by Emilia Finn
Maybe she needed to doodle to work through a tricky plot issue. Or maybe she just wanted to draw for the sake of using ink.
“It’s a dreamcatcher.”
She waits for my eyes to flip back to hers, then flashes a beautiful grin. “I’m thinking about getting some ink, so I decided to draw on my leg to see how I’d feel about it after an hour or two.”
I consider her… nod. “And?”
“I don’t hate it. It’s a little darker than I’d like, a little heavy, but I bet the tattooist knows how to take my idea and make it better.”
“Probably.”
She stands on her toes and looks over my shoulder, then drops back to flat feet and grins. “You gonna invite me in, or…”
“Oh. Shit! Yes, I’m sorry.” I step out of her way and wave an arm, like she’s somehow forgotten which direction in is. “I’m sorry. I’m a little scattered.” I take the bag she carries, surprising her with my fumbling ape hands instead of asking for it with some fucking manners. “I’m sorry. I can… you want me to… Fridge?”
She snickers and releases the bag with a snap so Twain’s head whips around – hurt my human and I’ll tear your nuts off – but when she only smiles, he turns back to his other human and plops down onto the step so his ass is higher than his feet. He leans against Lyss and draws a squealing giggle when she falls to the side.
“He’s sitting on me, Grandma!”
Lifted brows, wide eyes, Brooke turns back to me as if to say “interesting.”
I shake my head, then I point at Lyss, catch her attention, and twirl my finger, like that somehow expresses I want her to wind it up and hang the fuck up.
“Come on.” I wrap a hand around Brooke’s arm and lead her toward the kitchen, but as we pass through the doorway, I prop the door open so I have ears and eyes on Lyss.
“Did we interrupt something?” Brooke stops at the counter and picks up the half-eaten sucker. She holds it with her finger and thumb, rotates it in front of her face, and grins when I was sure she’d make the ick sound because it’s so sticky. “Grandma’s on the phone? Sorry if I came at a bad time.”
“No, it’s fine.” I rummage through the bag she brought, find nothing that needs to be in the fridge or freezer, then set it down and press my hands to the counter.
Everything is racing faster than my brain can process, so I let my head droop for a second, and breathe. Try to accept the fact that I have a daughter on the phone with a woman I despise, and a beautiful woman I definitely do not despise in my kitchen, and she’s so clearly into whatever this is.
She’s not shy about letting me know she’s attracted to me, and when I try to give her an out – “Say no to the movie” – here she is anyway.
“Miles?” Gone is her smile, her teasing tone. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. Then I let it out again and open them. “Sorry. I’m here, I’m okay.”
“Is my being here a problem?”
“Apart from the reasons I already gave? Too young, hero’s daughter, all that? Nope. You’re good.”
Smirking, she only responds to my words with a shrug. “The grandma on the phone?” She tilts her head in Lyss’ direction. “Is that good or bad? Your mother or Karla’s?”
My head snaps up at that name on her tongue. I know I told her Karla’s name already, but to hear her say it like that, so easily, so flippantly…
I try to shake it off. “The woman on the phone is Karla’s mom. She’s… a source of stress for me. She’s harmless, but she’s delusional about some things that I accepted a long time ago.”
“About Karla?”
I nod. “She wants her daughter to come home, and I suspect she clings to Lyss as a kind of consolation prize.” Brooke’s eyes darken with threat. “But beyond that, I also imagine that, in Lorna’s head, Lyss is like the bait at the end of a hook set to bring Karla home. She just about had a mental snap when I told her we were moving. She didn’t accept the fact she’d be losing Lyss, but in all of her ramblings, it was never about Lyss. It was about Karla.”
“I hate her already.” She tosses the sticky sucker into her mouth, revenge chews. “I’m having rage issues right now, hearing this.”
“Lorna forgets that Karla walked out. She left, she wasn’t pushed. So her logic about Alyssa bringing Karla home is faulty at best, and white-padded-wall at worst. She’s a fucking idiot, and I’m glad to be rid of her. But still, Lyss loves her grandma, so I can’t not pass the phone if she asks for it.”
“Okay, Grandma!” Lyss’ voice rises, as if on cue. She giggles. “I’ll talk to you soon. Miss Brooke’s here, so I gotta… Okay, bye! Love you too.”
“Thank fuck,” I grumble. “By the way, we don’t talk shit about Grandma in front of Lyss.”
I walk to the doorway to meet her halfway, but as I move, Brooke remains where she is, lifts a finger, and crosses it over her heart.
She’s on board, she dislikes Lorna, but she won’t tear the woman apart in front of the doting granddaughter.
“Hi, Miss Brooke!” Lyss tosses the phone to me, but ignores my existence otherwise as she races around the kitchen counter and tosses herself at the blonde.
She monkeys up Brooke’s body, plants herself on her hip, and then jolts like Brooke smacked her in the face. “My sucker!”
“Oh.” Laughing, Brooke tugs it from her mouth and shows off the mutilated candy. “Sorry. I was hungry. Are you big mad? I can get you another.”
“We’re not supposed to share food,” Lyss whispers. “It’s not allowed.”
“You’re right.” Brooke looks to me. Grits her teeth in apology. Then back to Lyss. “Do you share with your dad?”
“Yeah, but he’s allowed. He’s careful, and he doesn’t even like peanuts. So it’s okay.”
Brooke nods and tucks Lyss’ wild hair back behind her ears. “He’s very careful. He’s a good daddy, huh? I’m sorry for taking your sucker, Lyss. I wasn’t really thinking. But I also promise I’ll be careful when it comes to your food. I don’t like peanuts, either.”
“For real?”
She nods. “For real. I’m not allergic, but they taste nasty, so I don’t eat them. I promise that I’ll always be very careful about your food, okay? But also, I won’t take your food ever again. So that’s double careful. You will never get sick because of me. Scout’s honor.”
“You could share my popcorn if you want.”
I’m redundant on my side of the kitchen, as my daughter stares into a beautiful woman’s eyes and pledges something she has never given to anyone but me.
My baby continues, “We make popcorn ourselves, and there’s no butter. But we can have salt. So long as you don’t dip your hands in all the different things and cross-contaminate, we can share the popcorn.”
“For real?” Joking words aside, Brooke’s eyes sparkle with emotion. “You trust me to do that?”
Lyss nods, reaches up, and returns Brooke’s gesture. She tucks long blonde hair back, and grins when it’s secure. “Yep. We can share the popcorn. I promise. But not at the movie theater. I don’t have that popcorn, because sometimes they use peanut oil.”
“I don’t like movie theater popcorn anyway. It’s gross.”
Bold-faced lie number one.
Everyone loves movie theater popcorn. But she’s trying, and I don’t doubt that she will go the rest of her life without that staple.
She looks down when Twain makes his way into the room, across the tile, past me like I’m invisible, and stops beside the girls so his ribs brush Brooke’s thigh.
“I brought Twain today because he likes to watch movies. Is that okay?” Finally, she looks to me. “I never actually asked about pet allergies. I should have. Lots of folks who have food allergies also react to cats and dogs.”
“She’s good with dogs,” I answer. “I would never let one sleep in her bed, just to be safe, but in our home…” I look around, then down to the dog that I think maybe adopted my dau
ghter. “It’s fine. He’s short-haired anyway, so he doesn’t shed a lot.”
Brooke looks back to Lyss. “Daddy said it’s okay. That means you have a dog now.”
“No it doesn’t!” I move across the kitchen and stomp into the living room, pretend to be mad, but in reality, I hide my grin.
I pick up the remote, flip the television on, and wait for the machine to load. “Alyssa, you absolutely do not own a dog now. We just have one on loan for two hours while we watch a movie.”
I turn back when Brooke walks into the living room with my daughter still in her arms. And fuck if that ain’t a pretty picture.
Twain follows close behind, but he’s careful not to get under foot. He won’t be the reason they trip.
He sniffs around the new space, since he’s spent most of his time with my daughter out in the yard. He noses the cushions on the couch, the space beneath the couch. Then he finds the little foam couch that belongs to Lyss. It folds out into a little mattress, and is where Lyss tends to collapse each night after dinner but before bed. He can smell her on it, the concentrated scent, so he noses that too, and drops down with a grunt when he’s certain he’s found her seat.
I turn away from the picture that is too easy to get attached to – the beautiful woman holding my beautiful girl like they’ve known each other their whole lives – and flip the channels until I find the one we need. Then I toss the remote down and head to the kitchen. “I’m gonna make popcorn, then we can start.”
“Here.” Brooke grunts. “Stay here a sec,” she says to Lyss. “I’m gonna help your daddy with the snacks.”
“Remember to wash your hands, Miss Brooke.”
“I got it, baby girl. I made a promise, and I never, ever, everrrrrr break promises.”
Flip flops slap against the tile as she comes closer, but I keep my back to the doorway, my eyes to my damn self as I hear the tap come on at the sink, then hand soap pumped and lathered.
“How can I help?”
“Does Bobby know you’re here?” I turn to her, hate the way my eyes are drawn to her body – her flat belly, the swell of her tits, her toned thighs. “Does your daddy know you’re here with me and my daughter?”
She scoffs and wipes her hands on a paper towel. “I’m not twelve. I don’t have to tell my parents I’m going out to play with the neighborhood kids and that I’ll be back by dinnertime. But yes, he knows, because my dad is my friend. I told him where I was going, what I was doing. And he told me to be careful.”
“He thinks I’m gonna get you wasted on sugar and take advantage?”
She shakes her head and saunters forward. Then she presses a hand to her heart, stops in front of me so our toes touch, and her lashes flutter against her cheeks. “No, he means be careful with my heart. I come from a long line of passionate people. We find something we want, we decide, then we grab on and ride it out until the craziness passes. Either we survive it, or we hurt.” She grins. “He sees me readying to grab on, so he wants me to be careful.”
“Grab on to…” My brain swirls. Races. Throbs inside my skull. “What? Grab on to what?”
“To this.” She looks around my kitchen, then nods toward the living room. “Your daughter is beautiful. She’s kind. She’s smart. She’s sensitive, but comfortable enough to be assertive and demand her space and fair treatment. To you.” She presses her hand to my heart. “You’re not the big bad wolf, Mr. Walker. And if you didn’t have a daughter, if you’d met me in a club or something, we both know damn well you’d have done something about the way you’re attracted to me.”
Her eyes drill into mine. “You’re kind, you’re selfless. You’ve raised that smart, sensitive, assertive, daughter. And if Grandma, the only other person she knows, is as stupid as she sounds, then Alyssa’s amazing qualities are because of you. That’s all on you, and something I’ve realized I’m attracted to. Color me surprised.”
She laughs. “You’re cute, Miles, you’re polite. Sometimes you still stutter when I’m around, and that’s charming in its own way. You didn’t freak out when I told Alyssa she could trust me with her food, which means you trust me. And frankly, you’re kinda sexy, and intriguing enough that I wanna push your buttons just to see what would happen. I bet you have a temper on you, and hell if I don’t wanna see it.”
I turn back to the bowl I’ve started to prepare. To the unpopped kernels. Then to the microwave. “You have zero remorse about wanting to torment me? You’re my boss’ daughter, you’re young—”
She scoffs. “Just over two years younger than you. You’re reaching, Miles.”
“You’re beautiful and whimsical and maybe you want to travel someday. Go on a book tour when you hit it big. Travel the world, meet new people.”
Leave us.
My heart pounds and bruises my chest from the inside. It hurts. The thought of exploring something with this woman, only for her to up and leave again.
Her lips twitch as she turns me back to her. “Mostly I’m offended that you assume I haven’t hit it big yet. Because I’m young, you assume I’ve only just started writing? First book, first draft, probably won’t ever finish?” She laughs. “All you had to do was ask.”
“I don’t recall ever seeing a book with your name on it, Brooklyn. And it’s not like I follow the New York Times lists or anything, but I feel like I’d remember.”
She rolls her eyes. “Boys think they know everything. Make the damn popcorn, Miles. I saved all my hunger for this.” And with that, she turns on her heels and glides out of the room.
She waltzes into the living room, elicits a squealing giggle from Alyssa, a loud bark from Twain that is less bark and more talk. Then the opening music to Stuart Little comes on.
In her wake, I’m left reeling, breathless, exhausted, but that exhaustion is mixed with exhilaration.
I press my forehead to the cabinets, close my eyes, and shake my head as the popcorn pops in the heat.
It starts out small, just a little heat, just a little pressure. Then the sizzle begins. The kernel starts to feel uncomfortable; it fights against the inevitable, twists away from the heat, tries to close in and hold itself closed. Then BOOM! It explodes and no longer resembles its previous self. But now it’s better.
“Fuck.” I roll my forehead and groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
A few minutes after Brooke left the kitchen, I walk into the living room to find Lyss laying on her little couch on the floor, Twain laid out beside her, and on the couch, Brooke is half-sitting, half-laying as she runs her fingers through Lyss’ hair with a gentle scratch of her scalp.
Such a beautiful fucking picture. And when Brooke looks up, tilts her chin in invitation, I feel the first stirring in my heart. Not the painful knock anymore, but something else. I’m the corn kernel feeling the sizzle. It’s like a swirling in my blood, like rain on a sunny day.
It doesn’t make sense, and fuck knows it won’t last, but the magic in the meantime, the rainbow, sure looks tempting.
“Come sit down, Daddy,” Lyss orders. “We paused it for you.”
A grin creeps over my face to spite me, pushes my cheeks higher, and when Brooke knows I’m fighting it and grins, I shake my head and make my way to the couch.
“I’m ready now, baby. Here you go.” I place the warm bowl on Lyss’ chest, and point at Twain when his head pops up in want. “No. Lay down.”
“I’m sorry, Twain.” Lyss gives the dog her best innocent eyes. “We can’t share.”
“He understands,” Brooke murmurs. “Eat up, baby girl. Twain’s already had his lunch.”
She takes the remote from the end of the couch, hits play, and then she lays back on the couch so her feet rest on the floor, but her elbow digs into the cushions, and her face rests in her hand. She imposes on my side of the couch, makes no apologies when her hair tickles my arm, and when she can feel my stare, she peeks up from beneath those dark lashes and does her own version of the innocent eyes.
She flashes a playful grin,
draws my eyes down to cherry-red lips, and bites them just to fuck with me. “Hey, handsome.”
I swallow. The nerves. The pain. The worry. The unknown. “Don’t hurt us, okay?” Don’t make yourself one of us, only to run away later. “Don’t hurt her.”
She shakes her head. Elongates her neck so she can look at me easier. Comes closer. “Ditto. I’m a sensitive soul.”
In the silence except for Stuart Little and Lyss’ giggles when the cat races onscreen and grabs Twain’s attention, I nod, and when Brooke grins, that swirling magic in my blood thickens, concentrates, threatens to kill me.
But it’s worse, so much fucking worse, when Brooke pushes up to her hands, stretches her long body so we’re closer, then places a soft kiss on my lips. Gentle, silent, so fucking potent I’m already dizzy.
She keeps her hands to herself, her kiss decent, but when I open up and tap my tongue against her plump bottom lip, she sighs.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
This is going to hurt.
Brooke
Cracked
Stuart Little – according to the fine print on the back of the DVD case – goes for one hour and thirty-two minutes. That’s ninety-two minutes. A hell of a lot of seconds. And loads of time to lean against Miles in the muted light, while Alyssa is engrossed in the cute movie, while she eats the popcorn with non-stop fervor, and places a piece on the floor every few minutes like she thinks we can’t see.