[Barley Cross 01.0] Being Brooke

by Emma Hart

  I look at the ball of white and brown fluff by her feet. “Why did you bring It?”

  “Brooke!” Carly scolds me. “She has a name, and her name is Delilah. She’s not an It!”

  “Carly, It hates me,” I deadpan, looking at her. I’m also hating her for looking so fresh so early.

  “She doesn’t hate you. She just... hasn’t connected with you yet.”

  “Oh, like she connected with my favorite pumps?” I shoot Delilah an evil glare.

  Carly’s dog and I have a strictly hate-hate relationship. The first time she saw me she bit me and I kicked her. I didn’t mean to kick her. She bit my ankle, and it was a knee jerk reaction. Okay, so it took Carly two weeks to fully forgive me, but it was the Jack Russell’s fault. Not mine. I didn’t ask for the little rat to bite me. Besides her eating my favorite shoes and me hiding her favorite chew toy in retaliation—in the trunk of Cain’s car—we haven’t had many interactions.

  But now, we’re at the park and It is bigger than I remember. The little dark eyes set in the pure white fur of its face study me, and the ball of fluff growls. I poke my tongue out at it and follow Carly through the gap in the wall into the park.

  “So how did last night go?” my best friend asks as we begin a light jog.

  “Nina has fake tits,” I share, getting straight to the point. No point boring her with the minor details.

  “I knew it!” Carly punches the air, gleefully cheering. “There was no way someone of her figure could have boobs like that. Was she a stripper in college?”

  “Maybe. Think we could find out?”

  “Do you know where she went to college?”

  “Negative.”

  “Then it’s unlikely.”

  “Damn.” I narrow my eyes as we pass the play area. Phew. I’m getting tired already. This is torture. “Cain ignored her calls last night. And she thought he was at his mom’s.”

  Carly giggles. “Really? He didn’t tell her he was with you?”

  “No, she thinks there’s something going on with us.”

  “But there is. On your side, anyway.”

  I shake my head and rub my side. “No. All there is, is a teenage infatuation which refuses to pass although said teenage years already have.”

  “If you say so, B, but I think you should tell him.”

  “What? And be like, ’oh hey, Cain! I just thought I’d let you know I’m totally in love with you and I have been since we were fifteen. You’re the reason my relationships have never worked. Be my boyfriend and love me always?’”

  Carly snorts. “Not quite like that.”

  “Not at all,” I protest. “I didn’t tell him at fifteen, and I won’t now.”

  “Or sixteen, or seventeen, or eighteen, or nineteen, or twenty...”

  “All right, all right.”

  “Or twenty-one or twenty-two...Or twenty-three or twenty-four.”

  “Screw you, Car.” I huff and push my hair from my face, slowing to a walk. I watch as It runs after a bright yellow tennis ball Carly launches a good twenty feet away. “Besides, as much as we hate her Royal Prissyness... He seems kinda happy.”

  Carly makes a non-committal grunting sound. “For some strange reason.”

  “It’s the boobs,” I declare. “Guys like firm boobs.”

  “You have firm boobs. And they’re big,” she argues. “And real.”

  “Maybe real ones are turn offs now. I don’t know. The only dates I go on are organized by you and are usually bigger disasters than I am.”

  And that is saying something.

  Carly opens her mouth then closes it again. We pause for breath against a large oak, leaving the Devil Dog to sniff around the bottom and do her business. Dirty.

  “You have a point,” Carly finally agrees. “But only a small one. And talking of dates...”

  Here we go. I knew this was coming.

  What do I have to lose?

  More dignity, but I’m running low on that anyway.

  Time, but I’ll do anything to avoid unpacking everything right now. And possibly more belief that I will one day move on from my unrequited love, but hey—for all I know, one day, one of these disasters she sends me on could not be such a disaster.

  “Yes.” I sigh with a half-hearted shrug. “I will go on this stupid date.”

  “You’re the best!” She grins. “Simon is really nice. I’m sure you’ll love him. He’s clean-cut, polite, well-mannered—”

  “Aren’t well-mannered and polite the same thing?”

  “Maybe, but he really is.”

  “In other words, move over Mr. Darcy?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “He’s pretty much perfect, B.”

  “Perfect guys don’t exist, Carly. If his personality is that amazing, he either has one ball, a small dick, or no idea how to use it.”

  “Does everything come down to male anatomy with you?”

  “No.” I shrug. “But when guys look at me, they focus on the girls.” I jiggle my boobs. “So I figure it’s only polite to give their boy the same amount of attention.”

  Carly shakes her head and pushes off the tree. “I sometimes wonder how I stay sane around you.”

  “That’s easy.” I start jogging again next to her. “It’s because I have enough crazy for the both of us.”

  “By the way,” Carly says casually. “That double date is tonight.”

  I stop. “You’re kidding.”

  THREE

  LIFE TIP #3: Put name tags in your clothes so they don’t get mixed up with your much hotter, much skinnier sister’s.

  Carly wasn’t kidding.

  So maybe that’s why I’m currently trying—and failing—to zip my dress up the whole way. Sheesh, have I put that much weight on?

  No…No. Hold your horses, Veronica. There’s an answer for this.

  I pull the zipper down and step out of the black dress, bringing the label up to my eyes. The little “6” on the label glares at me mockingly. The dress doesn’t fit because it’s not mine. Figures.

  My sister has three kids and is still thinner than I am. I tell you, some people get all the luck. In my family, it’s always Billie who gets it.

  Unless big boobs count as luck. I’m not sure her dress would even cover my tits unzipped, let alone done up.

  “Gah!” I yell and throw the dress at my bedroom wall. There isn’t enough time to get Billie to bring me my black dress, so it’s back to the wardrobe. Or, err, trash bag.

  I really need to unpack a little.

  I tip my dress bag onto my king bed and start rifling through the material. I grab my favorite white dress and groan when I see it’s got more wrinkles than the residents of a senior center. With a curse to my own packing skills, I pad into the kitchen in my underwear to iron it. Living in a second-floor apartment has its perks, even when you’re being forced onto yet another hell-born date.

  No-one can see through my windows. I could dance around stark naked with it all hanging out if I really wanted to.

  I set up the ironing board and wait for the iron to get up to temperature. As it does, I reach for the remote and turn the TV radio station up from its low hum to a much louder wall-thrumming buzz. Will.I.Am is now blasting through the speakers.

  Okay, not blasting. I do have neighbors, but the music is loud enough.

  I flatten the dress onto the board and, singing my heart out, and maybe shaking my butt a little, I start the daunting process of ironing my dress. I might be all grown up now, but I fucking hate ironing. In fact, I hate chores altogether. It’s just a shame I have a ton of them to do these days.

  Living alone – 0. With OCD Mom – 1.

  “Your dancing needs some work!” Cain’s voice travels above the bassy beat of Will.I.Am.

  Cain’s voice?

  Wait.

  Cain.

  What?

  I spin on the balls of my feet, brandishing the iron as my weapon, and shriek upon my eyes landing on him. Well, shriek is a bit of an understatement
. I scream. Loud.

  Cain’s eyes slowly crawl down my body, from my make-up free face to my bright purple toenails and back up. I think they linger on my chest and my hips, but I could be imagining that.

  My cheeks flame.

  Shit.

  I’m in my underwear.

  At least it’s nice, matching underwear. That’s a comfort. I guess.

  “What are you doing here?” I shout, putting the iron down and holding my dress in front of me like it’ll make a difference. Like he didn’t just foreplay me with his eyes.

  All right. When I claimed we have the walking-around-in-underwear type of relationship, it was him in his underwear. Not me.

  Cain walks past me and grabs the remote control and presses a button. The volume of the television rapidly goes down.

  “I’m here because Mom wants to know when you need your hair cut. If you’d had the music at a normal level, you would have heard me say that the first time. And heard my calls.”

  “Why didn’t you knock?”

  “I did. Six times.” He cocks an eyebrow, his lips barely resisting the same upturn.

  I shrug sheepishly. “Oops.”

  “Then I let myself in to find you in your underwear, dancing like you’re a reject from Dirty Dancing.”

  Ah, underwear... Bless you, Vic Secret. “Yeah, about that, turn around. I want to put my dress on.”

  He sighs and turns, his head slightly shaking as he does.

  I slip the dress over my head and smooth it down over my ass, checking for wrinkles. None.

  Damn, I’m getting good at the whole looking after myself thing.

  “Okay, I’m decent.” I walk into my room.

  “Brooke, you’ll never be decent.” Cain follows me.

  “I will be, just not any time soon.” I grab my make-up bag. “One day, I’ll be married with two point five children, a farmhouse on the outskirts of Barley Cross and a collie named Stanley.”

  “Stanley? Ooookay.” He laughs, then pauses as I apply my foundation and stroke powder across my cheeks. “And I’m sure you will. Is that what this dress is about? Meeting Mr. Right?”

  “In one of Carly’s disaster dates? Not fucking likely.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Uh oh indeed, my little builder friend, uh oh indeed.” I apply the finishing touches to my make-up and shake my hair out. “My hair is okay, right?”

  “It needs a cut. I can see your split ends from here.”

  “Oh, gosh. Remind me to come to you next time I need an ego-boost, will ya?”

  “Your sarcasm knows no bounds, Brooke Barker.”

  “You sound surprised, Cain Elliott.”

  “Not at all.” He grins at me. “So? Your hair?”

  “Next week. I’m off on Wednesday if she has any time. Why didn’t she call me?” I sit on the bed and pull out a box of shoes.

  “Because she was worried she’d go all Mommy on you and start fussing since you’re out in the world on your own now.”

  “I love it when she fusses over me. Someone has to.” Lord knows my own mom’s fussing is more of the ’go to church,’ ’meet a good man!’ ’get your degree,’ ’settle down and start a family!’ kind.

  I slip a pair of nude heels onto my feet and wriggle my toes.

  “I know.” Cain looks at my feet. “Someone isn’t in date mode.”

  Yeah, he knows how I pick my shoes. True friendship that is.

  “No, I’m not,” I agree. “I’ve already been running today—”

  “You’ve been running?” He coughs out.

  I glare at him. “I can run.” Sort of. “And Carly brought the Demon Dog along.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yes. Luckily we didn’t maim or kill each other today. No shoes, ankles or puppies were hurt.” I stand up and admire myself in the mirror. I’ll do.

  “So, who are you going on a date with?” Cain follows me into the kitchen.

  “Someone called Simon. He’s a banker.” I raise my eyebrows. “He’s perfect, according to Carly. Mom’ll be thrilled. But of course, his level of perfection still remains to be seen.”

  Cain grunts. “I gotta get back. Mom’s expecting me for dinner.”

  “Have fun. Tell her I said hi!”

  “Will do.” He waves over his shoulder and leaves my apartment. I glance at the clock. He’s not the only one that should be leaving. I grab my jacket from the back of the sofa and slip my arms in.

  Let Disaster Date number seven hundred and twenty-six commence.

  Italia’s is a small, family-run—wait for it—Italian restaurant in the town center. In fact, it’s the only Italian restaurant in the town center, so it’s always busy. And I wanna know why we’re at the busiest restaurant instead of a nice quiet one. But I won’t ask, because I’m momentarily struck dumb by the guy standing next to Ian waiting for us.

  I swallow. “That’s Simon?”

  “That’s Simon.” Carly grins.

  He has wavy, dark blonde hair that falls into his dark eyes a little. I’m too far away to see what color they are, but he’s tall and muscular and goddamn someone get me a fan ’cause he is hot!

  “Hey, Ian.” Carly smiles at her date. He kisses her hand and they turn to me and Mr. Hottie. “Brooke, this is Simon. Simon, my best friend, Brooke.”

  Simon smiles and I put out my hand to shake his. He takes it and kisses my fingers softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Brooke.”

  “Pleasure is all mine.” I shoot him a dazzling smile that, for once, is genuine.

  “Shall we go and sit down?” Ian asks, touching a hand to Carly’s back.

  I really want to give her a rape alarm that only I can hear. We can use it as code meaning ’Handy handy! Bathroom break!’ every time Ian gets to be too much.

  Simon follows two steps behind me and pulls my chair out for me. Hot and a gentleman. This is rare—it’s like the equivalent of winning the lottery or something.

  “Thank you.” I smile at him and he returns it. Okay, so maybe this date won’t be so bad, but judging by my previous experiences, something will go wrong.

  Maybe he’s a nose picker. But it is a pretty nose, so...

  “Everything okay?” he asks over the table.

  I blink and shake off the thoughts. “Fine. I thought I saw someone I knew. I didn’t.” I smile and pick up the menu, even though I’ve been here so many times I know it by heart.

  Carly nudges me under the table with her foot, and I kick her back. She narrows her eyes at me over the table.

  “Be nice,” she mouths.

  I have an almost irresistible urge to poke my tongue out at her.

  No, Brooke. No. Tonight you are civilized.

  I bite my tongue to stop it poking out and to stop a giggle escaping at myself. Oh, why am I let out into public?

  Carly knows I’m a hot mess. I don’t know why she tries.

  “So, Brooke,” Simon says. “What do you do?”

  “I work at BC Travels as a travel agent,” I answer simply.

  “She’s a drop-out,” Carly adds.

  Thank you, Carly. I’ll remember that.

  “Oh? From college? Or high school?” Simon asks.

  “College. I tried two different degrees, but neither were for me.” I fidget uncomfortably, and decide to flip the question back on him. “Carly says you work at the bank?”

  “Yeah. My grandmother just died, and since my parents both passed a few years ago, she left her estate to me,” he explains. “I decided to move here from Atlanta. Not a big move, but enough for a fresh start.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be horrible.”

  “Thank you, but it was expected. She’d been sick for a long time.”

  I nod like I understand and look around for a waiter. I’m one of those horrible people who hate talking about death. I just... I feel awkward.

  What am I supposed to do? Pat his head? Shoulder? Take his hand? Squeeze his fingers?

  Fuck me. This is why I can’t be a
teacher like my mom wants me to be. My compassionate bone is the floppy cock of the kindness skeleton.

  AKA, useless.

  “What can I get for you all today?” A waiter appears behind me and makes me jump.

  I put a hand to my chest. “Georgio!” I scold, turning around to face him. “Don’t do that!”

  “Don’t do what, Brooke?” The forty-something Italian man’s eyes are twinkling with amusement.

  “Scare me like that! You do it every time I come in here.”

  “I am sorry,” he apologizes, smiling. “I forget you are, what is the word?”

  “Skittish?” Carly offers.

  Georgio winks at her. “That works, Carly.”

  “Hmph.” I put my menu back. “I come here for good food and receive abuse. Georgio, what would Mamma say about your manners?”

  “Mamma would kick your behind,” Carly answers for him.

  “Mamma is sleeping.” Georgio rolls his eyes, far more reminiscent of his teenage sons than himself. “What can I get you lovely ladies and your companions?”

  We order our food, and I’m about to ask for the house white when the door opens and a blast of air hits our table.

  “Alessandro!” Georgio booms. “You’re late!”

  Speaking of the teenage sons...

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” Alessandro says, running through the lower part of the restaurant. “Only five minutes.”

  Georgio narrows his eyes, and points to the thick wooden door behind him with his pen. “Get in that kitchen and help your mamma. Pots need to be washed.”

  “Yes, Papa.” The fifteen-year old boy hangs his head and walks past us. I catch his eye and wink at him. He smiles and scoots into the kitchen.

  Georgio is frowning at me when I meet his eyes.

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  “You spoil that boy with your smiles,” he scolds me. “You are bella, and he loves it.”

  “I’m teaching him to appreciate women, Georgio. He knows that if a bella woman smiles at him, he has to smile back. See? It’s all good.”

  He frowns then smiles. “You have me there, Brooke. Now, I’ll go give Mamma your order and get that wine.” He taps the table with two of his fingers and leaves the main restaurant.