But as I lie down, Sydney’s scent still lingering in the air, I’m also starting to think that maybe some things are worth getting burned for.
16
Below The Surface
SYDNEY
Iwake the following Friday morning to sunshine streaming through the curtains and the ghost of Brooks Kingston’s body heat lingering on the sheets beside me. The spot where he should be is empty, the pillow still holding the indent of his head. Almost a week and a half of sharing a bed, and I’ve cataloged his sleep habits—the soft rumble when he first drifts off, the way he always sleeps on his right side, protecting that injured shoulder; how he sometimes mumbles hockey plays in his dreams. What’s truly disturbing, though, is how quickly I’ve gone from loathing his existence to imagining him naked every time we’re within five feet of each other. Morning, afternoon, evening—doesn’t matter. And I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend otherwise.
There’s a rhythm to my new existence, and it’s nothing like the life I left behind, yet somehow makes more sense than anything before. After my morning broadcast, every day starts with Maisie’s needling voice drifting up through the floorboards. “Brooks, if you can’t find my bifocals, I’ll just have to get laser surgery.” Then he’s off to rehab, twice a day, six days a week, rain or shine. The first few mornings, he tried to tough it out in silence, only letting a grunt slip when the pain got really bad. But he’s stopped pretending and actually lets me help him stretch out his shoulder. The days end with the three of us eating dinner together, playing poker, and watching Jeopardy, yelling wrong answers at the screen. And the truth is, I love being needed by Brooks and Maisie.
The clock reads 6:17 a.m., which means I slept in on my day off. I look outside to see it’s another wintry day. A second cold blast hit three days ago, and this time, it seems to be sticking around.
I stretch, feeling the pleasant pull of muscles that haven’t gotten nearly enough exercise lately. Unless you count the cardiac workout my heart gets every time Brooks gives me one of those half-smiles.
Making my way downstairs, I inhale the scent of coffee—rich, expensive coffee, not the tar they serve at the station. I slip into my robe, a fluffy blue monstrosity that Mom got me for my birthday two years ago. It’s hideous but feels like wearing a cloud. Not exactly sexy, but then again, this isn’t supposed to be sexy.
This is fake dating.
Emphasis onfake.
I pad down the hallway, past Maisie in the living room where I can hear her humming along to what sounds like a morning talk show. Following the scent of coffee leads me to the kitchen, where Brooks Kingston is leaning against the counter. His hair’s still mussed from sleep, stubble darkening his jaw, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and a faded Blazers T-shirt that’s seen better days. It’s practically indecent how good he looks at six a.m.
“Morning.” His voice still rough with sleep, he holds up a mug. “Your liquid candy.”
“Oh my god, thank you.” I make a grabby-hand gesture that lacks all dignity. Inside, I’m swooning—he makes me coffee just the way I like it—two heaping spoons of sugar and a splash of almond milk, measuring out exactly the right amount.
He hands it to me, our fingers brushing. The tiny contact shouldn’t send electricity up my arm, but here we are. “Thanks.” I take a sip to distract myself. The coffee hits my tongue, and I actually moan—a sound embarrassingly similar to the ones I made in the tub last Saturday night as I fantasized about Brooks bending me over it as I had the water pressure in just the right place. God, I hope he didn’t hear that. “Okay, what is this and how can I marry it?”
“Just coffee.” He shrugs, but I can see he’s pleased. “Dad has good taste in coffee beans. I brought some with me.”
“It’s not ‘just coffee.’ This is like... liquid velvet. And the stuff at the station is battery acid.” I take another sip, savoring it.
“High praise fromtheSydney Holt.” There’s that half-smile again. He goes to open the refrigerator, and I notice his shoulder seems better today. Over the past week, his movements have become smoother, less guarded.
Maisie appears in the doorway, already dressed in a purple pantsuit that brings out the silver in her hair. There’s color in her skin today. Her makeup’s carefully applied, and a scarf wraps around her head. My heart jumps with hope at the sight.
“Good morning, lovebirds,” she says, hereyes twinkling. “Isn’t it just so nice having Sydney live here, Brooks? She brings some sunshine into this old house.”
Brooks hands her a mug of coffee, black with just a touch of honey, exactly how she likes it. “The place definitely smells better.”
“Hey, not all of us can rock the ‘I washed my hair with a bar of soap’ look.”
“You think I rock it?”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Kingston. Your ego’s big enough.”
Maisie laughs, the sound bringing a smile to both our faces. “You two remind me of Robert and me.” She settles at the small kitchen table. “Couldn’t say a nice thing to each other without adding a barb.”
I choke on my coffee. Becoming Brooks’ grandparents is not what I was going for today.
“Meema,” Brooks warns, but there’s no real annoyance in it. He’s never able to stay mad at her.
“What? It’s true. Your grandfather and I were at each other’s throats for months before we admitted how we felt.” She sips her coffee, eyes dancing with mischief. “Though I doubt you two waited as long as we did to share a bed.”
“And on that note,” I say brightly, “what time is your doctor appointment today, Maisie? I can take you if you’d like.”
“Oh, no need, dear. I’ve already arranged for the senior shuttle to pick me up.” She waves a dismissive hand. “They have a new service, and I signed up last week. Makes me feel independent.”
