F*CK Reality: Take One

by Raegan Matthews

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  He’s finally given up.

  Brooke

  -

  The unanswered texts have stopped.

  The calls are no longer coming through.

  My voicemail is empty.

  Brock must have finally come to terms with my leaving.

  In a way, I’m relieved. I want Brock to be happy. He deserves this more than most. While we were together, he told me why he came to the show in the first place. I’m hoping his mother will love whoever he chooses.

  On the other hand, I’m not sure I can face ever finding out who his decision will end up being. Knowing she’ll have what I left hurts. It won’t be me sharing late night conversations after sex. Nor will it be me he’ll find standing across the room before tilting his head in a way that communicates the things we could never let others see.

  “Are you okay?” Mom asks as she stands at the kitchen counter making our lunch.

  My father’s condition hasn’t changed. His stats are steady, but he hasn’t improved. It’s wearing on us all, but now that my grandmother is here, Mom’s been able to take more time away to see to things at home and the inn. It’s helped her to step away, even an hour or so at a time.

  “I’m good.”

  “Good.” She turns around with two plates full of sandwiches and chips. “You haven’t been ‘good’ since you’ve come home.”

  “Do you blame me?” I question, pointing to my father’s empty chair.

  Mom shakes her head, takes a seat, and slides a small plate on my place setting. I’m not hungry. Since coming home, I’ve all but lost my appetite.

  “Your sorrowful mood has to do with more than just your father, Brooklyn Paige.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s that man, isn’t it?”

  Hearing her call Brock ‘that man’ forces a smile to my lips. My Dad refused to give Brock a name, too. I don’t think any of us thought my visit to L.A. would turn out the way it did.

  I fell in love. And maybe I did it even before I knew who Brock really was.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I explain. “I left to come here and now he’s there. He’ll choose someone he believes is good for him.”

  “You would’ve been good for him,” she states to my surprise.

  My mom doesn’t know Brock. Her random assumption seems out of place.

  After taking a small drink of her iced tea, Mom sets it down, sits back in her chair, and surveys me in a way she’s done all my life. My mom and I may not be as close as I’ve always wished we were, but that said, she still knows me better than most.

  “Do you think he’d have chosen you if you’d have stayed?”

  “I don’t know. I think, maybe...yes.”

  “And what would you have said?”

  Her calm tone indicates she’s come to terms with the possibilities of Brock and I. She was so angry when I first brought up the notion of taking part in any of this, so her inquiry is another surprise.

  Mom’s subtle smile presses for my answer. “Well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “No,” I reply, shaking my head. “He’s tried, but with everything happening here and Grandma coming to visit, I haven’t had time.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Mom questions, “Did I ever tell you that your father asked me to marry him a year before I said yes?”

  “No?”

  She nods and grabs a chip from her plate. “He did. I was young and inexperienced. He scared me. Your father is a big man, but not just physically. He had big plans of owning his own business. He said he only wanted to make enough money to care for his family. I used to think his dreams were too big for my life.”

  I understand how she feels. After being front and center to all those other girls, begging for Brock’s promise of marriage, I felt the very same. Brock’s larger than life, whether he believes that or not.

  “It took a year for your father to convince me. He said he fell in love with me because I was everything those other women he dated before weren’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mom’s face reddens. “His.”

  A sad frown crowds my face. I know it’s there, but I can’t muster the strength to change it. I was Brock’s. He was mine. Maybe it was only for a short time, but during those weeks we spent together, our lives settled into each other’s with ease. Even while being challenged by the chaos and drama of the show.

  To my next surprise, Mom wonders aloud, “What’s Addie have to say about all this?”

  “Not a lot,” I return.

  “That’s hardly true. Addie always has something to say. What is it?”

  “She wants me to talk to him, but I don’t see the point. I left. When I did, my obligations were void, and I’m no longer accredited to the show.”

  “You can’t go back?” she asks.

  I’m not sure I could, and if I did, it would be risky. Brock’s surely chosen by now, or worse, the audience has surely chosen for him. Aside from that, my being there would be a hazard to my emotional health. Maybe his, as well.

  “You’re in love with him, sweetheart,” Mom expresses quietly.

  Pushing my plate of food away, I give her honesty. “I don’t know what love looks like. Jason-”

  “Jason is a fool,” she spouts angrily. “He’s an idiot.”

  Whoa.

  I’ve never heard my mother talk about my first and only long-term relationship in such a way. Sure, she never was overly excited at the sight of Jason, but she’s never outwardly called him names.

  “Jason called your brother yesterday.”

  “He did what?”

  She nods, wiping her hands on her napkin. “He called to ask how you were doing and when you were coming home.”

  “That asshole,” I hiss, tightening my jaw.

  Mom smirks, no doubt loving I agree with her on what a jackass my ex-boyfriend is.

  “From what Ashton told me, Jason has been watching the show. I think he’s starstruck.”

  “Lightning would strike him better than I could.”

  “So very true,” she chuckles. Once she notes I’m festering in more ways than one, she instructs, “Eat your lunch. We’ll go see your dad later. Ashton’s coming home after class so he can come with us.”

  Well, at least there’s that.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  If women take classes in secret keeping, Addison Tindal gets an A.

  Brock

  -

  “I already told you this on the phone,” Addie reminds me, yet again. “She won’t talk to me. She’s not taking any of my calls. When I spoke with her mom, she said Brooke wasn’t ready to talk to anyone.”

  “Try her again. Call her now,” I insist.

  Addie purses her lips and places her hand to her hip as she angrily stands at my side. After I was able to catch a late-night flight and arrived first thing this morning, I didn’t go to my hotel. I came straight to the address Addie had given me to a truck stop on the outskirts of town where she works.

  “I can keep calling her, but Brock, I’m telling you it won’t matter.”

  “What’s her home address? Give it to me.”

  “She’s not there,” she replies, shaking her head. Nevertheless, she pulls out a pen from her apron and jots the address down on a white napkin. “They haven’t been home. I’ve driven by a thousand times.”

  Sitting back in the booth and grabbing the beer I’d been drinking before Addie finally was able to take a break, I clutch it in both hands.

  “You talked to her mom?” I query next.

  Addie nods, then comes to take a seat across from me in the booth I’m sitting in.

  “I did. Her mom’s kind of...” she pauses, thinks, then finishes, “uptight. Brock, it’s a private matter. I know me explaining everything as that doesn’t help, but you need to trust me.”

  “A private matter,” I repeat, resting my posture to slouch. Priv
ate matters are never good. Especially those that would force Brooke to leave as she did.

  “I called Ashton and he answered, but when I started asking where Brooke was, he told me he had to go. Again, you’ve got to trust me.”

  Reaching in my pocket, I slide a twenty across the table in her direction. She raises her hand to stop me.

  “Keep your money. Beer’s on me,” she advises. As I start to stand, she asks, “Where are you off to now?”

  “Hotel, I guess. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Honestly, I have no idea. “In Triade somewhere. Not sure.”

  “Triade is about thirty miles from here. Can’t miss it. Just drive north, the way you came.”

  “Thanks again, Add.”

  The restaurant is crowded; the noise is loud. As I walk away, I hear Addie call for my attention.

  When I turn to face her, she observes, “Brooke was the one you were going to ask to marry you, wasn’t she?”

  Nodding, I answer with what she most likely already knows. “Yes, it was Brooke. I knew it was her the night you led me to her in the hotel bar.”

  Addie’s face falls, and tears flood her eyes. She’s flushed as she sighs and offers a small wave of her hand, which I don’t return.

  How hard is it to find the woman I love in this godforsaken state?

  Thirty minutes later, I’m parked directly across the street from the address Addie wrote down. It’s exactly the kind of house I imagined Brooke’s family to own. During our time together, she vaguely mentioned she’d been staying with her parents temporarily as she was looking for a new place. I didn’t pry into her circumstance, only because when she addressed her situation, she did it unenthusiastically.

  Two empty trashcans sit next to the curb, as well as the overstuffed mailbox against the house. Several newspapers line the end of the driveway, indicating no one’s been home for a few days, and if they have, they haven’t done the everyday things a person normally would.

  What the fuck is going on?

  The phone in my jacket rings so I remove my seatbelt to answer. Caller ID tells me it’s Tate.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” I answer, skipping the formal greeting.

  Her heavy sigh leads, followed by, “I can’t believe you went without me, Brock. I wanted to go.”

  “I know you did, but this is something I have to do alone.”

  “I’m glad you went,” she tells me. “I heard Dad talking to Darrin.”

  I haven’t heard from my father since I told him I’d booked my flight and he wished me luck. I could tell his words were sincere as he said them. I felt a connection between us for the first time in a long time—too long, in fact.

  “What’s he saying?”

  Tate clears her throat before she talks low. I imagine her to be home, holed up in some closet as she speaks covertly into the line. “He told Darrin to keep looking. He kind of threatened him. I’ve never heard Dad talk like that.”

  Smiling to myself, I know she hasn’t. She doesn’t work for Dad. I’ve heard the same tone I imagine he used with Darrin time and time again.

  “Do you think she’ll forgive you?” Tate queries.

  “Forgive me?”

  My sister’s voice rises, but only a little. “Yeah, forgive you. For whatever it is you did to make her run. I mean, she bolted. I can’t wait to find out why.”

  God, she’s such a fucking brat.

  “Let me worry about forgiveness, Tate. I’ll handle it.”

  In the background, I hear static across the line, then the voices in the background get louder and louder before a door slams.

  “Jesus,” she hisses once she’s back. “I gotta go. Dad’s in a mood, and Mom’s out with friends.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re calling me, does he?”

  She laughs, but it’s hushed. “Nope. Well, now he does. He told me to tell you to get off the phone and get to doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Tell him I said he needs to do the same.”

  “Fine,” she huffs. “You and Dad have all the fun. This sucks.”

  “Talk to you soon, Tate.”

  “Go get her, Tiger,” she asserts before I hear her voice trail off and the call ends.

  My sister isn’t always a brat, I guess. She has a good heart, but uses it only when it suits her.

  “Hello?” a voice calls at my window.

  When I turn my head, I find a middle-aged woman with brown hair, graying at the sides. It’s swept back into a low hanging ponytail. She’s wearing a running suit, but doesn’t appear to have been running anywhere.

  “Can I help you?” she questions as I lower my window. Her eyes squint as she scans my face, the phone in my hand, then the inside of my car.

  “I was looking for Brooke Malloy. I got this address from Addie Tindal.”

  “Addie,” the woman tsks. “We aren’t doing interviews. So, if that’s why you’ve come, you’re wasting your time.”

  “No,” I immediately correct. “I’m here to talk to Brooke. My name is Brock LaDuece. She knows me.”

  The narrowing of the woman’s eyes is a little frightening. I consider starting the car and backing away until she repeats my name as if to herself. It’s familiar.

  “You’ve come all this way to see Brooke?”

  “Yes, and if you could tell me...” I stop talking when Brooke steps out of a black SUV I hadn’t seen pull into the driveway. She doesn’t offer a glance in our direction.

  “I don’t know that she wants to see anyone,” the woman tells me. “But I’m Nora. I’m Brooke’s mother.”

  The faint resemblance is there, but it’s not obvious. I wouldn’t have guessed.

  “Can I get a minute with her?” I press.

  As I reach for the car door handle, Nora steps aside and crosses her arms against her chest. When I look up, Brooke’s gone.

  “She assumed you were another reporter,” Nora tells me in a hiss. “We’ve been hounded by those scoundrels since she’s come home. Things here have nearly been impossible to deal with.”

  “Things?” I question. “What things?”

  “Come in,” she insists. “I’ll get her for you. It’s not my place to fill you in.”

  As we make our way up to the house, my heart can’t find its rhythm. I haven’t slept at all since arriving yesterday.

  What if Brooke doesn’t want to see me? What if she throws me out without a word of explanation? If I’m doomed to marry Kylee, I’d appreciate knowing why I’m being forced to.

  Clearing my thoughts, I walk the long expanse of the drive in step with Nora Malloy.

  As we walk inside Brooke’s house, everything I remember about her comes back at once. Her taste, her touch, her voice... all of it. With only the hope of seeing her again, my stomach twists in both longing and regret. It’s calming and confusing, all at the same time.

  “Brooke, honey,” Nora calls. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  As Brooke rounds the corner to the foyer we’re standing in, she drops the envelopes she’d been holding. They fall at her feet, but she doesn’t look down. Her eyes widen, and shock takes over every feature of her face.

  “Why?” she whispers so low I almost miss it. “What are you doing here?”

  Turning to Nora, I wordlessly ask to be left alone. This works as Nora says, “I’ll give you two a minute.”

  “Why?” Brooke pushes. “I left you,” she says next, before her mother is out of the room.

  Her summarization strikes a nerve. Hearing her admit she left me sitting in that restaurant alone doesn’t come as a surprise, it comes as a stark reminder she wants nothing to do with me. However, I came all this way for an explanation, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get to hear it.

  “Where the fuck did you go?”

  “Where did I go?” she asks, her brows furrowed with confusion.

  “Yes,” I sneer. “Why did you go?”

  “I came ho
me, Brock,” she smarts, gesturing her hands about the room.

  “I get that, Brooke,” I snap as she did. “But why? Why did you take off?”

  Her lips get tight, narrowing themselves together and she doesn’t answer.

  “What the fuck?” I question again, this time taking a step toward her. The shine in her eyes hold her unshed tears. She’s not unaffected with either being in my presence or having to answer for vanishing from it.

  “Brock...” she grouses, but stops as her hand reaches her mouth to cover it.

  “Why?” I push again, this time in a low, subtle plea. “I waited for you at the restaurant. The cameras were rolling the entire time. I wanted to ask—”

  “No!” she shrieks. Her hands come up and out in front of her when I take another step in her direction. “Don’t say it.”

  “I was going to ask you to marry me, Brooke. It was you.”

  “And now it’s not,” she says quietly. “You can’t be here.”

  “Is there someone else? You didn’t want to get married...”

  “Not that,” she assures after I can’t quite get the words out. “I don’t have anyone else. It just can’t be you.”

  I don’t get it. My chest is heavy. The confusion bears down like a heavy weight.

  “Brooke,” Nora addresses.

  I turn around to find her mother standing alone in the mouth of the hall. Her eyes are pinned on Brooke, but her request is on my behalf. “I think you should tell Brock why you’re home. I think he not only deserves to know, but he should hear it from you. Don’t you agree?”

  “Mom?” Brooke’s tone reveals the hurt and betrayal. “Stop.”

  “Tell him about your father, honey. It’s okay.”

  Brooke’s head lowers. Her gaze hits the floor as her hands ball into fists at her sides.

  “Brooke?” I whisper.

  Just as I’m about to take another step toward her, her head lifts and countless tears fall against her cheeks. Other than the night I found her outside my room, I’ve never seen her cry. In comparison, this is so much worse. Her spirit is broken.

  “I have to go,” she announces. “I need to go,” she says, this time stronger.

  As she moves to pass me, I grab her arm, but she doesn’t stop pressing to get away.