[Barley Cross 01.0] Being Brooke Page 6

  “Brooke Barker! Must you be so crude?”

  I grin at the blatant horror in her voice. “You taught me to always be honest, Mother. This is really on you.”

  She gasps. “There’s honesty and then there’s vile! That was vile.”

  “Sorry, it’s how I feel.”

  “If I didn’t feel the need to have this discussion with you, I’d hang up right now.”

  “If I say hooker a few more times, will you dump whatever conversation you plan to have with me?”

  “You need to get over Cain Elliott,” she says, ignoring me entirely.

  I still. “That was...unexpected.”

  “Brooke.” Her voice actually softens. Just a little. Like when you drop an ice cube on the floor and the barest sliver of it cracks off. “It’s devastatingly clear that Cain doesn’t return your feelings. Why do you have to continue on with these emotions when there are plenty of good men out there who’d have you?”

  Scratch that. The ice didn’t chip. Just melted a little.

  “Okay, well, first,” I start, “I’m more than aware of how Cain doesn’t feel about me, but that doesn’t mean I can switch off the way I feel. If I could, I would have. And second, there are ’plenty of good men‘ who’d have me? What am I, a puppy in the pet store window? Am I purebred or a mutt?”

  “Now, you’re being unreasonable.”

  “Did you call just to remind me of how I should and shouldn’t feel about my best friend or is there another point to this?”

  “I see you’re unwilling to discuss Cain—”

  “Really? What gave it away?”

  “—So I will continue onto my next point and say that, considering your grandfather will be attending, I hope you will be dressed appropriately for Mandy’s party this weekend.”

  I pause, smacking my lips together. Appropriately? She realizes it’s fifties themed, right? The era in which women were sexier than ever?

  And Grandpa is there? Yeah, sure. What I’m wearing will be of concern to him. Surely she knows he’s where I get my crazy?

  “Sure, Mom,” I lie loosely. “I’ll be dressed appropriately.”

  For the era. Maybe not the health of her heart, but that’s her own fault for not specifying the appropriateness. Right?

  “Are Ben and Billie going to be there?” Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

  “Ben won’t be, but Billie is planning on going, yes.”

  Wonderful! That’s what I need. My sister. My perfect, skinny sister. Who I do actually happen to love very much. From a distance. Without her kids. “Great. I haven’t seen her for a couple weeks.”

  “That’s because you never call her,” Mom replies with the perfect amount of disdain. “You should really call your sister.”

  “Uh, she doesn’t call me either,” I point out. “Besides, we’re not each other’s keepers. This isn’t Jodi Picoult, Mom.”

  “You’d be much nicer if Jodi Picoult wrote you into a story.”

  “No. I’d be someone who runs away and puts her mother through hell.”

  “Darling,” Mom drawls dryly, “It’s adorable you think you have to run away to do that.”

  “You’re right.” I grin. This is fun. “I’ll just move back in.”

  “Now that would be hell,” she agrees. “Are you bringing Simon to Mandy’s party?”

  “Why would I be bringing Simon to Mandy’s party?”

  “You went on a date, didn’t you?”

  Fuck it, Carly!

  I sigh. “A date, Mother. One. Just one. He hasn’t called me yet.”

  Her answering sigh rivals mine. “I might just sign you up to one of these dating shows on TV that your sister likes.”

  “Callontheotherlinegottagobye!” I spit the words out without taking a breath and hang up. Looking at the call time, I nod at the length of the conversation. Four minutes and fifteen seconds. That’s pretty good for me.

  Instead of getting up—I’m comfy, okay?—I pull up my messages and text Carly.

  Me: Did you tell my mom about Simon?

  She replies instantly.

  Carly: She asked if you were dating and I got scared

  Me: You should be scared of me, you backstabbing bitch

  Carly: Ah, Simon hasn’t called

  Me: Of course Simon hasn’t called me. I wouldn’t call me. I’m a mess.

  Carly: I’m trying really hard to find a reason to disagree with you right now

  Carly: What if I find you a date for Mandy’s party?

  Me: You just want to watch me burn, don’t you?

  Carly: -laughing emojis-

  Carly: It is fun.

  Me: If you bring me a date to Mandy’s party I’m going to pull bobby pins from my hair and stick them up your ass in a long trail, one by one, while you scream at me

  Carly: Kinky. Spoken to Cain yet?

  Me: No. If I speak to him I’ll stop being mad at him and I’m not ready for that right now

  Carly: Your such a loser

  Me: The most insulting part of that text message was your appalling grammar

  Me: It’s *you’re, by the way

  Carly: Go fuck yourself

  Me: Good idea. Am gonna get the vibrator. Brb.

  Carly: I don’t know how I put up with you

  Me: I bring you wine

  Carly: Good point. Now go away. I have to get ready for dinner with my mom and her new boyfriend and it’s scary enough without you rabbiting on

  Me: Aw, I love you too, you shithead

  Carly: -middle finger emoji-

  I drop my phone and laugh to myself. Well, that killed a whole five minutes.

  One thing I never anticipated about living alone is the silence. I mean, seriously, it’s unnerving. Every whining water pipe is a zombie who wants to eat my brains out, and every gust of wind against the windows is a ghost determined to possess my soul.

  And don’t even go there with the creaks outside my front door. They’re clearly the work of a cannibalistic mass-murderer who wants to gouge out my heart with a wooden spoon before eating it for breakfast.

  See? Unnerving. Terrifying. Fuck-this-I-need-a-roomie. Whatever.

  I put my phone back down on the sofa to where it was before my mom called and get up. I really need to eat something, but I’m not so great at cooking, so... My pants will also agree that my diet is super bad, so I’m going to have to try something.

  Pasta. I can’t mess up chicken and pasta in a sauce, can I?

  Don’t answer that question. I don’t want to hear the answer because I’m pretty sure I already know it.

  I open the fridge and pull out the packet of chicken. The date says yesterday, so I wrinkle my nose as I slice open the cellophane top and lift the pack to my nose.

  Oh good lord no! That is not good chicken!

  I dump it in the trashcan and slam the top shut. It clangs through my silent apartment, and ultimately, I decide upon the pasta and the sauce. Add some cheese... So, I’m not Gordon Ramsey, but I’ll take being one of the poor little shits he yells at.

  Without the yelling.

  I’m sensitive. Like a clitoris.

  The fizz of something burning on the ceramic ring as the pan of water I just set boiling on the stove heats up fills the kitchen area, and as it burns away into nothing, I pull the pasta and sauce out of the cupboard.

  Woo. Look at me, adulting all over the place.

  Settle down, Brooke, you’re only boiling water.

  I lean against the side while I wait for it to heat up. Can you burn water? Is that a thing that’s possible? I’ve never heard of it before, but of course, that doesn’t mean a lot... I could Google it.

  I throw half the packet of pasta into the pan and relax again.

  Good lord, of course you can’t burn water. I can evaporate it but not burn it. What’s wrong with me?

  This is what happens when my life goes to shit and I’m not talking to Cain. I joke about not falling in love with your best friend—no, wait, tha
t’s not a joke.

  It’s awkward. He and Carly are the men in white coats to my crazy. I always have been and always will be the forgetful, scatty friend out of the three of us. Carly is the logical one, and Cain is somewhere between us both, but more than anything, he’s the comfort between us.

  Guy problems? We go to him.

  Well. Carly does. It would be awkward for me since he is, you know, the guy problem in my life.

  I sigh just as my phone buzzes from the sofa. I eye the pasta before going to grab it and lighting up the screen. Text message from Cain.

  Did I think his name too many times or something?

  Cain: I need to talk to you.

  Ha! Does he, now? I should think he wants to apologize after our conversation outside his mom’s salon. And if he doesn’t want to, he freaking well should. I hit reply.

  Me: People usually try to avoid talking to me.

  Cain: I know. I’m one of them.

  Me: You’re a dick.

  Me: Can’t talk. I’m cooking.

  Cain: K, I’ll wait.

  Me: For what?

  Cain: You to burn it and need food.

  Me: If you think you can buy my time with food, you’re wrong.

  I put my phone on the kitchen counter and grab a wooden spoon. Shoving it into the pasta bowl, I stir, and...

  Shit.

  It’s stuck to the bottom. And burned.

  Of course it is! Fuck you, life. What did I ever do to you?

  Clearly I didn’t put enough water in the pan. Or, you know, pay attention to it. Ugh! I pout, turn off the heat, and scrape the hot, burned pasta into the trashcan. Sure as hell, there’s no water left in the pan at all.

  I shouldn’t have been so cocky about adulting, should I? Is burning my pasta the universe’s way of keeping me humble?

  Reluctantly, I pick up my phone and text Cain again.

  Me: I burned my pasta.

  Cain: How much will an hour cost me?

  Hmm...

  Me: Mamma Alessandra’s meatball lasagna.

  Cain: I’ll pick you up in ten.

  All right, maybe he can buy my time with food.

  I scoop my hair around to one side of my neck as I sit in Cain’s car. His bright, green gaze flicks toward me right as I slam the car door behind me and grab my seatbelt.

  “How did you burn pasta?” he asks, amusement a thick undertone in his voice.

  “I was too busy noting down all the ways I’d like to kill you in my diary,” I reply with a straight face, not looking at him.

  If I look at him, I’ll laugh. I don’t want to laugh, because I’m still mad, and if I laugh, I won’t be mad. Or maybe I will—but he won’t think I’m still mad.

  Hmm. If I laugh, will he be lulled into a fake sense of security?

  No wonder men think we’re complicated. I just confused myself with those thoughts.

  “Brooke.”

  “What?” I jerk my head around to him.

  His lips tug up on one side. “Obviously you found a way you liked, because you’re muttering under your breath.”

  I glare at him. “You’re walking a real fine line for someone who’s on my shit list.”

  “I’ve been on your shit list since I refused to give you a pencil in math class in eighth grade. You just bump me up and down it depending on how you feel about me on any given day.” He laughs low, the husky sound filling the car. “Where am I today? Top or bottom?”

  “Your own fucking list, asshole.”

  He pulls up down the street from Italia and puts the car into park. “Wow. And not even buying you food has me bumped down?”

  I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows in a, “What do you think?” expression and hope he gets the message.

  “Wow.” He frowns slightly. “You look kind of like your mom when you do that.”

  I launch myself at him with my fist balled, but he laughs, grabbing my tiny fist in his much larger hand.

  “Calm down, Rambo,” he says in a low, slow voice.

  I blink up at him, and our faces are too close together. Way too close. I can smell the mint of his gum on his breath as he exhales and it tickles my chin. My heart beats dangerously loud, feeling closer to a palpitation than anything remotely comfortable.

  I swallow and sit back, tugging my fist from his grip. “I hate you so much right now.”

  Cain pauses, staring at me for a moment that seems to drag on. Then, he shakes his head. “Come on. Alessandro set up the roof for us.”

  I get out of the car. “The roof? Wow. Someone doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

  “At one of the most romantic restaurants in town? That’s not going to work out well for me.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, looking down at my torn jeans and hooded sweater as I work a knot out of my hair. “This is usual date attire. I can totally see how someone would get best friends of a decade having food together confused with an actual date. Never mind that the sexiest thing about tonight will be when I get to go home and take these freaking pants off.” I roll my eyes and step up onto the sidewalk.

  He shoots me a look before he walks to the fire escape at the side.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” I say slowly.

  “Brooke. Can you just humor me?”

  “The fact I haven’t told you to fuck yourself and walked home yet is me humoring you.”

  Cain sighs. “Just walk up the damn stairs, okay? I happen to know that Nina’s parents are inside for their anniversary.”

  Now I know why he parked down the street. “Then why didn’t you just come to my place to talk to me?”

  He pauses and looks over his shoulder. The dim light from the streetlight glances over his face, highlighting his sharp, angular features, and bounces off his eyes. “Can you do this for me without arguing with me? Please?”

  I inhale slowly but deeply, letting the breath fill my lungs to bursting point before letting it go raggedly. “Fine.”

  I shove past him and walk up the metal fire escape stairs. Each one clangs beneath my ballerina flats, mostly because I’m channeling my inner toddler and not bothering to be careful going up here at all.

  “Fairy fucking elephant,” Cain says quietly behind me as I step up onto the roof garden area. The gate is unlocked, so I push it open and brush past the plants that usually conceal it.

  Ignoring my asshole best friend, I look around the roof. Italia’s rarely advertises its roof garden, mostly because downstairs is big enough to handle a rush, and nobody likes running up and down the stairs from the main area to the roof fifty thousand times a night.

  Also: tourists. If they knew this existed, we locals would never have a place to go to get Mamma Alessandra’s amazing food during the high season and holidays.

  It’s nothing special, not really, but it feels it. Canopies and gentle lighting occupies the area, and the area Georgio ordered his son to set up for us is my favorite corner. I suspect he did that deliberately, because the two plush sofas surrounding the table have new cushions on, and there’s already a bottle of my favorite wine sitting in a bucket with two glasses.

  I pick up the small card and read it.

  Because men are assholes.

  -Mamma Alessandra

  I smile and set it back down. “Looks like Mamma’s got your number,” I say to Cain with a pointed look as I sit down.

  He grabs the card. “Shit. That woman is good.”

  “So are the gossips,” I counter. No doubt our conversation yesterday outside the salon was heard by no less than five members of the weekly bridge club Mamma Alessandra presides over...which means that my grandpa will have questions at Mandy’s party. Not that he can talk. He only plays bridge because he has a crush on Mamma Alessandra. He’s not even good at it.

  Poker? Sure. Grandpa could take down the Las Vegas mob if he wanted to. But bridge? Nah. Not a chance in hell.

  “Yeah. The gossips are why we’re upstairs,” Cain says after a moment.

  “I thought it’s b
ecause the future in-laws are downstairs.”

  “They’re not my future in-laws.” He looks up, his stare as sharp as his tone.

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What you heard is probably my mom’s rendition and interpretation of Nina’s conversation at dinner this week,” he grumbles.

  I pour wine into my glass, letting him stew in silence for a minute before I pass him the bottle and say, “Is she wrong?”

  He grabs the bottle a little too roughly. “I didn’t text you because I want to talk about Nina.”

  “Yeah, well, this might be the only time I want to talk about her, so take advantage of it.”

  “You don’t want to talk about her. You want to bathe in my discomfort.”

  I raise my glass to my lips and try to hide my smile behind it. “Is it that obvious?”

  Cain stares at me. “I can see you smiling, Brooke. Nice try.”

  Whatever. At least I tried to hide it, right? “Your mom said she’s angling for a ring.” I turn my left hand so the back of my hand is facing him and wiggle my fingers.

  He leans over and bats at my hand, only narrowly missing it. “Mom’s getting carried away.”

  “So she doesn’t want to marry you? Aw. Shame.” Was that too sarcastic? It sounded too sarcastic. Shit...

  “Shwamtmovewher,” he says on the quietest mumble I’ve ever heard, averting his eyes.

  “Oh, yeah, me too, I agree, enslaving the sheep would be the worst. Little Bo Peep would riot, wouldn’t she?”

  Cain looks up and meets my gaze. His smiles and shakes his head, then rubs his face. “You’re so fucking random. Brooke. Seriously. Enslaving the sheep?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, I don’t speak grumpy. I speak fluent sarcasm, bitch, and PMS.”

  “I’m aware of your abilities in all three languages,” he says dryly. “Nina wants me to move in with her.”

  I pause. Why is that more shocking than wanting marriage? Is it because it’s like a trial marriage run without the expense and commitment? Because it never occurred to me that marriage would be living together?

  Because if they live together that’s virtually the end of our friendship?