Humor is the most important element in any relationship, Button. You know that.
“And he’s protective...and kind of bossy.”
As long as he takes care of my little girl, he can be whatever he needs to be.
“And I think he loves me.”
My sweet Brooke, you make that easy. Your mother and I love you, too.
God, this is heartbreaking. The heaviness in my chest is only second to the infinite relay of memories that play on endless reels in my mind.
Thankfully, I’m granted a distraction when the nurse opens his hospital room door. She’s wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs and a white surgical cap. Her sympathetic look of understanding offers only a small comfort.
“Your mother said I’d find you with Mr. Malloy,” she whispers, moving around files and logging into a small computer across the room. “Seems we have a celebrity up in our midst today.”
I don’t know about that. What I do know is we have a broken hearted daughter who wants nothing more than to see the reassurance in her father’s eyes.
“I need to have him bathed, sweetheart,” she insists, still typing notes on the screen. “After, the doctor will make his rounds.”
“Can I come back?”
“You most certainly can,” she replies, standing up and walking toward me. She eyes my father first, then turns her gaze to mine. “But you look like you could use some rest.”
“I don’t need rest,” I petulantly return. My father would be disappointed in me, throwing attitude at an innocent person who’s only trying to help. I can’t help it, I’m not leaving.
“He’s as stable as he can be right now,” she eases. “He’s big and strong, too. You’re very lucky he’s taken care of himself.”
Playing with the edge of the sheet that covers him, I ask, “Then how’d this happen?”
“Genetics,” she shrugs. “Maybe he’s tired. The body has a way of telling us we’re taking on too much. We can’t control how it decides to clue us in.”
“Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Shaking her head and coming to my side, she looks down at my dad. “Time is the only true test right now. In time, his body will heal, or it won’t.”
This isn’t what I want to hear. She’s being honest, and I should appreciate her gesture. Still, her words are hard to accept.
“He’s always been so careful,” I explain.
“Like I said, he’s been taking good care of himself,” she returns.
Shaking my head now, I try to clear it. I’m talking to a total stranger, and in ways I don’t understand, the fact I don’t know this woman makes my attempt to explain my dad easier.
“No. I mean, he’s always been so careful with us. My mom, Ashton, me...”
“I see,” she puts in when I can’t keep going. “He’s a family man.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “But now that he’s not here, I don’t know what to do.”
As she wraps her arm around my shoulders, more tears come.
“You’re doing exactly what he would expect you to do because he raised you to do it. Believe in that.”
“Thank you,” I return, but offer no more insight to what I’m thinking.
As the room becomes basked in silence, the nurse moves a few things around, here and there. At this point, I don’t think she’s here to do her job, but more so to ensure I don’t fall completely apart.
“You look just like him,” she utters, grabbing her files and heading toward the door. “The resemblance is striking.”
As a kid, I hated the notion that I was my father’s small female twin. People used to comment about it everywhere we went. I don’t look anything like my mom. Not like Ashton does, anyway.
For the first time in all my life, the thought of looking like my father couldn’t make me a prouder daughter.
“Thank you.”
“Go on now. Tell your mother we’ll have him cleaned and ready for more visitors within an hour.”
On her way out, she turns one more time to find Dad still hasn’t moved. And, it’s in that moment, as a complete stranger regards me sitting at my father’s side, that I realize something significant I never understood before.
Even if I wasn’t scared that day at the fair, I’d still refuse the chance to ride Magnificent because I’d rather stand at my dad’s side if it meant I got to hold his hand.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Teenagers watch entirely too much reality television.
Brock
-
“Brock, I think you’re gonna wanna see this,” Tate states calmly as she walks into the living room I’m currently sulking in.
I’ve been staying at my parents’ place the last couple of days. When I called to let them know I was coming home for an unexpected visit, I found out our mother was visiting my aunt in Chicago, and Dad’s been away on business. They didn’t want to leave Tate alone. Had I not showed, she would’ve stayed with friends. She wasn’t as excited to see me as much as she was excited for me to be home.
When Tate flips on the overhead light, my eyes squeeze shut at its bright intrusion. The silver iPad mini my sister carries dangles from her right hand. As she walks in my direction, I also notice her typical disapproving scowl.
What the fuck did I do now?
“What is it?”
Plopping herself down next to me on the couch, Tate lifts her feet to rest them on the table in front of us before settling the iPad on her thighs. The screen is frozen, framed with a picture of what I imagine to be one of those late night entertainment shows she’s always so enamored with.
“It’s fucked up is what it is,” she responds.
I don’t have time to scold her for her mouth because a picture of Willow Ellis comes into view before I can.
“Have you seen these?”
Narrowing my eyes, I grab the iPad from her grasp to get a closer look.
“Hit the big play button,” she instructs, pointing to the middle of the screen.
Doing as she says, I hit it and the screen immediately starts to move.
Willow Ellis and another woman, one I assume is interviewing her, are sitting on a red couch with the camera pointed at them both. They’re smiling as a large television screen next to where they’re sitting boasts the logo of this year’s reality theme...
Marry a Millionaire. Or as I now refer to it as, Ruin a Millionaire.
“What is this?”
Tate clears her throat before pointing to the screen again. “Bloopers.”
“Bloopers?”
“Yeah,” she answers, as if I’m some lost or random idiot for not understanding. “Every year, the show puts together and airs a reel of bloopers on how and where they found that year’s contestants. According to them, it’s a way for the public to pick apart the groom’s choice.”
“Right,” I agree, as if I knew. Which, of course, I did not.
“Last year...” she tsks. I see a bit of compassion in my sister’s expression, which is rare, so I hold my breath. “Luke Marks was the contestant.”
“The plumber,” I confirm.
Tate’s lips get tight. The same sympathetic expression now increases on his behalf. “Yeah, that poor guy. They found him working at a high school. He was pulling tampons from...”
“Tate,” I clip. “Move it along.”
“Fine,” she snaps. “Anyway, they gave his story, too. Just like on here.”
“On here?” I question, looking back to the screen.
“Yeah. Your girl is there.”
“My girl?”
Unfortunately, I don’t know which ‘girl’ my sister is referring. Kylee, the bitch I’m set to marry soon, or Brooke, the one who fled from my soon-to-be proposal without so much as a single word.
“Your future bride, Brock. Look!”
As the clip starts to play, I sit back further on the couch and put my feet up next to Tate’s. In twisted shock, I cover my mouth with my hand.
You’ve gotta be fuckin’ ki
ddin’ me.
Kylee, my audience-chosen fiancée, and soon to be wife, is front and center of the camera wearing a flimsy, black G-string bikini. She’s pouring a large bottle of what appears to be vodka down her neck, chest, and stomach. She’s laughing herself into hysterics while a large blond-haired man at her right licks the liquid from her neck, and a dark-haired man on her left does the same, but with his tongue in her navel.
“Your future wife is a slut,” my sister sneers. Thankfully, Tate sees traits in people as I do. “Hit fast forward. Your other girl is on there, too.”
Again, doing as she’s instructed, I roll through to the bottom until I find Brooke’s face on the screen. My chest constricts as I take in the sight of her.
Her amber eyes look pained, and her posture stands defeated. She’s standing just outside what I guess is to be a women’s public bathroom with a crowd of people surrounding her. Addie’s standing at her side, talking to Willow before turning to the mass of people and telling them to ‘fuck off.’ The curse has been bleeped for television viewers.
A blond man I don’t know stands alone at the end of the hallway. His shirt is wet, and his hair is standing at all ends, as though he’s run his hands through it several times in frustration. Brooke’s watching him with anger and disgust.
“That was her boyfriend,” Tate informs me. “Took some googling, but I found out his name is Jason Evers. From what the news said—”
“Tabloids, Tate,” I correct. “The news doesn’t report shit like this.”
“Not shit. Bloopers, Brock,” she corrects me, just as I did her. “The news doesn’t report bloopers, but tabloids do. Keep watching.”
Leaving her with an eye roll, I turn back to the screen.
“Anyway, I guess that’s how Willow found your Brooke.”
Your Brooke.
Fuck, if only that were true. She was once, at least I thought so.
“She threw a drink at him. As in on him. Apparently, he broke her heart. That night he showed up at some bar with the woman who he cheated on her with.”
“Jesus Christ,” I utter to myself.
“Shocking, eh?” Tate queries. “I’m not sure, but I think if you look at this and compare the two women, we both know who you should’ve chosen.”
I attempt to hand her back the iPad, but she refuses it. Pushing it back in my direction, she adds more of what I didn’t know.
“Um, keep going. There’s something else.”
Great.
Settling the screen in front of me, I hit play as it fades from Brooke’s instance to what I clearly recognize as mine.
Drew and Nick are somewhere we’ve all been together, and they’re clearly drunk. Drew is going on and on about a buddy of his who’d be perfect for the part of the groom, if only they would hold the auditions in our area.
Nick is standing at his side, nodding his head repeatedly, then adds, “He’s great with the ladies, too. He’s rich and good looking.”
I’m going to kill my friends.
Looking back, I thought it peculiar that I was accepted on the spot the day of the audition. Seems Matt Sutton already had an informer within his midst who gave him the scoop to my life as I would never want it to be told.
After having enough, I toss the iPad back to my sister and grab my drink from the table. The burn of whiskey blazes down my throat, but does nothing to assuage my nerves.
“I think I’ve told you your friends are idiots.” Tate slams my ex-friends in one breath, but comes back in the next, saying, “I’m sure they meant well, but still—idiots.”
“Yeah,” I agree, sitting quietly and focusing on the table, also the colorful images of me wringing both their necks the next chance I get.
“You’re not going to do anything about this?” she asks curtly.
“About what?”
“There’s still time, Brock. You still have time to get to Brooke before it’s too late.”
“Believe me, Tate, there’s not. I signed that contract with the show. I’m fucked.”
“In more ways than one,” she states smugly.
I can’t argue. She speaks the truth. I’ve lost Brooke and Merritt Media, along with the respect of my parents. I’m fucked in all ways, none of them good.
“What if Dad can help?” she suggests. “Maybe if you talk to him? He’s due back today, as in any time.”
“What if Dad can help with what?” Both Tate and I turn our heads to the side to find my father leaning against the door’s entry.
Tate stands, taking her iPad with her. With kind eyes, she looks to me and softly whispers, “Ask him, Brock. Maybe he can do something. And if you go get her, I’m going with you.”
“Tate,” I state firmly.
She’s not going anywhere because I’m not going anywhere. She’s being a teenage girl, wishing and dreaming for something that can’t possibly happen. I hate to let her down when she’s looking up to me for the first time in her life, but no.
“If you’re going, I’m going. If you’re doing something crazy, I’m doing it with you. This whole mess should tell you that you still need supervision.”
Hearing enough of my little sister’s torment, Dad instructs, “Tate, go upstairs and call your mother. Give me a few minutes to talk to Brock alone.”
Tate does as she’s told and walks around me, but not without reaching down to run her fingers playfully in my hair. This is her way of releasing the stress we’re both feeling, and also her way of reminding me she loves me.
Even as the fucked up big brother that I am.
Once she’s gone, I turn my focus back to the muted television and wait as my dad comes to take a seat next to me on the couch where Tate had been.
“So, what’s going on?” he asks.
Part of me wants to beg for his help. He has a vast variety of lawyers at his beck and call, each with extensive contractual experience. It would take only a phone call and an order to have the documents I signed tediously examined.
“I don’t want to marry Kylee.”
“You’d rather marry Brooke? The girl who refused your proposal?”
“She didn’t refuse it,” I respond quickly. “She left without hearing it.”
Dad laughs, but it’s the truth. Brooke left before she knew my final choice was her. Or she did know and took off for the same reason. Although, after spending all these weeks together as we did, it wouldn’t or shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
“Have you spoken to her at all?”
“No,” I admit.
I haven’t. I’ve tried several times; texts, calls, voicemails. The only thing I haven’t done is send a telegram, and as the days have passed, I’ve started to consider that as a viable option. I’ve never been as letdown as I was when I found out she fled. And, fuck me, but I still want to know why she did.
“Do you think you should go to her? Maybe find out the reason she left?”
“One problem at a time,” I advise.
“Yes, there are a few,” he lightheartedly counters.
“I hate to ask you for help, because you seem to know more about me than I do—”
“Not true, son,” he denies, but follows with, “I only know how you get when you don’t enjoy what you have. And from what your mother and Tate have both told me, it seems you enjoyed your time with Brooke very much.”
“Yes,” I confirm in a broken whisper.
I enjoyed my time with her more than anything I’ve ever done. She made everything about my life easy to accept, except this. Marrying someone I hate will slowly kill me.
Dad sits at my side, staring at the same commercial I am.
“Think there’s anything I can do to get myself out of this?”
“I’m not sure what you’re truly asking, but I’m here, and I’m willing to listen.”
To be honest, I don’t know what I’m asking. I want Brooke to come back, let me in on what spooked her. Then maybe we could work things out from there. I already know marrying Kylee Simmo
ns will go down as a galactic mistake, and I sure as hell don’t want that on my already tarnished record with my family.
“You’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess this time,” Dad states plainly, but I can hear the hint of humor at my expense in his words.
This shit is not funny.
“Yeah, another disappointment.”
“Brock,” he sighs. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“Isn’t it?” I snap, turning my furious gaze to his lenient one.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “’Cause I’m trying not to do just that.”
He smiles, turns his eyes from mine, and looks ahead. After clearing his throat, he informs me, “For the first time in your life, I’m going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself.”
I keep my gaze casually aimed at the television as he is, fearing what he’s about to offer.
“There’s a potential client that lives in Des Moines, Iowa. I believe that’s not too far from where your Brooke lives.”
“Yeah?”
“I had originally considered George to be the one who scouts the area, but maybe now I’ve changed my mind.”
“We don’t have business in Iowa, Dad.”
“We don’t,” he agrees. “But you do. And nothing in that contract says you’re expected to sit home during your time off before the wedding. You have some time before you commit to Kylee. Is what Tate told me correct?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Then, you have a job requirement to see to. You’ll do this for me.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll do this for you,” he pressures. “In the meantime, I’m going to have Darrin and his group take a closer look at what you signed. If there’s a loophole anywhere to be found, you know he’ll find it.”
“There isn’t,” I reply. “I’m not a lawyer, but all that contract said to me is that I was fucked.”
“Fucked,” he laughs. It’s not often my dad curses, even in jest. “Maybe so, but let me worry about this, and you worry about that.” He points to the television where a commercial preview for the finale of my life is playing.
The same life that has now become a complete self-sabotaging fuck up in every way.
F*CK Reality: Take One Page 27