Brooke took a sip of her own coffee. “Was Henry awake when you started drinking?”
“No! He was asleep. I swear. But I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to fire me.”
“I don’twantto fire you. My son adores you. I adore you, or I did until I drove back here like a maniac last night after you didn’t call, only to find you and Jaxson passed out on my sofa.”
“I really fucked up your big night, didn’t I?” Farrah pressed her fingers to her temples. “I bet Gabe is really mad.”
Brooke mentally replayed Gabe’s cutting remark about her pulling “another disappearing act.” It hurt as much now as it had when he’d said it last night.
“He wasn’t thrilled. He had big plans for the rest of the evening, and then I pulled the plug. I think it’s safe to say our fine little romance is kaput.”
“Oh God. I’m such a screwup.”
“Just as well it happened now. Gabe never had kids, so he doesn’t understand where my priorities are. And if he can’t understand that, there’s really no future for the two of us.”
Brooke went to the pantry and got a packet of crackers. She placed them on the table in front of Farrah. “Eat those.”
“Food? No. Gross.”
“They’ll help settle your stomach. I’ll get you some ginger ale too. Then, if you keep that down, you can take some aspirin for that headache I’m sure you have.”
Farrah took fifteen minutes to nibble half of one cracker, washed down with four sips of ginger ale. Brooke handed her two aspirin, which she swallowed. She held her head in both hands, a pathetic, miserable sight.
“Are you going to tell my mom?” Farrah asked.
“What would she do if I did tell her?”
“Probably ground me for the rest of the summer. Maybe take away my car. For sure she wouldn’t let me see Jaxson again.”
“If she grounds you and takes away your car, that hurts me as much as it hurts you. If I hadn’t been so tired last night, I would have throttled you both with my bare hands.”
“I deserve it. And so does he.”
“True. But I need an assistant at the office, and Henry needs a babysitter who loves him so very much, so I’m going to give you a second chance, and I’m not going to tell your mom. This time.”
Farrah let out a long sigh of relief. “Thanks. I’ll make it up to you. I swear. And hey, no charge for last night.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Brooke said. “I wasn’t going to pay you anyway. Go on home and get some sleep now, okay? And if Jaxson calls, you can tell him I threw his shoes in the trash.”
***
Brooke puttered around the house most of the morning, doing multiple loads of laundry, cleaning and disinfecting the bathroom, dumping the clothes Farrah had left on the floor into a grocery bag, and helping Henry put together one ofhis puzzles. He’d begged to go to the park, but by mid-morning it was broiling out, the temperature already hovering around ninety with sauna-level humidity, so she’d compromised by letting him watch an hour of cartoons on her laptop. Did that make her a terrible mother? Maybe, but she didn’t care.
At eleven, she put her son down for a nap and decided to color her hair. Like Marie’s, Brooke’s hair had begun going gray when she was in her midtwenties. In the past, Genevieve, the stylist at her trendy Savannah salon, had colored her hair, but these days, rather than spend $175 a pop every six weeks, she colored her own hair with the stuff that came in a box from the drugstore.
It took thirty minutes to apply the grape gravy–colored goop to her wet hair. She was still barefoot in a ratty terry cloth bathrobe when the doorbell rang.Probably Farrah returning to reclaim her clothes,she thought as she went to open the door.
Gabe Wynant stood on the doorstep with a huge bouquet of pink peonies in one hand and a large Harris Teeter paper sack in the other. “Hi,” he said, eyeing her uneasily. “Um, maybe I should have called first?”
Brooke’s hands flew to her hair. “Oh, shit.” She must have looked like something from a bad seventies sitcom.
“I just wanted to apologize for last night,” he said, thrusting the flowers at her. “I was a jerk and an unforgiveable ass.”
“You really were,” Brooke agreed, sniffing the flowers.
He held the paper sack in both hands now, looking like a penitent first grader. “I brought you a peace offering. Coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, croissants…”
“Come on in, then,” Brooke said, opening the door wider. She gestured toward the small, shabby living room, grateful that she’d picked up all the toys and preschooler detritus that usually littered the room. “Sit there and pour yourself some coffee. I have to deal with this.” She pointed toward her head.
