The first time I came by after Benji’s birth, she was collapsed in a La-Z-Boy and managed to lift up her head long enough to mutter “bat wings” before I could go in for a hug or offer congratulations.
I must have looked confused because she quickly added, “My vagina. I swear to God, Harriet. It looks like I have grown bat wings down there. Why did no one tell me? All those birth classes with the perineum massaging and breathing techniques. All those damn what-to-expect books. No one breathed a freaking thing about this. Not one word. So in case you ever decide to breed, know this: It’s going to be a damn Gotham City mess down there. Bat. Wings. CapitalB.”
I knock again, harder this time. She has to be home—we literally just texted about my bringing food. This time I hear a muffled “Door’s unlocked!” that sounds more like a hostage cry for help than an invitation. Stepping inside, I am hit by the unmistakable smell of what I can only describe as eau de new parent exhaustion: a potent mix of diaper cream and doing your best.
“Hey, girl.” Brooke stumbles into the hall, barefoot, in a pair of gray fuzzy pajama pants and what looks to be one of her husband’s business shirts. “See these bags?” She points at the slight puffiness under her eyes. “I could take them shopping at Costco. Thank God you’re here. I was starting to think the outside world was a fever dream.”
I grin, following her into the living room and carefully navigating through what looks like a Babies“R”Us bomb explosion. “I come bearing contraband,” I say, holding up a real coffee and a bag from her favorite Korean place.
Brooke’s eyes light up. “You really are my best friend. Today I ate baby carrots dipped in vanilla yogurt. I was so hungry and couldn’t figure out what to make for breakfast. I feel as if my brains are getting literally sucked out of my boobs or something. All I seem to have the capacity to think about is locating the spit-up rag. But please don’t get sick of me.” Her tone is lighthearted but I sensed an undercurrent of seriousness.
“Sorry, you’re stuck with me. Forever.” As I make my way to the kitchen, I hear what could generously be described as a banshee with tonsillitis gargling a can of nails.
“And that’s a wrap on nap time.” Brooke makes her way to the baby swing set up with a view of her side garden—daffodils, pansies, and snapdragons popping bursts of color along the tall fence.
“And how’s my favorite little Benji Boy?” I call out.
“Ready to audition forLes Misérables.I swear he could hit the notes to ‘One Day More’ already.”
I grin, waiting until she picks him up and settles on the couch to nurse. Playing waiter, I slide-shuffle over with her caffeine lifeline, placing the paper cup on the end table coaster with a triumphant “ta-da”! Next to it, I place fried chicken and rice cakes on a skewer.
“God, Harriet,” she says, her tone suddenly serious, “I’m so glad you’re here right now. Oh, and I’m grateful you’ve been helping Gale out—he just told me all about it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?” My plan had been to sort of elegantly lob that bomb into a conversation today, but she already knows.
I chew on my lower lip, watching Brooke’s exhausted face. She’s always been fiercely protective of her little brother, especially since he got picked up by the NHL. I’ve seen her shut down any friend who so much as looked at him twice. “He’s been going through it, and I’ve been starting to get worried.” Brooke takes a sip of her latte before exhaling long and slow. “Oh my god, that tastes so good. But really—it’s been awful seeing him struggle like this. The press has been vicious. With me stuck in new mom mode, I just... I’m so grateful you’re going to be around him more.”
My stomach lurches. Here’s Brooke, my best friend since forever, who convinced our entire senior class she was psychic forthree months just to mess with our chemistry teacher. Who’d crashed a stranger’s wedding reception because she swore the couple “looked like they needed better dancers” and ended up becoming friends with the bride’s grandmother. Who’d clung to me through her mom’s funeral, who’d trusted me with every dark moment after her dad’s accident, who’s shared every fear about her own son inheriting that same darkness—and less than twelve hours ago, I’d been pressed against her brother’s couch with my tongue licking his mouth.
“I know it’s not like when we were younger, but you’re family,” Brooke continues, bouncing Benji gently. “After everything with Dad, and then losing Mom... he needs people who know him, his roots. It can’t just be me anymore.”
The guilt crawls up my throat. I take a too-large swallow of coffee, trying to drown the memory of Gale’s hands on my waist, the soft sounds he’d made when I’d—
No. I can’t risk it. Not this friendship. Not Brooke. Especially not when Gale is the only family she has left, the little brother she practically raised after everything fell apart. Brooke has always been fierce about protecting him, and getting involved with him now would be crossing a line I can’t uncross.
Some things are too precious to gamble.
I try to focus on Brooke telling a story about her nanny search, but my traitor brain keeps dragging me back to Gale’s couch last night. The weight of Gale pressing me into the cushions, my fingers digging into his shoulders. The desperate sound he made when I bit his lower lip. His hand sliding under my sweater, rough calluses against my skin. Everything too hot, too much, not enough.
The solid muscle of his thigh between my legs, my hips rocking against him without meaning to. His mouth on my neck, breath ragged. The way he’d groaned my name like a prayer—
“It’s been such a thing.” Brooke’s voice yanks me back. “I swearhalf of the applicants just want to meet Gale.” She shifts Benji to her other breast, and shame floods my system.
I force a laugh, like my body isn’t still humming from his touch. “I mean, imagine if they leave their numbers tucked into Benji’s onesies.”
Brooke chuckles, then winces. “Oof, don’t make me laugh. I don’t want to pee myself... again. It’s like my pelvic floor decided to take an extended vacation. I thought it would be better by now. I might need to go see a physical therapist or something. Add it to the list of things I don’t have time to do.”
“You should write your own book.Shit to Definitely Expect.” I stifle my own giggles.
“Sorry, sorry. You came here to catch up. How about we talk anything other than my complete lack of personal hygiene or a social life?” Brooke suggests wryly.
“Hey now, I find that peak entertainment.” I lean forward to clink cups with her.
As our laughter subsides, a more pensive mood settles over the room. Brooke’s expression grows serious, and she shifts Benji over and begins to gently burp him.
“I have to fill you in on the latest with Dad. I’m going to take a wild guess that Gale hasn’t mentioned it.”
I shake my head, leaning in. Their dad has always been a conversation killer. The golden boy of the NHL who threw it all away one drunk night in Vegas, leaving his family with nothing but headlines about the people he killed and the crushing gambling debts.
