Hurt flares in my chest. “Jonah, wait—”
“Let’s continue this after you talk to Brooks,” he says, then walks away, leaving me alone with a diamond ring that suddenly feels too heavy, a cold steak I’ve lost all appetite for, and a heart full of questions I’m not sure I want answered.
The server approaches cautiously. “Is everything all right with your meal?”
“Just fine.” I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Can I get the check and a couple of to-go bags, please?”
As I wait, I study the ring on my finger, watching how it catches the light. Real or fake, accident or fate, this symbol of commitment has become the centerpiece of a puzzle I’m suddenly afraid to solve.
And what is it? What’s the big secret? Brooks is already married? He’s got a baby? He’s an alien from Mars?What?
And if I push for answers, am I prepared for what I might find?
The check arrives, and I sign it, adding a generous tip for the server who had to witness our family drama. Whatever secret Brooks is keeping, whatever Jonah knows that I don’t, the Brooks Kingston who’s waiting up for me is still the man who held me through a panic attack, who taught me to ice skate, who kissed me like I was precious.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe some secrets are better left buried.
As I get up to leave, I get a new email notification, and in the preview, I see it’s from the news station in LA.
I sit back down to read it, and it’s an invitation to interview with them with an all-expenses paid trip to LA next week. It says I’d be a fantastic fit for their network and their market, and how they need a talented, motivated female sportscaster.
Wow—it sounds like I could have the job in the bag if I want it.
And I’m not sure how I feel about this. Excited? Nervous? Torn?
I look up and realize I didn’t finish my drink, so I sip at it as I cycle through denial, anger, bargaining, and land somewhere between depression and acceptance—the five stages of grief for a relationship that might be doomed before it’s even truly begun.
I don’t need to get the secret from Brooks if I’m leaving for LA, right?
But as I sit, gathering courage to leave, I realize it with certainty: I’m in too deep now to walk away without answers, regardless of where our future’s headed. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever the moment is right, I need to know what Brooks is hiding.
Because Jonah’s right about one thing—I am falling for Brooks Kingston.
25
The Search
BROOKS
Ipace Meema’s living room like a caged animal, each turn sharper than the last, my shoulder throbbing in time with my racing pulse.
When I got home from rehab, I walked into an empty house—Meema not in her bed asleep, where she should be. Gus needed to be fed and let out, which Meema never lets happen.
No note, no response to my calls or texts. Just silence and the hollow echo of my footsteps on the hardwood. There is no way she wouldn’t have come home after treatment to go to bed. Something’s wrong, and the knot in my gut tightens with each passing minute. The familiar crunch of tires on gravel cuts through my spiraling thoughts, and I freeze mid-pace. Sydney. Maybe she knows where Meema is. Maybe she has answers I don’t.
Or maybe she has more questions after her dinner with Jonah. The dinner I’ve been obsessively imagining for the past two hours, punctuated only by frantic calls to Meema’s phone. What did my best friend tell his sister about me? How much of my mess did he reveal?
I can’t think about that now. Meema is missing, and that has to take priority over whatever bomb Jonah might have dropped on Sydney tonight.
The front door swings open, and Sydney bursts in, her cheeks flushed from the cold, hair slightly windblown. For a second, just a heartbeat, I forget everything else. She’s beautiful, even with worry lines creasing her forehead, even with that careful distance in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning.
“Brooks?” Her voice snaps me back to reality. “What’s wrong? You look like someone died.”
“She’s not here.” The words come out scratchy. “Meema. She’s gone.”
Sydney shrugs off her jacket, which snags on the doorframe. She yanks it free with more force than necessary. “What do you mean, gone? Gone where?” She reaches down and picks up Gus.
“No idea, Syd—that’s the point.” I regret the sharp tone instantly, especially when Sydney’s expression shudders. “Sorry. I’m just—I got back from PT, and she wasn’t here. Her phone goes straight to voicemail.”
