Page 17 of Love and Other Chances

“Leave me alone,” I say, voice wobbling with panic. I place a hand on his chest to push him away when there’s suddenly another body between me and Creepy Man.

“You need to step away. She did not give you permission to touch her, and she asked you to leave her alone.” Brooks’ voice is firm, authoritative.

This guy apparently doesn’t know when to stop, though, because he tries to take another step forward.

Despite the fact that he has a good four inches on Brooks’ 5’10” stature, Brooks grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and bumps him back.

“Let go of me,” he says to Brooks, eyes narrowed. “She already told me that you’re not her boyfriend.”

There’s ice in Brooks’ voice as he replies, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I won’t yeet your gyatt right outta here if you don’t leave her alone.” He punctuates his statement with a hard shove, sending Drunk Creep stumbling backward. He glares once more at Brooks but, thankfully, turns and stalks away.

Brooks immediately swivels to me, gently clasping a hand around each of my elbows. There are shots of fear, panic, and concern mixed in with the residual anger filling his eyes. “Teegan, are you okay? I’m sorry for leaving you alone. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Painful emotions start snapping into place like cage bars around me. Panic at feeling trapped by the unwanted advances. Disgust at the guy’s hands on me. Fear of not being able to escape. Longing to bury myself in Brooks’ arms. Frustration with myself that I’m longing for Brooks.

I’m suffocating.

“Brooks . . . did you just say ‘yeet your gyatt?’” I enunciate slowly, trying to magic away the cage bars by ignoring them.

Brooks gives me an incredulous look, then groans and throws up his hands. “I’m around middle schoolers all day, every day, Teegan. Their ridiculous vocabulary seeps into my brain against my will, okay?”

“Bet,” I deadpan.

We both laugh before Brooks’ face reverts back to concern. Concern and . . . maybe something else? He asks quietly, “Do you want to get out of here? I can take you to your mom’s.”

I don’t even pause before answering. “No. I refuse to let the last memory of this fun night be some gross drunk guy. Let’s get back out there and dance some more.”

I lead the way back to the middle of the dance floor, radiating confidence with every step. But I don’t miss that Brooks stays extra close to me. I’m determined to wipe away every trace of ickiness leftbehind by that encounter, so I dance with even more abandon than before.

I start pulling out every viral social media dance I’ve ever learned, and Brooks matches me move for move, beat for beat. We egg one another on, building off of each other’s energy as the music pulses. Laughing, lip-syncing, and dancing take up every ounce of my brain space. I need it to consume every ounce, leaving no room to dwell on the growing melancholy of wishing Brooks was still mine.

Chapter eight

I’m slow to wake the next morning. Through heavy eyelids, I check the time on the clock.

10:36 a.m. But considering I didn’t fall into bed until 2:30 a.m., that’s not exactlythatlate. Especially when you add in the extra hour I spent tossing and turning in my childhood bed, unable to turn off my racing mind.

The tangle of thoughts comes back full force, effectively waking me up.

How good it felt to get out and spend an evening dancing, just for the sake of having a good time.

How fun it was to be there with Brooks, our parallel energies synthesizing exactly like they used to.

The fun being dampened by my encounter with Sketchy Guy.

Being rescued by a very protective Brooks. His commanding voice as he ordered the guy to leave me alone.I bet that’s the voice he uses when he’s scolding students who cross the line. It was kinda sexy.

No! Stop it, Teegan! No associating anything about Brooks with the word sexy. Get a grip!

I roll out of bed before my thoughts can sidetrack any further. Wrapping my throw blanket around myself, I lumber down the stairs, feet moving on autopilot.

Although my parents may not be together anymore, they’ve done their best to keep things amicable. That included my dad signing our house over to my mom in the settlement, giving Logan and me a small semblance of “normal” to return home to when we visit. I’m gratefulagain for that fact as I walk the familiar path from my room to the kitchen without consciously thinking about where I’m going.

“Morning, honey!” my mom says in a chipper but soft voice. She knows I’m not naturally a morning person. I see a plate of pumpkin streusel muffins on the counter, and my mouth immediately starts watering. “There’s caramel macchiato creamer in the fridge,” she says as she pours me a cup of coffee.

“Thanks, Mom,” I reply, swallowing a yawn. I grab the creamer from the fridge, along with the jar of Mom’s homemade cinnamon butter. Mom heats up one of the muffins in the microwave for me while I doctor up my coffee.

“How was last night?” Mom asks.

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