"Don't judge me, Dusty! Sometimes, he just needs some bright colors and exciting sounds, and I need a break."
"Point taken, my apologies. Oh, Brooke is here."
"Hi," Brooke mumbles dumbstruck.
"Oh, shit. Hey, girl. Been a while, huh?" I can practically hear the grin in my sister's voice. "Dusty working you to the bone?"
"Something like that." Brooke's face is about as red as a tomato. Or as red as the lacy bra I caught a peek of the other night at Janine's.
"I've heard."
The awkward silence is only broken by my exasperated sigh.
"So… I'm gonna let you go. Talk later?" I groan towards the phone.
"You better believe it, bud. Don't forget a keychain or something for Orion, okay?" Alicia snickers. "Bye, Brooke."
Brooke squeaks out something inaudible. Jesus, she's adorable when she blushes this hard. She perches on the arm of the sofa like she's afraid Alicia will manifest out of my phone and tackle her. Honestly, if it were physicallypossible, she might. Alicia is like a bloodhound for drama, and this whole …everything… we've got going on is like crack for her.
"Does she hate me?" Brooke whispers.
"What? No. She might hate me if I don't tell her every single detail of our sordid affair. I mean, minus the sex. She would probably puke on my shoes or something. But… I'm babbling. Sorry. No, my sister doesn't hate you." I shake my head vehemently.
Brooke fidgets with a hangnail on her thumb. "What are we doing here, Dustin?"
My heart drops into my shoes, and I swear a cold sweat breaks out over my body. That's not supposed to happen. This is supposed to be a fun fling, just two old friends relieving tension. It should be clear. Uncomplicated. But everything about what I feel right now is incredibly complicated. "Uh."
"I'm… sorry. I know we're having fun, right? No strings and all that. Just… hearing from Alicia really took me back." She averts her gaze, staring at the floor.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, then cringe. What a stupid thing to ask. I might as well have said nothing at all.
Brooke sighs and still won't look at me. Feeling brave—or maybe even more stupid—I reach out and cup my hand around her cheek, pulling her gaze to me. "Hey. I'm sorry to have sprung that on you. I didn't want toexclude you from the conversation because that would be rude. We don't have to figure anything out tonight—besides how you're going to get all of your baking supplies from Brooklyn to Manhattan this weekend."
"There's nothing to figure out." Brooke looks at me with finality. "Forget what I said. That was a momentary lapse in sanity."
I flatten my lips and nod. A knot is growing in my stomach, though, and I don't like it one bit.
She avoids me for the rest of the work week but confirms via text that we're still on for baking at my place today. She texted about thirty minutes ago that she was on her way, and I keep checking the MTA app to make sure her train is really on the way. I can't stop thinking about our conversation, or maybe it's better to refer to it as a non-conversation.
What are we doing here, Dustin?
I know what I want to tell her. I want to hoist her over my shoulder and take her back to Chicago. I want to shower her with affection every day. I want to wake up to her beautiful face every morning. I want to help her re-dye her hair whenever she needs touch-ups. I want tomake a spreadsheet about how often we need to re-dye her hair and set up the exact brand she likes on auto-buy.
That is to say, I'm handling this tryst with all the grace and maturity and emotional distance a man my age should. Not.
Alicia knows that Brooke is on her way and texted me a few encouraging gifs. I think Orion did, too, but I can't be sure. It's the thought that counts, right?
Brooke
Can you please tell your doorman to let me in?
"Oh, shit." I step into my canvas slip-ons and make a break for the elevator. I impatiently tap my foot as the numbers above the door count down to the ground floor, only to find Brooke with a very irritable look on her face and my apologetic doorman.
"Hi, hi, sorry about that," I pant breathlessly.
"I couldn't remember the apartment number," Brooke states flatly.
"My apologies, sir. It's policy, you understand?" The doorman smiles at us.
