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Well, it feels sort of frivolous now, but I shrug and say, “I met someone.”
Martha’s face transforms, and suddenly she’s beaming. “Oh, really, sweetie? That’s wonderful! I’m going to make tea and you’re going to tell me all about him.”
I laugh. “What about the scones?”
“We’ll get to those later,” she says with a wave of her hand. “First, talk. How did you meet?”
I tell her about the teen outreach center, about how my heart pretty much melted when I saw how much the kids love Prescott, and then I tell her about his invitation for this evening.
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “Like, really nervous.”
“Why? I’m sure his parents are going to love you.”
I hear the front door open, and we both turn as Cory comes into the kitchen and sets his briefcase down on the counter. “Who’s going to love you?”
“Brooklyn’s going to meet her boyfriend’s parents tonight,” Martha says, and my cheeks flush.
“I never said boyfriend,” I point out.
“But you don’t bring any old girl home to meet the folks,” Martha counters. “This is serious.”
“And fast,” I say.
“Well, Martha knows all about fast,” Cory points out. “What’s it called, insta-love?”
I smile. It’s cute that he pretends not to know all the details of his wife’s writing, because I happen to know he’s read every single one of her books.
“So… you both think this is a good idea?” I ask. I’m twenty-four years old and these aren’t even my biological parents, but I still want their approval. Whether I want it to or not, it means a lot to me.
“I do,” Martha says.
“And you know I always think it’s a good idea to follow your heart,” Cory adds. He sits down at the island and notices the scone pan. “Ooh, are we baking?”
“Yep,” Martha says. “Blueberry scones. Oh, and Brooklyn, we have to show you the new drywall upstairs! You’ve been so busy that we haven’t even gotten to show you the plans for the rest of the house.”
Come to think of it, I have been keeping myself busy lately, distracting myself from the loss of Cassidy as my roommate and throwing myself into the teen programming at the library. Maybe I’m not the one being left out—maybe I accidentally left myself out.
“I’d love that,” I say.
8
Prescott
I pick Brooklyn up from a new address tonight. She tells me she’s been baking with a friend’s mom and that she’s bringing a batch of scones for dessert.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say as she slides into the car and it instantly fills with the scent of blueberries. I lean across the seat and kiss her deeply, picking up the flavor of baked goods on her sweet lips as well.
“You have no idea how many scones we made,” she says with a laugh. “Martha’s kitchen looks like she’s planning to open up a bakery. Besides, I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“All you ever need to bring, as far as I’m concerned, is your gorgeous self,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine as I drive us over to my parents’ house.
“Well, no offense but I’m not trying to impress you tonight,” she says and laughs again. There’s an edge of nervousness in it, and I squeeze her hand.
“Hey,” I say, “there’s nothing to worry about. This dinner is just an average Friday night for my folks, okay? No big deal.”
“Maybe not to you,” she says, her smile thin.
She’s putting on a brave face, but I can tell this whole meeting the parents thing has her rattled, and I wonder if I made a mistake. I spent all day thinking about her, about last night, about how instantly we connected, and I’m pretty damn sure I’m in love with this girl. But just because I’m moving a mile a minute doesn’t mean she’s ready to do the same.
“Do you want to blow this dinner off?” I offer. “We don’t have to do this.”
Brooklyn sits up a little taller and shakes her head. “No, we’re already on the way, and I do want to meet your parents…” I can tell there’s more she wants to say, so I just stay silent and she takes a deep breath. “I want to tell you something, to explain why I’m so jittery tonight.”
“You can tell me anything.”
Another deep breath. And then, “Remember at the outreach center, when I said I loved books because they let me escape growing up poor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was only half the story,” she says, and I can hear the struggle in her voice.
This is clearly something she hasn’t shared with a lot of people, and if I wasn’t driving, I’d pull her into a bear hug right here and now.
“My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen. Drunk driver,” she forces the words out.
“Oh, Brooklyn, I’m so sorry.”
“That house you just picked me up from, that’s where I lived after,” she goes on. “My best friends’ parents took me in and they’ve been like a second mom and dad to me… I told them about you while we were baking and they were so excited for me.”
