CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Things I Can’t Post
I’m exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally.
Packing up Dad’s things took all the strength I had left. We labeled the boxes, stacked them neatly in the garage. Out of sight, out of mind. Close enough to unpack when he gets home. Far enough away to keep Mom from unraveling.
But duty calls.
So, here I am, sitting in the woods beneath a white oak tree, camera in hand, faking a hike for content. I have to post something today. I’m out of drafts. Out of pre-planned, polished clips that make my life look effortlessly curated. If I don’t upload soon, my engagement will keep plummeting.
I blow out an exhausted breath, forcing a smile as I press record. Muscle memory takes over.
"Hiking in the wilderness," I chirp, wiping fake sweat from my forehead with a dramatic sigh. The laugh feels forced. All of this feels forced. But it’s all I have.
"Not for the faint of heart. The view, however—" I flip the camera to show the stunning valley below, the golden sunlight casting warm shadows over rolling hills. Picture perfect.
And then—Brooks.
Shirtless.
Directly in the frame.
He steps into view like this is his personal stage, stretching lazily, the muscles in his back flexing as he tilts his face toward the sky.
"Oh, come on," I groan, yanking the camera back toward me.
Brooks smirks, dropping his gaze to mine. "Influencing in the wilderness? Not for the faint of heart."
I grit my teeth. Of course, he heard that.
"Stalker."
Brooks smirks. "Takes one to know one."
I roll my eyes. "What do you want? Don’t you think we’ve spent enough time together today?"
He gestures broadly to the trail. "This is my hiking path. The better question is: why are you on it?"
"I have things to… do."
His smirk deepens, like he knows I’m full of it. He turns away, planting his hands on his hips as he stares out at the view, the late afternoon sun catching the ridges of his obnoxiously sculpted shoulders.
I refuse to look. Refuse.
"Can you… move?" I grit out, shifting my attention anywhere else. "You’re in my shot."
He glances back over his shoulder, that cocky gleam in his eyes. "I am the shot."
God help me.
I don’t have time for this, so instead of fighting him, I flip my camera and hit record. Fine. If he wants to be in my shot, let’s make it entertaining.
I frame him in the background, stretching like he’s posing for some kind of wilderness-themed thirst trap.
"And here we have," I narrate, "a rare sighting of a chiseled man-child who still shares a bedroom with his childhood best friend."
Brooks whips around, scandalized. "Hey!"
I barely hold in a laugh. "It’s true."
His eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement behind the glare. "I do not share a room with Jasper."
"Oh, right, you just linger like a stray cat. Totally different."
Brooks crosses his arms over his stupidly broad chest. "Keep running your mouth, Ellie. See what happens."
"Oh no, will you flex threateningly at me?" I feign concern. "Maybe do some push-ups to assert dominance?"
His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh.
"You’re insufferable."
I smile sweetly. "And yet, here you are."
"If you hiked all this way," Brooks says, ruffling a hand through his already messy hair, "there’s a cool little spring just up ahead. You could really sell the whole ‘nature escape’ vibe with it."
I squint at him. "Why are you always trying to help me?"
"Why are you always questioning my generosity?" He smirks before holding out a hand.
I eye it warily. "Is this a trap?"
"Only one way to find out."
Reluctantly, I take it. And in true Brooks fashion, he doesn’t just help me up, he yanks me forward, sending me straight into his chest.
"Oof—" I grunt as I collide with solid, stupidly warm pecs.
Brooks doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t even pretend to be sorry. "Careful, Elowen. Wouldn’t want you to fall for me."
I shove him, but he doesn’t budge. "You’re impossible."
He clutches his chest like I’ve mortally injured him. "You wound me, Ellie."
"So, we’re back to Ellie?"
"It suits you."
I roll my eyes, motioning for him to lead the way. "Fine. Show me this so-called ‘magical’ spring."
"Cold water spring, here we come."
I let Brooks lead the way, camera in hand, making sure to get all the aesthetically pleasing shots. My pink tennis shoes crunching over dirt, a casual wave to my followers, and yes, even a clip of shirtless Brooks, because let’s be honest, he’s probably good for engagement.
What? I’m a businesswoman.
We reach the spring, and I actually stop to take it in.
A pool of crystal-clear water sits nestled between moss-covered rocks, the surface shimmering like glass beneath golden sunbeams filtering through the towering trees.
Delicate strands of ivy and wildflowers spill over the boulders, creeping toward the water as if nature itself is reaching for a sip.
It’s breathtaking.
I lower my camera. "Okay, this is actually… really pretty."
This isn’t staged or filtered. And maybe that’s what makes it feel… real.
Brooks grins. "Told you." There’s a beat before he adds, "You want to go for a swim?"
I scoff. "I’m good. But go ahead."
Before I even finish my sentence, he’s already wading in.
I don’t film at first, but then, pure gold.
He dives under, then resurfaces dramatically, as he whips his head back, his hair slapping against his head.
I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
"Some boys never grow up," I murmur, shaking my head as I finally lift my camera.
Brooks, now standing in waist-deep water, swipes wet hair off his forehead and grins up at me. "Are you sure you don’t want to come in?"
I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me.
He sees it. I know he sees it.
And I hate that he sees it.
"Fine," I grumble.
I kick off my shoes and tug my tank top over my head, adjusting the black sports bra underneath.
The moment my shirt is off, Brooks lets out a strangled gasp and collapses backward into the water, arms spread like he’s just died.
I deadpan. "Really?"
It’s ridiculous, and kind of charming. But I’m not giving him that satisfaction.
He resurfaces, wiping his face like I’ve just blinded him. "Sorry, the sheer power of your sports bra just sent me into cardiac arrest."
I roll my eyes. "You’re an idiot."
"And yet, here you are, willingly getting in the water with me." He grins. "Almost like you like having me around."
"Almost like I’m just really hot and need to cool off," I counter. “Speaking of being hot, aren’t you worried about sweat this late in the afternoon?"
“Not when a cold water spring awaits me, Elowen."
I dip a toe in, the cold shocking my system. I glare at him. "If you splash me, I swear—"
He cups his hands like he’s about to do exactly that.
"Brooks—"
He grins, but—shockingly—he doesn’t splash me.
Which is somehow worse.
Because it means he’s letting me get in willingly. No antics. No games.
I step into the spring and wade deeper until the water laps against my stomach. I don’t know how it’s possible that Brooks is simultaneously the most responsible and irresponsible person I know.
He’s the guy who broke up with Mitsy when I called him out.
And also the guy who pretends to splash me in the water.
I stare at him, still baffled by how one person can be so frustrating, so ridiculous, and so… solid.
He catches me looking.
"See something you like?"
Ugh. Big mistake.
I splash him right in the face.
"Are we going to talk about what happened with Mitsy?" I ask, treading water a few feet from him.
Brooks shrugs, completely unfazed. "What's there to talk about?"
I narrow my eyes. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you dumped a perfectly nice girl out of nowhere in front of me?"
He flicks water in my direction. "Since when do you care about my love life?"
"Since it’s my fault you ended things," I point out. "You’re the one who asked me what I wanted, remember?"
Brooks swims closer, his voice low. "And you’re the one who answered."
My breath hitches, and I immediately hate myself for it. Hate how the truth sits between us like a live wire. Neither of us willing to touch it.
"Why does it matter?" he asks, his eyes too steady, too knowing.
"Because," I start, but then… I don’t know how to finish.
Because I don’t want you to be with her? Because I don’t like that you listened to me? Because now that she’s gone, I have to deal with whatever this is between us?
Brooks tilts his head. "See? You don’t even know why you’re asking."
I glare at him, hating how effortlessly he dismantles my thoughts.
"Look," he sighs, running a wet hand through his hair. "It doesn’t matter why I did it. I did it. Let’s move on."
"To what?" I demand, exasperated.
Brooks’ lips curve into a slow smirk. "To how you’re doing after everything that happened this afternoon."
I blink. Oh.
I should’ve known. Brooks never lets me get away with pretending.
"I'm fine," I lie, even though I’m not. But then I remember what Dad said in the hospital. Brooks has packed up someone’s belongings before, too. If anyone understands how gut-wrenching it is, it’s him.
"Really?" His gaze flickers with something sharp.
"Really," I repeat, the lie sitting like a stone in my chest.
Brooks makes a quiet noise, something between amusement and disappointment. "Do you ever get tired of lying to yourself?"
I scowl. "I'm not in the mood for this, Brooks."
"For what?" He inches closer, and I try not to focus on how solid he looks in the water, how easily he stays afloat while I feel like I’m sinking.
"This was supposed to be about you," I say. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Deflect."
His jaw ticks. "Maybe I don’t want to discuss my love life with you, Ellie. You ever think of that?"
I roll my eyes. "Because I was your first crush?"
Brooks chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it. "You’re still not over that?"
I cross my arms. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"
His smirk fades, his gaze dipping lower, dragging slowly back up to mine.
"Yeah," he says, voice quieter now. "Some things."
He’s close. So close I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"We should go," I say. It comes out rough, too scratchy.
"Yeah," Brooks agrees too quickly. Like he’s relieved this conversation is over.
Honestly, it was getting a little too personal for my liking.
The walk back to the house is quiet.
I came out here to fake a moment. But now, I can’t stop thinking about the ones I didn’t plan.
Water drips from the ends of my hair, trailing down my spine, making me shiver despite the humid heat. I follow behind Brooks, watching the way his shoulders tense and flex with each step. He doesn’t say much, but he does turn back when I stumble over a downed stump.
His fingers find my wrist, holding tight for a second too long.
Then, he lets go.
I exhale, annoyed at myself for even noticing.
"You heading back to the hospital tonight?" Brooks finally asks when we reach the house.
I shake my head. "I don’t know. I should probably stay here and deal with…" I trail off, waving a hand toward the house. Toward Mom. Toward everything I’ve been avoiding.
He nods like he understands. "I’ll grab a pizza and some beer in town for dinner."
See what I mean? The most responsible and irresponsible person I know.
"Take Jasper with you?" I ask, desperate for a little peace.
Brooks pulls a clean shirt from his truck, yanking it over his head. He’s dry now, but his hair is still damp, strands curling at the edges. I don’t look too long.
"Yeah," he says easily.
I head inside, my chest heavy, my brain foggy. But as I scroll through my video footage, I realize I have enough clips to lean into the nature aesthetic Brooks was talking about. Maybe, for once, he had a point.
So, while they’re gone, I change into pajamas, curl up on the couch, and start editing.
I even leave in some shots of Brooks. The way he grinned before jumping into the water. His smirk when he caught me staring. The look he gave me as if I’m an equation he can’t quite solve.
It sells the illusion that everything is fine.
It’s not.
I hit post, set my phone aside.
And freeze when Mom walks into the room.
"Oh," she says, blinking at me. "Didn’t expect you to be… here."
I study her. She looks exhausted, like she’s spent more time fighting herself than anything else today.
"You want to watch a show?" I offer, trying to make my voice sound normal.
Mom lets out a slow breath. "You must hate me."
The words hit like a gut punch. It hurts. Maybe because I’ve thought it. Maybe because I never wanted her to say it out loud.
"No," I say quickly, shaking my head. "Not at all."
She doesn’t look convinced.
Then, softer, she says, "When you were born, you lifted your head just hours after they placed you on my chest. You were so tiny but already so strong." I swallow, unsure where she’s going with this. "You’ve always been strong," she continues.
I shift uncomfortably. "You’re strong, too."
She lets out a bitter laugh. "I’m not."
I watch as her face falls and her fingers tremble. She doesn’t see herself as strong, so she leans on me, on the tiny baby that lifted her head when she wasn’t supposed to.
She sinks into the recliner and grabs the remote, exhaustion leaking from every limb. "But we can watch a show and pretend that everything is fine."
I don’t know what to say to that. So, I don’t say anything.
I just pull a blanket over my legs, curl into the couch, and press play. Pretending, just for a little while, that everything really is fine.