Brooke gets out on her own—don’t like that—but I am able to move quickly enough that I’m at her side when we reach the base of the stairs leading inside. I refrain from placing my hand on her back or around her shoulders. I don’t even reach for her hand. I’m sure me being here is going to cause all sorts of problems by itself. I don’t need to escalate it by making her parents think Brooke left whatever I’m sure they’re here to attempt to lure her back into, for me.
The house is quiet as we walk in, making me hopeful they’ve already left. But when we reach the formal living room where my mother greets guests, I find both her parents and mine sitting on opposite sofas.
Staring at each other.
The look on my mother’s face is murderous. Which is concerning, since the woman is capable of just about anything. I don’t for a second believe she wouldn’t be able to execute anunsolvable homicide, burying whatever remnants are left under a field of carefully curated endangered wildflowers.
The group slowly turns toward us at our arrival, and the difference in our parents' reactions couldn’t be more different. Mine both get to their feet, smiles wide as they come toward us, arms outstretched.
Brooke’s parents glare, frowning so hard I’m not sure their faces will ever recover.
As my mother hugs Brooke tightly, her dad’s face begins to turn red. He manages to keep his mouth shut for about two-point-five seconds longer before he begins barking orders.
“This is ridiculous.” He shoves up from the seat, wiry frame practically vibrating with anger. He flails around, clearly uncertain which direction to point. “Go get your things. We are going back to California.”
Her mother gets up next, picking up where her father left off. “There is still time to repair all the damage you’ve done. You can apologize and beg Matthew to forgive you. Explain how wrong you were.”
Oh yeah. I’m going to jail today.
But as I try to step forward, planning to intervene, Brooke catches my eye, barely shaking her head. With my mother at one side and my father on the other, she lifts her chin, looking terrified but defiant as she says, “I’m not going back to California, and I’m not going back to Matt.”
Her mother scoffs. “Of course you are.” She laughs, the sound bitter. “Too much depends on your marriage for you to just back out.”
“You mean too muchmoneydepends on my marriage.” Brooke’s voice barely waivers. “Money for you.”
Her mother isn’t bothered by Brooke’s likely accurate claim. “Not only money for us. Also for you.” She seemsgenuinely confused over why her daughter is arguing. “Matthew is rich.” Her eyes come to me before going back to her daughter. “Wealthy enough he doesn’t have to get his hands dirty every day.”
When my mom starts to move forward, I worry I won’t be going to jail alone.
Thankfully, my dad has always been the calm to her storm. Before she can launch herself at Brooke’s mother in my defense, he has an arm locked around her waist, pinning her tight to his side in a way most people would think was simply marital affection.
But I’ve been around long enough to know it’s damage control.
“Why would that matter?” Brooke’s brow pinches. “Who cares how someone earns their money?” She pauses, and I can tell by the look on her face that what's coming next is going to pack a punch. It’s in the slight quirk of her brow. The narrowing of her eyes. The flare of her nostrils. “Especially when they don’t blow through it faster than they can make it.”
Her parents’ heads both bob back as if she literally smacked them in the face, jaws going slack, eyes wide and filled with outrage.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Her father recovers first, his words sputtering and sharp. “You always had a roof over your head.”
I notice he doesn’t claim he provided her with anything else on a consistent basis, which is good, because I don’t mind calling the man a liar to his face. When we dated, Brooke told me all about her childhood. The way her parents cared more about themselves and what they wanted than meeting even the most basic of her needs.
It’s part of why—even back then—I always made sure I fedher. Did I occasionally do it by throwing Pop-Tarts at her? Yes. But I was a twenty-one-year-old kid. Stupid. Immature. Clueless in so many ways while also thinking I knew everything.
I didn’t know shit.
I still might not know shit, but I do know I’m done here.
“I don’t think there’s any reason for this conversation to continue.” I say the words politely, with every amount of fake niceness I possess, as I gesture toward the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”
But Brooke’s mother isn’t done yet. Her anger moves to focus on me, bringing more than a healthy dose of disdain along with it. She looks me up and down, disgust curling her lips. “I should’ve known she would come here.” Her eyes go back to Brooke. “You would be stupid enough to get hung up on a man who made it clear he doesn’t want you.”
I’m not sure who she was aiming for with that, but if it was me, the woman managed a bull’s-eye, hitting me in my most sensitive spot.
I don’t care what she thinks about what I do for a living. I don’t give a shit how she feels about me.
But making Brooke think I don’t want her doesn’t only cut me.
Lucky for everyone involved—and my mother’s cream-colored sofas—my dad is the king of running interference. He’s raised a herd of rowdy boys, and spent years married to a woman strung tighter than a bow. He doesn’t wait for me to react before stepping between me and Brooke’s mother, using one arm to push me back as he all but shoves her and her husband out of the room.
