset. Settling is necessary.
Settling is also scary as hell. Who says I can't have both?
Now? All of that can go away.
The inner turmoil was because the door was cracked open.
There was a possibility that under the right circumstances—if all the pieces fell so gracefully into place—that in some universe, I could have the guy from the bathroom ten months ago, despite what he is to the rest of the world.
That I could plan for my future despite currently being set on him.
That maybe his advances irritate the shit out of me because I'm denying my heart—and my body—of what it truly wants.
But not anymore.
In reality, Drew just did me a favor. He slammed the door shut and gave me permission—not that I needed it—to finally let go of the glorified idea that with me he was different. That he was worth letting in. Maybe there are two sides to him, but they're not yin and yang. They're oil and water.
I sink into the couch, and at the same time, Alex comes back with two glasses of red and the taco bag tucked under her arm. I slide the paper out from her grip, placing the grease-spotted bottom on the coffee table.
"I figured this might call for the hard stuff," she says, handing me my glass.
I grab it from her easily and take a sip, but shake my head. "Nah, I'm good."
"Are you sure?"
Reaching into the bag, I pull out a taco. "Totally," I say, hoping it sounds convincing enough for her to drop it.
She lets out a chuckle and slides the food her way. "Remind me to never piss you off?"
My hands pause on the white take-out paper that the food came wrapped in, and I peer over at her.
"You can cut people out easier than anyone I know."
I shrug my shoulders, her words not landing like she means them to.
I've been told my whole life how admirable it is that I can just brush things off.
But sometimes it's not as easy as it looks.
This decision feels right, but it doesn't feel good.
Working with him for the next couple of weeks will be hard as hell, and not wanting him—another form of torture.
But this is how I've survived my whole life, without caving under the weight of my mother's disappointment.
"I'm an independent woman, Al," I say, taking a massive bite.
"With a giant pair of scissors."
I fake a smile, grateful that this time the credibility of my words will be muffled by my mouth full of food. "Snip snip."