"Christ," Brooke grunts. "I hope to god she can keep a secret."
"Me, too," I mumble. I'm not entirely sure why something like unease snakes around in my guts. Would it be terrible if we did it aga—Nope. Nope, that line of thought is getting chopped into a million pieces and buried right next to myotherembarrassing thoughts.
Before I can say anything to make the situation worse, I give Brooke a polite nod, slide on my coat, and sweep myself out the door. Janine's building has a simple layout, and I can find my way to the street without much cursing. As soon as I open the door, a blast of wintery January wind slaps me in the face. Maybe embarrassing myself would have been a paltry price to pay to stay warm.
Luckily, the subway entrance is only a few blocks away, and I can be back in the corporate bed within… forty-five minutes. I stifle a groan and lumber off to the train.
One incredibly comfy nap later, my neck no longer feels like it's made of soldered steel. Out of habit, I pick up my phone and scroll through my notifications. Alicia sent a few photos of Orion and Nova. It looks like they made the trek to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. Orion looks absolutely ecstatic with his hand shoved into the touch tank. Nova looks… less enthused. Her skeptical little face forces a laugh from me, along with how her hands are bunched into her coat pockets.
I've missed a few emails as well, but what else is new? Nothing seems urgent and it can all wait until Monday. I'm about to click the screen off and queue up somehorrendous TV to fill the time, but a new text comes in with a gentle vibration.
Brooke
I'm sorry again. Please don't ruin my professional life.
I smile.
Wouldn't dream of it. I'm sorry too. Will you get home safe and sound?
Yep. What are you doing this weekend?
Decompressing from the week. You?
Same. Thanks again, Dustin. I owe you one.
Sheowesme one. I'm sure she didn't mean it in any type of way, but my mind jumps straight to all of the things I've been missing since my last hookup. Renee—my last girlfriend—and I called it quits a little over a year ago. I haven't been a celibate monk, but nothing has lasted more than a few dates.
Maybethat'swhy I'm so hung up on Brooke. It's just the amount of time since I've had something real and the fact that she starred in every single one of my fantasies in high school. And college, who am I kidding? All throughoutcollege. Even after she sent me that fucking Dear John letter.
Let me tell you, there's nothing sadder than your dorm roommate walking in on you cry-jerking to your ex's photo. Even worse when they don't let you forget it. It was a long two years before graduation.
I shake off the unpleasant memory. I'm just touch-starved, that's all. Nothing to do with Brooke and our past. She's got her own life. I have mine. It's all very normal. Exceedingly normal.
Though shedoesowe me one….
Oh my god, stop it. I huff out a grunt and force myself out of bed. I need to get Orion that souvenir or I'll never hear the end of it. Maybe I'll just… avoid Janine's shop. This is Manhattan—there are bound to be more kitschy bullshit shops than I can wave a stick at.
Opening the built-in armoire, I find my best wool pants and long-sleeved shirt. Wool socks, crisp blue button-down shirt, and top it all off with my black winter coat. I'm going out on the town, and no sub-freezing temperatures can stop me. It's not even as bad as Chicago winter. Heading for the door, I shove my keys in my pocket and leave all lonely thoughts of Brooke far behind.
Man, this building is ritzy. There's even a doorman. He offers me a polite smile and I nod back, heading into the gray wintery day, honing in on the next closest tourist shop. Janine'sisthe closest, but if there's even a chanceI could run into her? No, thank you. I point myself in the direction of Times Square, which I think might be a mistake, but we'll see.
The fastest way is to hop back on the subway, but I think I want to walk. I want to see the city with tourist's eyes. Snap a few pictures for Orion. Unfortunately, my noble mission ends at the first subway entrance (two blocks down from the apartment) because the wind is absolutely screaming. I think my ears might freeze and fall off.
Winter's chill loosens its hold as I descend the grimy stairway. My last visit to the city was in the dead of summer, and the scent of stale urine nearly knocked me off my feet. It's still there today but muted. I shove my earbuds in and wait on the platform beside a group of silently stoic women. None of them look up from their phones as I approach.
That's what I love about this city. No one cares about you. I mean, that sounds bad, but hear me out. Someone screaming bloody murder for no reason on the train? Ignored. Someone singing their heart out on the street corner? Ignored. Someone ranting about doomsday prophecies? Ignored. You can be anyone—anything—and no one will look at you with judgmental eyes. Sure, they're judging—but they keep that shit to themselves.
It's marvelous.
And I get to put that practice to the test on the train because the instant I find an open seat, a group of teenagersstart twirling around on the handrail poles. I fix a scowl on my face and focus on my cell phone, scrolling through social media. Maybe I can find Brooke with her new last name?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I've already typedBrooke Dunneinto the search bar and… there she is. It doesn't seem active, though. Her last post was over two years ago. Her happy smiling face mushed up against some guy—I guess he's her ex-husband?—and her hair is dark brown. It's not her natural color, but also not the vibrant green that compliments her eyes.
Curiosity takes its hold on me, and I tap his name. Calvin Dunne. His page ismuchmore active and completely public. There are photos of him and some raven-haired lady doing all the seasonal activities you could think of. The pair of them smile blandly at a pumpkin patch. They clink mugs of cocoa together, snowflakes resting on their matching knitted hats. Each of the captions references that they're getting out and about before the birth.
Oh, she's pregnant. Scrolling back a few months on his timeline, I find the pregnancy announcement and nearly choke on the laugh that bubbles from my throat. The woman—Katrina—holds up three pregnancy tests and exposes her flat stomach with the words 'BUN IN THE OVEN' written across it in pink marker. She couldn't be further on the spectrum from Brooke. Where Brooke issoft and curvaceous, Katrina is all hard edges and toned muscle.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. It just seems like ol' Calvin jumped into the deep end and found himself someone who would never remind him of Brooke. As I study the pair, I can see why he and Brooke didn't work out. He looks like every other suburbanite in the country. Scrolling a bit further, I snort out another laugh as he celebrates the purchase of a brand-new Tesla.Of course,he has a Tesla.
