Yours, Forever, page 10
"How is my little orange son, anyway? I haven't seen him in a while."
"Your—he's good, weirdo." She laughs, not looking up from her phone. "Alright, the boy is taken care of. What do you want to do?"
"I was thinking we could get some delivery. Would you prefer pizza, Chinese, or Thai?"
"Ooh!" Her eyes light up. "Thai—Pad See Ew? With peanut sauce?"
I smirk. I knew she would say that. Good thing I already ordered.
Our bellies and hearts full (I hope—mine is, at the very least), we snuggle on the luxurious sofa and browse the streaming services for something to watch. I know Brooke likes old movies. Like, really old. Like pre-Hays Code old. I wasn't sure where to find any of those, but she has a subscription to something that has all of them. I make a mental note to set up a subscription for myself.
She picks Madam Satan, and we descend into a world of old-timey adultery and zeppelin debauchery. I used to give her so much shit for these old movies. I'd tease her relentlessly, proclaim them to be boring, and go fuck around in our suburban neighborhood.
Needless to say, teenage me was a fucking idiot.
I mean, I'm still not really a movie guy. Or a TV guy. I stare at screens all day for work, and I don't often find myself wanting to look at screens more. But if Brooke wants us to watch a movie? I'm watching the damn movie. I'm taking notes in my mind. I'm analyzing the plot. I'm surreptitiously looking up the actors. My mission is to take an interest in her interests, and I do not fail missions.
Unfortunately, my movie-watching companion is much more interesting than the transatlantic accents of yesteryear. It's so cute every time she misses the fried tofu puffs with her chopsticks. That familiar knot in my stomach makes its unwelcome return—I want this. I want her. Not just sexually, though that's fucking incredible.
I allow my fantasies to play out in my head while watching the film. I imagine her career rising through the ranks at Atmosphere, eclipsing my own. I imagine her tumbling into my condo in Chicago after work, stressed and anxious, but all of it melting away when she sees me. I imagine us living out those silly fantasies from high school and college. Maybe some cousins for Orion and Nova, you know, down the line. If she'd be open to it, I mean.
Sure, I've always thought of myself as a future dad. Nurturing the minds of tomorrow and supporting their interests. Taking care of them when they're sick. Actively listening when they have their first teenage heartbreak. Celebrating their wins. But if Brooke isn't interested in that? That's fine, too. I know she loves her cat. I'd be perfectly content to add another kitten to the household.
Jesus, I've got it bad. She's not even my girlfriend. She's my ex—the one who got away, so to speak. But she doesn't feel like she got away. Not when she's snuggled into my side, her breathing slow and even, every muscle of hers totally relaxed.
How can I make this happen? My whole life, I've had a plan. She threw a wrench into ours with that heart-shattering letter in sophomore year. I reeled; I flailed; I floundered. But I found my way. I'm sure I can find my way back into her heart again. Would it be inappropriate to pull out a SMART goal sheet?
When she's asleep, maybe. After I tuck her into bed, I'll get out the laptop and get to work. I can see the template in my mind—
I briefly shake myself. She tenses under my arm but quickly relaxes again. Writing up a SMART goal sheet is probably the least romantic thing on earth, but maybe I can just… wing it?
I know I want her. I think she wants me back. Do I have the skills to attain this goal? Based on the fact that she's currently tracing abstract shapes on my chest indicates that yes, yes, I do.
But time? My tenure in New York has an expiration date. I have to get back to the Chicago office eventually. I'll move on to the next acquisition, the next onboarding phase, and on, and on. Fuck it, I'll make the time for Brooke.
As long as she'll have me.
Waking up with Brooke snuggled into my chest is the best feeling on earth. She stirs, and I watch her blink slowly, taking in her surroundings. When her gaze lands on my face, a genuine smile blooms, and it's infectious.
"Good morning," she whispers.
"Good morning. Coffee?"
"Yes, please." She extricates herself from my arms and stretches with a happy squeaking groan. I groggily stumble out of bed and head for the coffee maker.
Brooke doesn't move; she just rolls over and gazes out the window. I must admit, it's a pretty stunning view. The High Line trail snakes alongside the building and disappears out of sight. The city that never sleeps buzzes on the streets below, illuminated by the chilly morning light.
The only thing that perks her up is the burbling of the coffee machine and the scent of roasted beans floating through the air. I grab out the brown sugar and milk, just the way she likes it. I double up and pour myself an identical cup. We sit together in comfortable silence, sipping our respective drinks and watching the frozen outdoor scene.
I never want it to stop, but we have a mission for the day. "When do we need to go to Inwood?"
"Oh, let me check." She looks around the bed. "Do you, uh, know where my phone went?"
I grin. I plugged it in for her after she fell asleep. She thanks me after I retrieve it from the kitchen, which is where the most accessible outlets are located. She scrolls through her text thread with Darrell and taps the address into her maps app.
"The party isn't until two this afternoon, but it'd be good to drop the goods before then. One less thing for Darry to worry about. Plus, that gives us more time for the Cloisters." She smiles and clicks her phone screen off again. "Breakfast?"
I happily agree. Once we finish up our coffees and morning-time grooming, we head downstairs to the kitschy café on the ground floor. I haven't had the mind to check it out before, but it turns out to be a lovely spot. I have to hide a smirk when she orders her usual breakfast fare—Belgian waffle, powdered sugar, strawberries, and maple syrup—but she laughs out loud when I ask about the protein content of their vegetable omelet.
"Sorry!" she cackles. "It's just such a you question."
"Force of habit," I reply sheepishly. Turning to the unimpressed server, I grimace. "I'm sorry. It's fine. It's eggs—they're basically made of protein."
With our orders secured, she folds her hands together and grins at me. "What if the chickens aren't yolked enough?"
I cough into my water glass. "Jesus—what?"
"Y'know… the protein, eggs… gettin' yolked… get it?" She dissolves into raucous giggles, earning her concerned glances from the tables around us.
"Oh, my god," I groan into my hands. Buff chickens. Jesus.
Getting the cupcakes on the subway is a little harder than I expected, but we manage to secure the boxes and not take up too many seats. Fortunately, not many people are heading to the northern tip of Manhattan on a Sunday afternoon. We had to switch trains once—which was more than enough.
But when the train emerges from the underground track? Wow. I can only imagine how beautiful the tree-lined streets must be in the spring and summer. My stomach plummets as I realize I won't be here to see that. I'll be back in Chicago by then.
"Okay, so Jerry is going to meet us at the train stop to help with the boxes," Brooke announces.
"Jerry?"
"Darrell's husband." She grins. "Darry and Jerry. It's cute, right?"
"Darrell and Gerald, long-form?" I smile. "That is cute."
"You'll love him. And he'll stick out of a crowd—he's massive. Like, you know how kids tell each other my dad can beat up your dad? Jerry is the epitome of that. Though he would never. I think." She frowns in concentration for a second. "Maybe? If someone gave Fiona shit, Jerry could definitely intimidate the other parents, at the very least."
"Should I be intimidated?"
Brooke giggles. "Nah. Unless you're going to cause problems with a five-year-old. On her birthday."
"Brooke. I would never, and I cannot stress this enough, never, ever cause problems for a five-year-old birthday girl." I school my face into a serious expression.
"I know. Hey, look! We're here!" She pops up and gathers as many boxes as she can grab before I get to them. The train shudders to a halt, and we pile out into the very above-ground, very freezing cold train station.
"Brooke!" A giant of a man with flaming red hair waves his hand above the small crowd. "Over here!"
"Jerry!" Brooke squeals and scampers over. I follow as best I can, but good lord, she is fast.
"Hey! Thank you guys so much—who's this?" Jerry looks me up and down with a slight frown.
"This is Dustin—we've known each other since high school." Brooke grins and looks up at me. "He's helping."
"This wouldn't be the same Dustin from Atmosphere, would it?" Jerry squints at me, and I try to give him an easy smile. "Darry didn't mention you two knew each other outside of work."
"Uh—" Brooke stammers. "Well, we're all busy, right? Gosh, it's cold. Let's get to your place!"
Jerry carefully grabs the bags of boxed cupcakes from Brooke and leads the way. He's got a bit of a sneaky grin, but he doesn't say anything until we arrive at their building. It's a nice place. Understated and decidedly working-class with red brick and concrete accents. Jerry and Darrell live on the second floor.
Their apartment is obvious by the giant balloon arch in the hallway. Brooke and I follow him inside, where Darrell rushes to and fro, putting up the last bits of party decor before the guests arrive. Jerry whispers something to Darrell with a half-smile, then excuses himself to hype up the birthday girl.
"Thank you so much, Brooke—and thank you, mister high school bestie. What are the odds?" Darrell grins like a cat. "Funny how you never said anything. Very funny."
"Hilarious." Brooke deadpans. "Where's the birthday girl?"
"Getting her hair done by my mother-in-law. Are you planning to stick around? I suddenly have so many questions." Darrell stares hard at Brooke, who (to her credit) does not break.
"Nope! We're off to the Cloisters for some culture." She pats my arm. "Dusty here has never been."
"Dusty? Oh, my god. Miss ma'am. You and I are going to have a talk."
I'm starting to think my presence might have been a mistake. Maybe I should have hung back at the station and waited for her to finish up alone. What if this is how we get caught? Oh, god. Oh, fuck. What if we both lose our jobs, and Brooke hates me forever?
Brooke
In theory, the walk from Darry's and Jerry's apartment to the Cloisters should be fine. In practice? In the first week of February? It sucks. I have half a mind to sprint back to my friends and promise to answer any—and all—questions if they'd just let me stand in front of their heater.
Dustin's been quiet since we left, as well. I can tell he's deep in thought, and I want to ask him if he's okay, but he's probably thinking the same as me. It's cold. Darry's questions were awkward. I don't feel like blasting my personal business all over the office, either.
"Oh, thank god," I whisper as the medieval doors come into view at the top of this curvy pathway. Truth be told, museums aren't really my thing. Too quiet. I mean, I can appreciate art as much as the next gal, but they were always Dustin's thing. Which is why I suggested it in the first place.
Two "suggested donations" later, we're slowly walking the halls of this veritable castle and slowly thawing out. Dustin's head is on a swivel, making sure he doesn't miss a single thing. We stop and admire the paintings, stone carvings, tapestries, stained glass windows, and metalwork. He excitedly points out the Hunt of the Unicorn series.
"It was a huge acquisition, and the craftsmanship is impeccable. The story is—well, you'll see." He snatches my hand and leads me to the beginning of the series, whipping his head between me and the art.
As I study the tapestries, the story of a unicorn unfolds. Men and dogs hunt in the woods, and a unicorn reveals itself, purifying the water for the men to drink. The men give chase, the unicorn fights—but it's too much, and it's captured.
I get it. I finally get it. Tears pour down my cheeks as I stare at The Unicorn in Captivity. A massive collar and heavy chain secures it to a tree in a disgustingly small enclosure. No other creatures in sight. Pomegranates fruit from the branches above its head, and a red substance—blood?—drips from its chest and hindquarters.
Dustin lays his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close, gently rubbing my arm. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The unicorn is a trophy for those men, something to tell others about and boast about their hunting prowess. They don't care about its well-being. They don't care that it shouldn't be captured. They don't care.
All of the feelings I haven't allowed myself to really, truly feel since my divorce rush forward. I was never Calvin's partner—not really—but I was a status symbol. A tick box on his life plan. Never mind my own hopes and dreams. In his mind, I existed to further his goals. My career didn't matter. My baking didn't matter.
I didn't matter. And he proved it, time and time again, when I found all of the evidence of him cheating.
"I matter," I whisper out loud between sniffling sobs.
"You matter so much." Dustin kisses the top of my head. "You are so important. You're brave and strong, intelligent, capable, competent… you matter so much, Brooke."
"And pretty." I manage to laugh.
"You're absolutely gorgeous, but don't do that." He cups my chin and I tilt my head back to look up at him through teary eyes. "Please don't deflect. I know you do that when you get compliments—it's understandable, but please listen to me. You're the moon and the sun. You're the whole universe, Brooke. You always have been."
"Always?"
"Yours, forever."
We ride the train back to Chelsea in relative silence. Dustin bought me a print of the Unicorn in Captivity from the museum shop—I tried to pay for it, but he'd snuck his wallet out before I could reach for mine. The rolled-up print feels heavy in my hand.
Calvin would never have done that. Even when we were dating, before things turned sour, when I was still excitedly in love. Sure, some of the signs were there—but I never wanted to see them. He was so good at being charming. He'd say whatever you wanted to hear. It all went a bit sideways after we got married. He got his status symbol; I got snide comments about climbing the career ladder.
But Dustin? He's so earnest. Truthful. I don't have to worry about him turning into a nasty clone of his former self. Every word he said at the museum—I believe them. Implicitly. I trust him.
Shit, I like him. I… more than like him. Yours, forever. I signed those words on so many notes and letters all those years ago. At the time, I never dreamed they'd be anything but true.
He's barely let go of my hand since we left the museum, either. He seems perfectly content to hold onto me until I make the choice to break the connection. And I really don't think I want to.
"Next stop is ours," he murmurs and places a gentle kiss on my temple. I nod and silently follow his lead, making sure we have all of our things before disembarking.
The platform is busier than when we left, full of people talking and hustling their way to wherever they need to go. But it all falls away when I look at him. Dustin. My Dusty. A hint of another chance at life.
"Hey, I wanna show you something." He smiles at me as we ascend the steps into the chilly wind.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, it's on my laptop." He shivers against the cold. "Remember how you asked if my date survey was on the company server?"
I perk up at the idea of a secret. "Yeeeeeah?"
"And I told you it's not?"
"Yeah?" I reply, getting a little more exasperated.
"Do you want me to show you how I did that?" He grins.
"Yes!" I let go of his hand and start jogging toward his building. "C'mon, keep up! What's all that protein breakfast for, huh?"
Giggling as we run, we make it back to the lobby of his fancy building out of breath and red-faced. The doorman looks at us in surprise before plastering his professional, customer-service smile back on. "Did we have an exciting day?"
"Oh, it's about to get better," I chuckle and wink at the man. His smile briefly falters as a light blush descends upon his cheeks.
"Well, please enjoy your delight of an afternoon." He punches the elevator call button for us and resumes his post by the door.
"Oh my god," I breathe. "He totally thinks we're about to have sex."
"Wha—oh. Oh. I mean, we could?" Dustin rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "If you're interested, you know."
"Oh, Dusty." I sigh. "You're not getting out of sharing your secrets that easily."
"Right, no, of course not."
One very excited elevator ride later, I burst into the corporate apartment and search for his laptop. It's almost hidden under a throw pillow on the (definitely very expensive) sofa, and I triumphantly hold it aloft. "Spillin' time!"
"I regret this already," Dustin grumbles but opens it up anyway.
I watch him log into another profile on the machine. He checks the authenticator app on his phone and puts that password in, too. Wow. Very security-minded. He inhales sharply and lets out a long, slow breath.
"Are you sure—"
"Yes!" I pound a fist on the coffee table.
"Alright." He taps an icon, and his cloud drive pops up immediately. "I partitioned the drive and only use my mobile hotspot. But there's something else, and I don't want you to laugh at me, okay?"
I nod and watch as he clicks through the immaculately organized folders. Personal, Education, High School, Transcripts… I almost huff out a sigh, but my name appears on the screen. There it is.
Brooke.
He keys in a numeric code when the folder asks for a password. I can't be sure—his fingers were moving too fast—but I think it might have been my birthdate. As the files load, my breath evaporates. My eyes nearly bug out of my head.
It's all the notes I wrote him. Every single one, scanned and digitized, named by the date I lovingly wrote in the top right corners. He clicks into the first one and every hormone-driven emotion poured into the note jumps out and slaps me in the face.
