[Barley Cross 01.0] Being Brooke

by Emma Hart

  “Please watch your mouth.” She purses her lips. “I didn’t raise you to talk like a street worker.”

  “Prostitutes, Mom. You can say prostitute. Nobody will think you any less of a true Southern lady if you say it with constructive criticism.”

  Again, she fights a smile. Boy, she’s in a good mood.

  What did my siblings do wrong? I know it was one of them. Damn it. I’m the failure in this family. They have everything else. They can’t have that too.

  “Yes, well.” Mom coughs into her hand and reaches for her coffee. She takes a demure sip before setting it back down. “What coffee machine is that? I like this.”

  I widen my eyes. “Wait. You like my coffee? Was that a compliment? Two in one day?”

  “She was complimenting the machine.” Carly nudges me with her toes.

  “Get your feet away from me.” I twitch my leg toward her. Ew, feet.

  “Yes,” Mom says before we can bicker some more. “It’s better than ours.”

  “I’ll dig out the instructions.” I smile. “Now, you were saying about The Girlfriend.”

  “The Girlfriend?” Mom raises her eyebrows. “Ah, of course. Your unrequited feelings for our Cain.”

  “Okay,” Carly says slowly. “Now that was definitely closer to an insult than constructive criticism.”

  Thank you.

  Mom stares at her for a moment, her dark eyes piercing into Carly until she drops her gaze. Ah, mommy dearest. Such a delight, as always.

  “Yes. The Girlfriend. Nina.” Mom sighs. “Personally, I thought she was a lovely girl. Successful. Her head is in the right place. Owns a nice apartment down on Barley Bay. Great job. Really nice.”

  So, when I die, I want to speak to Karma to find out why she’s such a raging bitch to me.

  Not that I didn’t know my mom would love Nina. She’s everything she wants me to be.

  “Lovely,” I choke out. “I’m sure you were thrilled to have a conversation with such a perfect young woman.”

  “Well, yes, I was. Then I realized she was upset, and she made the mistake of telling me why.” Mom reaches forward, wraps her hands around her glass coffee mug, and peers at me over it. “Apparently she didn’t realize you’re my daughter, because she proceeded to launch into a mini-rant about how Cain’s best friends are complete bitches, and how you, Brooke, are especially trying to break them up.”

  “Oh shit,” Carly whispers. “Did you slap her? Tell me you slapped her.”

  “I did nothing of the kind.” Mom glances at her. Then sips her latte. “I very calmly and very politely informed her that, if she said one more word about my daughter and her best friend, I would pull out her fake hair and strangle her with it.”

  Laughter bursts out of Carly, but I’m too shocked to laugh. My lips part as I stare at my mother, calmly sipping her coffee, as if she hadn’t just said that she’d threatened to strangle Nina. And I blink. Harshly. A lot.

  “Something in your eye, Brooke?” Mom raises one eyebrow as she looks at me sideways.

  “I—no—um—I.”

  “Stop stuttering. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “You threatened to strangle her with her extensions? You said that?” I explode.

  “To the very word,” she answers, really quite simply.

  I blink some more. “And you weren’t bothered that it could ruin your reputation as a perfect lady.”

  “On the contrary, dear.” Mom sets down her coffee. “I might be a lady, but that doesn’t mean I have to take anybody’s shit.”

  Now, I choke. Did she just cuss? She did. Minutes after telling me not to.

  “Language, Mother.” I grin, unable to contain myself any longer. “Why?”

  “Why? To teach her a lesson, of course. She learned it good, too. Don’t give shit if you can’t take it back.”

  “No, why did you threaten to strangle her?”

  Mom sighs in her usual suffering way, but there’s a tiny smile playing on her pearly pink lips. Her brown eyes are oddly warm as her gaze finds me. “Brooke, you might be an absolute hot mess of a twenty-four-year-old woman who drives me to insanity on a daily basis, but you’re still my daughter. And nobody messes with my daughter.”

  “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I half-smirk, half-smile. “And also? I’m keeping that life advice. Be a lady and take no shit.”

  Carly nods. “I’m framing that and hanging it above my bed. And sofa. And bathtub. And basically everywhere.”

  “You’re welcome, girls.” Mom smiles as my phone buzzes. “Here,” she says, passing it to me.

  “Thanks.” I glance at the screen. New message from Cain.

  Cain: Did your mom threaten to strangle Nina with her extensions yesterday?

  I lean over and show Mom the phone screen. “How am I answering that?”

  She looks up over the top of the phone at me. “With a question, of course. Silly—you always answer a man’s question with a question. It confuses them. At least it does your father, but then he isn’t always listening.”

  Look at Mom, dishing out the life advice like it’s candy on Halloween.

  Me: Why do you want to know?

  Cain: Because it’s kinda funny.

  Me: Is Nina mad at you?

  Cain: Yeah, but mostly because I told her it was her own fault she got threatened.

  I snicker as Mom asks Carly about Ian.

  Me: There’s more to that…

  Cain: Yeah… I was pretty pissed off and told her she was lucky my mom didn’t hear or she’d be, uh, strangled.

  I fall back on the sofa, laughing. Oh my freaking god. I don’t think she’ll be going to Mandy’s for dinner anytime soon.

  Carly reaches over and takes my phone from my hand. Then she laughs too, before Mom rolls her eyes.

  “Let me in on the joke, for goodness sake,” Mom demands, getting up. She takes my phone from Carly, her lips slowly twitching up into a smile as she reads. “Ha!” she says after a moment. “He wants to know how hard you’re laughing.”

  I lean over and roll onto my side, grabbing my stomach as my muscles clench and burn. Tears are tickling the backs of my eyes, and I know I’ve finally lost it. This is it—this is when my mom and best friend call the men in white coats for me, because I’ve well and truly lost my mind.

  It’s not even that funny. I know it’s not that funny. But somehow…that makes it hilarious.

  That, and I’m tired. Everybody knows everything is funnier when you’re tired.

  “Brooke Barker!” Mom says firmly, snapping her fingers. “Pull yourself together or I’m going to text him back and tell him you wet yourself.”

  I instantly sober.

  “Aww,” Carly groans. “That’s my line.”

  “You suck,” I tell her, forcing myself to sit up.

  God, my stomach hurts.

  Mom passes me back my phone. I glance down at the screen. Thankfully, she hasn’t replied to his last message, which leaves me free to.

  Cain: How hard are you laughing?

  Cain: You’re dying, aren’t you?

  The message pops up right as I tap my thumb on the text box.

  I grin.

  Me: It was touch and go there for a moment, but I survived.

  Cain: Thank god. I’m not sure how anybody could possibly live without you.

  Me: You’re an ass.

  Cain: No more than you are.

  I roll my eyes and put my phone down. Mom is looking at me with a strange smirk on her face, and when I raise my eyebrows in response, she drops it and picks up her purse.

  “Thank you for the coffee,” she says, pulling her purse straps up onto her shoulder. “I’ll call you tomorrow if you’re not too busy.”

  “I, er, okay,” is all I manage.

  “Bye, girls.” With that, Mom glides toward the front door, opens it, and walks through it.

  The click as it shuts behind her echoes through my apartment.

  “Whoa,” Car
ly breathes after a minute. “Is it me, or has your mom been possessed by a ghost?”

  “It’s that or the aliens finally got to her,” I agree.

  “That was weird, right? It’s not just me?”

  I slowly shake my head. “No, no. That was really freaking weird.”

  NINE

  LIFE TIP #9: Not everything is as it seems. Example: your panties don’t always land in the laundry when you throw them at it.

  There are many things I don’t understand in life. Breakers that trip, for example. Or the timer on my stove that I never manage to set correctly. Or online banking.

  For the love of god, I hate online banking. It’s pretty much a given that I’ll never remember my freaking stupid username and have to fill out a dumbass questionnaire just to get something stupid freaking Google freaking Chrome should be remembering but is failing to.

  Phew. Deep breaths, Brooke.

  The thing I don’t understand the most is periods. Not the end-a-sentence period. The fuck-me-this-is-agony-fuck-you-life bloody mess of a period. Obvious reasons aside, it’s pointless because in order to be pregnant, one must have sex. And I’m not having any kind of sex without batteries. Or PornHub.

  Still.

  Mother Nature needs to get with the twenty-first century and start texting me. “Hey, Brooke! Here’s your monthly reminder that your cobweb-covered vagina is spared from expanding around a person’s head in eight months’ time. You’re not pregnant, baby!”

  Yes. That. She needs to text. Or email. I don’t even check my email, and anything she’d send would probably go to spam, but still. Since I’m virtually a freaking virgin again, it’s a moot point for me.

  You hear that, Mother Nature? Moot point! Not pregnant! Take away the cramps for the love of god!

  It’s unnecessary. And a week long? Really? Can’t it be a day trip? Show up at eight a.m. and go home at six or something? ‘Cause that’d be great, thanks.

  As it is, I’m two days into this month’s visitor. My uterus is conspiring to eat itself by way of cramping, and all I really want to do is lie in bed with no pants on and eat junk food.

  Instead, I’m four hours into my five-hour shift at work and ready to ram my head inside a filing cabinet.

  “Maybe Jamaica,” the well-dressed woman in front of me says. She points one long, dark-blue fingernail to a picture in the glossy brochure. “This place looks nice.”

  “Joelle, I thought you wanted to go to the Bahamas, honey,” her husband, Scott Fontaine, says gently.

  Joelle wrinkles up her usually smooth, yet very pretty face. “I did, but it does seem rather…common, doesn’t it?”

  Oh, lord.

  “Common,” he replies very flatly.

  “Yes. You know Gerard and Carmella just went there last month. I wanted to go somewhere…fancier.”

  Scott turns to me, his eyes pleading with me to help him.

  “Well, Mrs. Fontaine,” I say. “We have many destinations to show you within the Caribbean. Have you considered Aruba, St. Lucia, or Puerto Rico?”

  Her lips form a little ‘o’. “No, I haven’t. Tell me more.”

  I ease the brochure back and, after licking my fingers, flick through the pages to the Aruba section. “For your budget and the kind of vacation you’re looking for, I would recommend one of the hotels on these four pages.” I flick the page back and forth. “These are the absolute best on the island, no children, and more than enough extras to keep y’all busy while you’re there.”

  “Oooh!”

  “Thank you,” Scott mouths to me.

  I smile in response.

  “Now, I like this,” Joelle says, tapping the most expensive hotel. “Look, sweetie! This is perfect!”

  Scott slides the brochure to him. “That looks great. Can you check the availability for our dates?”

  “Of course.” I pull up the correct screen on my computer and type in the hotel name.

  “Really? But I didn’t look at St. Lucia yet.” Joelle pouts.

  Scott pauses. “I thought you liked this one.”

  “I do, but maybe I’ll like one in St. Lucia more.”

  “It’s the next location in the brochure. Page one-fifty-eight,” I say without taking my eyes from the screen. “The hotel has your dates available in a master suite with an ocean view and private balcony.”

  “See? That sounds nice,” Scott says. “Suite. Ocean view. Private balcony. How much is that, Ms. Barker?”

  “Brooke, please. That’s—”

  “But, sweetie.” Joelle lays her hand on her husband’s arm. “Can I just look real quick?” She leans into him and I swear, she bats her eyelashes like a teenage girl trying to get a date to prom.

  “I…” He hesitates for a moment, and I can physically see the moment his resolve wavers and snaps. “Fine. Let’s look at St. Lucia too.”

  She beams widely, practically bouncing as she sits back up and leafs through the brochure again.

  I love my job.

  I love my job.

  I love my job…

  Carly: Don’t forget we’re at Mandy’s again this weekend for the party.

  I frown at my phone screen, sitting cross-legged on my floor, surrounded by bits of an entertainment unit.

  Me: Uh, her birthday was last weekend.

  Carly: It’s July 4th, you complete wombat.

  Me: July 4th is this weekend?!?!?!

  Carly: -open attachment-

  I frown again and open it. It’s a picture of the calendar on the wall in her kitchen. She’s got a big blue star on today’s date and a big red circle around Saturday. July fourth. In three days.

  Me: Yeah, I’m gonna be sick this weekend. Cough, cough.

  I put my phone down on the floor next to me and pick up the instructions for the entertainment unit. Right now, my TV is sitting on an end table and has been since I moved it. It’s not exactly ideal, and I’ve been putting this off long enough.

  The only problem is I’m not exactly…adept…with a screwdriver. Or a hammer. Or any kind of tool, really. I tried as a kid. I really did.

  Billie was the girly-girl, Ben was the nerd, and I was the one somewhere in between those things and a tomboy. I love high heels and pretty dresses, but honestly, sometimes I want sweat pants and football. Or baseball.

  Mmm, baseball. Mmm, baseball pants.

  I digress. I was the kid who always helped my dad build stuff, but I’ve never really had an affinity for it. In fact, the more I think about it, I’ve never really had an affinity for anything except junk food and wanting things I can’t have.

  I’m going off on a tangent. If I keep up this method, I’ll be on Wikipedia looking for up conspiracy theories about the Illuminati before Googling why penguins can’t fly or something. Then boom, it’ll be three a.m. and I’ll be asleep with my phone on my face.

  “Right,” I say out loud. “This isn’t hard, Brooke. You can do this.”

  Woo! Pep talk! Yes!

  I look at the first page of the instruction pamphlet where it tells me what should be coming with it. Uhhh. I don’t know what I’m looking at or what any of this is.

  Instinctively, I reach for my phone. I pause with my hand hovering over it. Do I call Cain? That’s what I’d usually do. Just call him and have him come help me build it. Or have him build it while I watch and attempt to hand him things he doesn’t need.

  I shouldn’t call him. It’s not going to do him any good right now. Equally, I’ve unpacked this now and I can’t leave it halfway across my living room.

  I wince as I pick up my phone. I unlock it, tap ‘phone,’ and bring up his number. It rings three times in my ear before it clicks.

  “What do you want?” Cain answers.

  I gasp. “Who said I want something?”

  “B,” he says, closing what sounds like his fridge. “You only ever call me when you want something. Otherwise you text me.”

  “This is true. I, uh, I do need help.”

  He groans. “What d
id you do?”

  “I unpacked my entertainment unit.”

  “Please tell me it’s ready-built.”

  “Um…” I cast my gaze out at everything on the floor surrounding me. “Not exactly.”

  “It’s flat-packed, isn’t it?” he asks. “And you’re sitting in the middle of it all, aren’t you?”

  It’s kind of scary how well he knows me. “Well…”

  He lets out a long breath. Kinda huffy, actually. “I just got in from work twenty minutes ago. If you feed me, I’ll build it for you.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a deal or a guilt-trip,” I say slowly. “Not to mention a sure-fire request for food poisoning. You know I can’t cook.”

  “You haven’t eaten either, have you?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t think a fruit salad is acceptable for dinner.

  “I’ll see you in ten minutes,” he says. “Find something for me to eat in your damn kitchen, okay?”

  He hangs up before I can tell him that’s a tall order. I have no idea what’s in my kitchen. I have beer, if that’s an acceptable dinner. I don’t see why it isn’t. Wine is an acceptable dinner, after all. It’s only fancy grape juice.

  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  I put my phone on the sofa behind me and use it to help me up. Almost immediately my right leg buckles, tingling with that irritating and yet strangely painful sensation of a dead leg.

  Freaking hell. How long have I been sitting on the damn floor? Too long is clearly the answer here. I don’t want a dead leg.

  Why does it hurt? It shouldn’t hurt. Oh my gosh. I need a new leg. Quick, someone dial nine-one-one. It’s never going to—

  Oh. It’s gone.

  I wriggle my toes just to be sure, and yep, it’s gone. So I was apparently a little over-dramatic then.

  Aha! Finally, a perk of living alone. Nobody is around to experience my stupid, over-dramatic moments. Now that’s one I can get on board with. Sure, I’m still a little freaked about the zombies in my pipes, but one step at a time.