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My mom smells like she always does—Chanel No. Five and baked goods—and feels like decades of memories. My dad hugs me even tighter than she does, and it’s the kind of surprise that reminds me how much he misses me and I miss him. My nephews Seth and Grant hug me at the same time while bouncing on their toes and shouting, “Aunt Brookie!” Although, their attention is quickly diverted when they see Benji beneath the table and start petting him with rough hands.
He’s a good sport, his Captain America costume matching his ever-present compassion, and takes it all in doggo stride.
And my sister’s hug—well, it nearly makes me cry. It’s one of love and joy, but also, flat-out exhaustion. She’s been through the wringer recently, and living with my parents while she “heals” isn’t exactly speeding the process.
“Oh, Sammy,” I whisper in her ear, tucking my face into her hair to keep myself from getting emotional on her behalf. She does the same, and I know it’s because she’s proud of me.
“You’re killing it, Brookie. God, I am in so much awe that this is all for you.”
I nod. Me too. Truly, me too. I didn’t want to do this at all—I was nervous and unsure—but being here now feels like the culmination of all the fights I’ve fought to have this career.
The late nights, the deadline crunches, the hours and hours of scheming new ways to market and grow my audience.
It’s been a long ride, but I’m here—little Brooke Baker has a Netflix series and a new book deal worth more money than she knew existed when she was growing up.
If that little girl could see me now.
I step back from the hugs and look at all of them—save my nephews, who are now slowly ripping the town recreation center apart—and my eyes get teary.
“I love you guys. Thanks for coming.”
My dad is the first to look away, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to see the tears in his big, manly eyes. Manly eyeballs are supposed to be the consistency of sandpaper at all times.
Unfortunately, when he does look away from me, he notes the damage my nephews are doing to old man Galloway’s historic paintings, and he turns to my sister with a snip. “Hell’s bells, Sammy. Can you wrangle the mulchers before they chew up the wood paneling?”
Sammy takes off at a jog to get the boys, and I’m left with my parents and Chase alone. My mom is staring at Chase like he’s on the cover of a magazine, and I can’t even be mad at her. Your homegirl wrote a book about this guy, Mom. I get it.
“Mom, Dad, this is my editor, Chase Dawson. Chase, these are my parents, Sue and Hank Baker.”
Chase sticks out his hand, and both my mom and dad alternate taking it. “It’s so nice to meet you. You must be so proud of Brooke. All these people here, just for her. And to think, we’ve got seven more cities to go, just like this, but even bigger.”
I close my eyes briefly and then look down to hide my smile. This bastard evidently heard my dad at the back of the room and very much knows what he’s doing.
What a sexy little manipulator my muse is…
Surprisingly, it seems to get through to my dad, who looks at me with a beam of pride. It’s almost as if I’m a good Catholic who didn’t get divorced for a small moment in time.
“Oh, we are so proud of our girl,” my mom answers Chase. “I think Brooke’s always known that she wanted to do this, but it took her a little while to get the confidence to know she could. I can personally vouch that she was an avid writer in her youth. She’d spend hours and hours writing in that diary of hers.”
I don’t know if I want her to keep going or shut up at this point, but all I can feel is the burn from both pride and embarrassment boxing each other inside my rib cage.
“A diary, you say?” Chase questions with a mischievous smirk directed at me. “Sounds like Brooke had the writing bug from early on.”
“Oh yeah.” My mom’s smile is beaming. “The things my girl would put in that little pink diary of hers. I’m telling you, it was—”
“Mom,” I find myself saying without knowing what to finish with. The verdict is in—Sue Baker can shut up now.
I have only a hazy recollection of the shit I used to put in my diary, but I do recall my entire freshman year of high school was focused on wondering if I was going to grow boobs or not. Teenage Brooke was more of a loon than adult Brooke, and growing boobs and kissing boys was all her literary prose was focused on.
