I stare down at the hand covering mine—warm, steady, wrinkled with time. My throat tightens unexpectedly, a lump of emotion rising in my chest that I force to stay put. "I used to be so sure, ya know? So confident about how my life was playing out. Lately though, I don't know, there's something about everything happening around me that makes me feel like..." I exhale, blowing through my lips and looking up at her eyes that somehow seem to twinkle. "Like I'm being left behind."
Aunt Ivy wraps her hand around mine fully and smiles softly. "Oh, darling, you can't be left behind when you're the one in the driver's seat. Some people may be going faster or slower, some may pass you altogether, but you're all headed to different places. All operating different vehicles."
I grin and shake my head. "Well, it sure feels like I'm on a rickety shaggin' wagon, and they're humming past me in their Cybertrucks."
Ivy lifts her hands and waves me away. "Those things are ugly as all hell."
We both let out a laugh. "I know," I say, still chuckling to myself.
"See," Ivy beams. "That's not your style anyway."
I nod, thinking of Alex. It seems like, until recently, she and I were chugging along together, laughing about our rusted bumpers and bum wheels. Now, though, she's the one in the electric car, her head out the window, waving to me as her man pulls away.
"Maybe it'sbecomingmy style," I say, my voice unsteady.
It's still hard to admit this out loud. That my future might look different than I thought it would. That I'm starting to open myself up to judgement—about my decisions and feelings.
Ivy paints a slow smile. "Seasons, leaves, the tide, the moon." She pauses, then takes a long sip of her tea.
I crease my brow, waiting expectantly, watching her eyes fall closed as she swallows it down.
"Some of the most beautiful things in life change, Brookie," she says, her tone full of wonder. "And one of them is you."
14
Drew
Rolling up to Brooke's apartment, I'm borderline nervous. Not to be around her—thatI'm excited for. But for her to see my life from this side. I've never done this—allowed someone to follow me around. Partly because I like to soak in every ounce of peace I'm capable of finding in my day, but mostly because that would break through the facade.
People don't want to see Drew Anderson, the guy who wakes up early to liftbeforethe workout. There's no excitement in watching me bust out reps in the bay or hype myself up to be the face of a brand. They damn sure don't care to see me visit my mom or avoid my dad's phone calls.
The parts of my life that they want are in front of the camera or behind the glass—no one wants to see Clark Kent out of costume. So, it's better to allow the illusion that I just show up and show out. No lows or complaints, definitely no staged dates or forced outings—we all do better with rose-colored glasses.
I couldn't say no to Brooke, though. Turning down an entire day with her would have been a missed opportunity. Besides, there's no hiding from her. From what I can tell, she sees through the bullshit—or betteryet, is ignorant of it. And I don't think I could fake how I am with her even if I wanted to.
Stomping my foot down on my kickstand, I lean my bike to the side and swing my leg over. I pull my helmet and backpack off and sit both on my seat, sliding my phone from my pocket. There's one message written across the screen. I swipe it open, knowing I'll regret it instantly.
Dad
Drew, call me back. I have thoughts.
I scoff as I usually do after reading Dad's text, then drop my phone back into my pocket, taking a deep breath before I walk up to Brooke's building. For the first time since I rode up, I fully take in the neighborhood.
It's not a shit-hole by any means, but I'm definitely not on the west side anymore. Trash is built up along the side of the can that sits under a dying tree on the sidewalk. There's no one around, but rap music drifts faintly from one of the nearby houses. The paint on the front of her building is weathered, the pots by the door empty except for dried mulch that looks like it's sat untouched for years.
I'm not surprised by the view I guess—we live in a big city, most parts of town look like this or even worse. And Brooke isn't the type of woman that I'd necessarily worry about. But it's an obvious contrast to my living situation. Sometimes I forget how different we are. It's easy for that to be the case when I'm nothing but comfortable when we're together.
When I get to the stairs, I pause, only now realizing I don't know which apartment is hers. I hesitate briefly before I realize the names are listed on the wall by the entrance. A wave of anxiety flushes past me at the idea that literally anyone can stop, simply read a sign, and know who lives here. There's not much privacy in my life, but you can't even get into my building without ID or permission.
Maybe being Drew Anderson has its perks after all.
Running the pad of my thumb under my chain, I climb the last of the steps leading up to the door. I scan the list, my finger trailing down thenames until it lands on the one that lights up my senses. I reach for the buzzer, clearing my throat and mentally rehearsing my greeting, when the door to the building comes flying open.
"Shit!" Brooke squeals, halting in her place only inches from running into me.
"Good morning, Mystery Girl," I say, tucking my hands into the front pockets of my joggers.
Brooke scans me head to toe, her stoic demeanor cracking ever so slightly when her eyes make their way back to mine. "Morning," she says, attempting to look unfazed. "You didn't have to come to my door. This isn't a date, remember." She looks at me, her expression full of half-assed warning.
