by Ellis, Aven
Brooks grins. “Yep. Not toxic. Just interesting.”
We both laugh at that.
Brooks moves around the other side of the counter, toward me, and wraps his arms around me from behind. He bends down to nuzzle my neck, and I shiver happily from his nearness.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers against my ear. “So glad.”
I melt into his back, relishing the embrace he’s holding me in.
“Me, too,” I say softly, wrapping my hands over his strong arms.
He gently brushes his lips against my temple. “How can I help?”
Angus walks in and shoves his bowl to the center of the room and grunts.
“I think you need to ask Angus that,” I tease.
Brooks laughs and moves over to Angus.
“Come here, you,” he says affectionately, retrieving the empty food dish.
Sensing Angus is about to be fed, and not to be outdone, Mycat Holmes strolls into the kitchen and lets out a loud meow.
“You can have some treats, Mycat Holmes,” Brooks says. “I wouldn’t dare forget you.”
I put the bread on a sheet pan and pop it into the oven, and then my phone buzzes with a text alert. I move back over to the countertop and glance at it.
It’s a message from my mom.
Sweetie, don’t forget it’s Dad’s birthday on Sunday. I’m making a reservation at a restaurant. Will Brooks be coming? We certainly hope so!
My domestic happiness is replaced by an ugh feeling. Brooks already went through one wheels off dinner, and to have to eat with them again within a week? Yes, ugh. Will it be too much? Will Brooks think I’m trying to pressure him into declaring some kind of relationship when we haven’t officially defined it aloud?
Brooks places Angus’ bowl down for him, and I feel his eyes on me.
“Everything all right?” he asks, concern filling his deep voice.
I glance up at him. And I realize with Brooks, being imperfect works. So while inviting him to my Dad’s birthday dinner is probably the completely imperfect thing to do, I decide to do it anyway.
“My dad’s birthday is on Sunday, and my mom is making plans,” I explain. I gather up my courage and go ahead with the invite. “They asked if you would like to join us for dinner at a restaurant.”
Brooks winces, and oh, no, I’ve totally overstepped our new relationship bounds here.
“You don’t have to go,” I say quickly, putting my hand out for extra emphasis. “I absolutely understand if you don’t want to and I kn—”
“No, it’s not that, I’d love to go,” Brooks says, interrupting me. “But I’m on call. I need to be close to the clinic in case I need to leave.”
“Oh,” I say, relief filling me.
Brooks lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I was going to say no, did you?”
Heat fills my face and answers his question at the same time.
“Because I would never say no to you,” he says softly.
I smile. “How did I get so lucky that you tried to steal my tea?”
Brooks laughs and scoops up Mycat Holmes. He rubs his head affectionately, and my heart warms as I hear Mycat purring from where I’m standing.
“It was fate,” Brooks declares.
“It was,” I say happily.
I text my mom back, telling her that Brooks will be happy to attend if he’s in proximity to the clinic because he is on call. And as I do, I have such a good feeling about us.
Brooks attending my dad’s birthday dinner is only the beginning of things we will celebrate together.
Because I know where we’re going.
What our future holds.
And I’ve never been surer of anything.
CHAPTER 27
Today’s plan to improve myself item: Tonight I’m celebrating a family occasion with Brooks by my side. I’ll improve my skills of deflecting conversation away from my job. And I’ll make sure Brooks is comfortable at all times, too.
***
“I still can’t believe how tremendous this weekend has been!” I say excitedly as I walk with Brooks toward an Italian restaurant in Ballard on Sunday night.
We’re going to meet my family for Dad’s birthday dinner, and while Brooks has been on call today, so far he hasn’t had to go in. In fact, he’s only had a handful of calls so it’s a good sign for the evening to come, I hope.
But the best news is that I hit record numbers on Saturday with my coverage of Trooping the Colour. I broke all my previous views on both my website and Instagram accounts. And I immediately went to work as pictures and video came in on applying Kate’s look my way.
Best of all, a reporter out of Portland found my blog and wants to interview me about Payton’s Take on Kate.
“I still can’t believe how many people found my blog yesterday and today,” I say. “And a reporter who wants to interview me. For my work with words and not pigs!”
“Your coverage was brilliant,” Brooks says, picking up my hand and kissing it softly. “You have momentum building, Sunshine. This is what you are meant to do, don’t ever doubt that. For anyone.”
I nod. I know he’s referring to my family. But since they covered this topic merely a week ago, I’m sure it won’t be brought up tonight. And hopefully Sophie has discovered some new wonder drug that will change the world and we can talk about her instead of me.
I almost laugh. She’d probably prefer that anyway.
We reach the restaurant and Brooks pulls open the door, letting me step inside first. I’ve never eaten here before, as it’s a little high-end. It’s very dark, and booths and tables are draped with white linen and votives flicker in the darkness. I adjust my eyes to the light, searching for my family. Finally, I spot them at the back of the restaurant, at a table next to a wall. I see Mom, Dad, Tanner and Sophie. Connor must be with a sitter, because he’s the only one missing.
“May I help you?” the host asks.
“We’re meeting some people, I see them,” I say, smiling at him. “Thank you.”
I lead Brooks to the back of the restaurant, my present for my dad tucked under my arm.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” I say happily.
He rises and greets me with a smile. “Thank you, Sweetheart,” he says, hugging me.
I step back and hand him my present. “For you.”
“Honey, you shouldn’t have,” Dad says, taking the package from me. “I know you don’t make enough money for presents.”
I feel my body deflate. So much for not bringing up my imperfect career.
Dad shifts his attention to Brooks. “Brooks, good to see you,” he says brightly.
Brooks extends his hand. “Happy birthday, Mr. James.”
“Mike,” Dad insists.
“Right, er, Mike,” Brooks says, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck.
“Oh, Brooks, I’m so glad you could make it,” Mom declares as we sit down. “Obviously, your being on call won’t get in the way of a family celebration, will it?”
I freeze. Oh, no. No. That’s a horrible thing to say to Brooks, who is insecure about that issue. And she doesn’t get the fact that if a call does come in that is an emergency, he’ll leave.
Brooks glances at me, and I can see he’s wondering what I said to her.
I also see concern in his brown eyes.
“Mom, that’s not ex—”
“We should get calamari,” Mom says, her eyes moving to the menu. “That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it, Mike?”
“Yes, love that stuff,” Dad says eagerly.
I swallow. Okay, so much for correcting Mom. But hopefully that conversation is dead and I extra hope Brooks doesn’t get an emergency call.
“What do you want for an appetizer?” I ask Brooks, lacing his fingers through mine. I glance up at him and the worried expression is there, but as soon as he sees me looking at him, it disappears behind a smile.
“I like calamari. And bruschetta.”
“I l
ove bruschetta at this time of the year when tomatoes are in season,” I say, relieved that I see a smile on his gorgeous face. “Let’s get that.”
“Good evening,” a woman says, approaching our table. She’s dressed in a crisp white, long-sleeved shirt and black pants. “I’m Anna, and I’ll be your server this evening. Would you care to start with some wine?”
“Let’s get some bottles,” Tanner says.
We agree on two bottles—a chianti and a merlot—and place our orders for appetizers, too. As soon as Anna disappears, I begin to focus on what I’m going to order for an entrée.
“So how have you been since last week?” Mom asks.
I look up and see that Mom is asking me, not Sophie.
“Very good,” I say.
“She’s being modest,” Brooks says, much to my surprise. “Payton had a record breaking day on her website yesterday.”
My throat swells. Brooks is proud of me, and he wants my family to understand why he is. I swear I keep finding new depths of love for this man next to me.
“Oh?” Sophie says, furrowing her brow. “What does that mean?”
Brooks gives my hand a squeeze as if to say, Go on. Tell them.
I wonder if he’s right. Maybe with numbers to back this up, they’ll see I’m getting somewhere with blogging.
I clear my throat. “Well, yesterday was Trooping the Colour, which is a famous part of celebrating the Queen’s birthday,” I say. “And it’s a big parade, and members of the Royal Family dress up for it, and I blogged the whole event. I had my best numbers ever yesterday for page views and clicked links.”
My family stares at me. Sophie is trying to process this in her head, and my mom and dad simply seem confused.
“But what does that mean, dollarwise? How much money did you make yesterday?” Dad asks.
I feel pressure building in my chest. I’m about to explain, but Sophie jumps in for me.
“No, Dad, it’s not like that,” Sophie says, as if she is the expert on how blogs are run. “But my question is, how viable is this for a long-term career? Who is going to care about Kate once she moves past thirty-five? Are you going to blog her children’s clothing? I mean, your numbers will fall off a cliff and then what?”
Anger stirs in me. Why are we doing this again? Why is my career such a fascination point for them?
“Diana was making fashion news until the day she passed,” I counter. “At thirty-six.”
Sophie narrows her eyes. She hates to be wrong.
Which makes me want to skip around the table in a victory lap, but I refrain from doing it.
Physically, that is. But I’m victory lapping in my head for sure.
Anna returns with two bottles of wine and does the whole opening bit for Tanner, letting him sniff and swirl and declare they are suitable for drinking this evening.
“What would you like, Payton?” Tanner asks.
I decide bold is the order of the evening. “Chianti.”
“Brooks?” Tanner asks.
“On call, none for me, thank you. I’ll be drinking water this evening.”
“Oh, that’s so disappointing,” Mom says, shifting her attention to Brooks. “Not one little glass of wine?”
Shit. Shit. I quickly squeeze his hand in reassurance, just like he did for me, but I see the expression on his face change, and my heart sinks. This is not good. Not at all.
“No, no thank you. I can’t drink and do surgery if I need to,” Brooks explains.
“Well, what are the odds of that?” Dad asks, smiling at him. “How many chinchilla crises can there be in Seattle on a Sunday night?”
And then Brooks’ phone goes off with the Sherlock ringtone.
Oh, no. It’s work.
His face goes a little pale as he reads his phone, and I know the timing of this call is stressing him out.
“Um, excuse me, that’s the after-hours service,” Brooks says. He rises from the table. “Pardon me, please.”
I turn in my seat so I can watch him. He moves through the restaurant, disappearing behind the wall next to me.
“Is this what it’s like when he’s on call?” Mom asks.
I nod. “Yes, Mom. It’s what he does. Emergencies happen at any time.”
Anna reappears with bruschetta and calamari, and as platters and serving plates are being placed on the table, I feel Brooks put his hand on my shoulder.
I turn and look up at him, as do my parents.
“I just finished with the message center. I’m going to call the owner now, but a rat was stepped on and is now lethargic. That could be a signal of internal bleeding. And if that’s the case, I’ll have to leave immediately to meet them at the clinic. But I’m going to call the owner and assess the situation first, I just wanted to let you know what’s going on.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Then he disappears again to place the phone call to the rat’s owner.
“Did I hear him right?” Mom says, furrowing her brow. “A rat?”
Dad passes the bruschetta to me, but I simply put it down as my appetite is gone.
“Yes. He treats pet rats,” I say, trying to divert the whole conversation that is headed my way. It would be better to talk about my blog than to have them dissect Brooks like this.
I clear my throat and turn back to my dad. “Dad, you were asking about the bottom line. Having numbers like I did yesterday will make me more appealing to advertisers. So I can charge more for advertising space on my blog, and attract new clients as well.”
“Again, I don’t see the phases of potential growth,” Sophie interjects.
“It’s not a lab test, of course you wouldn’t,” I snap.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sophie asks. “Don’t get grumpy with me because your career path is ridiculous.”
Anger surges right to the surface, but before I can spit out a reply, Mom commands my attention.
“I want to go back to Brooks,” Mom insists, turning to me.
“What?” I ask, trying to refocus. “Why? Why do we need to talk about Brooks?”
“Do you want this? Someone who will leave a celebration for a rat? Honey, I know you like him but this will always be a part of your life. He’ll leave weddings. Parties. Celebrations. So much will be dumped on your shoulders. How could you want this?”
I’m so livid the words are all stuck in my throat again, like they were last week with my family.
“Isn’t this disappointing, him running off to take calls? And leaving you for a rat?”
“Of course it’s disappointing!” I spit out. “I—”
“I need to leave now.”
I freeze in my chair. My heart spirals all the way down to the bottom of my stomach. I turn and look over my shoulder, and I see Brooks has no expression on his face.
Panic like I’ve never known fills every inch of me. He heard everything my mom said, the hurt in his eyes tells me so. And while I admitted the truth—of course it’s disappointing he has to leave—he didn’t hear the rest of what I was going to say.
“Brooks,” I gasp, getting out of my chair. “Wait!”
“Can you please see Payton home?” Brooks says quietly. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
No, no, this isn’t going to happen like this. He’s not leaving for the clinic without hearing what I was going to say.
“Sure, of course,” Sophie says, nodding.
“I’m so sorry to have to leave,” Brooks says. “But this is my career, and it’s part of my life.”
Nobody says a word, and tears fill my eyes.
“Happy birthday, Mike,” Brooks says, nodding.
Without another word to me, he turns and strides away from the table.
“Brooks!” I call after him, not giving a damn that my voice is carrying through the restaurant.
He keeps walking.
I take off after him, tears already falling down my face. He walks out the door and I catch him on the sidewalk, grabbing his arm.
“You have to listen to me,” I plead.
Brooks whirls around, and I see nothing but anguish in his eyes.
“I don’t have bloody time for this right now, so I’ll be brief,” he says tersely, and my heart breaks at the tone in his voice. “If you’re disappointed in me, you should have told me so from the start. How could you hide your feelings from me? Were you waiting for me to fall even more for you? So you could tear my heart out when you eventually leave me?”
“No!” I cry, wiping away my tears. “I was being honest with my mom. Of course I’m disappointed you have to go, that’s a human feeling when someone you care about has to leave and you don’t want them to, but I was going to say I understood and support you when you cut me off. How could you not know that?”
“The fact that I disappoint you guts me inside,” Brooks says, his voice rising, the calm demeanor gone. “God knows how many times I’ve disappointed you in the past few weeks, but soon it will add up. And then you’ll be sick of it and you’ll leave. Because I’m rubbish at this, and once again, I’ve proven I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be with you.”
Now I’m pissed. And instead of being poised and giving him some rational answer, I say exactly what I want.
“How dare you say that!” I shout at him, not caring that people around us are staring at us on the sidewalk. “I’m not Isla! I support your career, are you even listening to what I’m trying to say?”
“I know you’re not Isla and that makes everything worse!” Brooks yells back. “I know you’re a perfectionist. I was bound to disappoint you, but I was so taken with you I ignored that huge problem. Which has now blown up in my face.”
“That’s not true,” I say, my voice shifting to emotional. “I never wanted perfection from you.”
“How can you say that? How? You can’t let go of the idea of not being perfect. How much time have you wasted wrestling with that? How much, Payton? Trying to do yoga when you don’t like it? Always reading books for the perfect advice? Not telling your parents that you don’t need to prove blogging is perfect, that they need to respect your choice and stop badgering you about it?”
His words smash straight into my heart. I know he’s right, I know he is. About all of that.