Page 18 of Love and Other Chances

“It was really fun,” I reply, smearing butter on the steaming muffin. Taking a large bite, I moan with pleasure. “I’ve missed your baking,” I add. The compliment is sincere, although it’s also a diversion to buy time before the inevitable. I can’t avoid telling my mom that Brooks is back. Not after last night.

“Where did everyone wind up staying?” Mom had generously offered to house anyone who needed a place to sleep after our outing, so it’s a valid question. But the answer is the point of no return for the Brooks conversation.

I take another bite of muffin.

“Actually, most everyone had to cancel,” I begin. “Only one other person was able to come, and he stayed at his dad’s house.”

“Oh, really? What’s his name?”

Another completely valid, non-intrusive question. It’s simply one I wish I could avoid.

I clear my throat. “Ummm, well, ironically enough, as it turns out, when the small group formed, it just so happened that one of the guys who joined was . . .” I trail off, avoiding eye contact with what I know is my mom’s piercing stare. “It was Brooks.”

Silence. I dare a quick peek at my mom’s facial expression. Her very shocked facial expression.

“Brooks as in . . . ?” she questions.

“Brooks, Brooks.”

“Brooks Murphy?” she clarifies. But it doesn’t really sound like a question.

I nod.

“Oh, boy.” Mom blows out a breath.

“But it’s fine!” I say. “It caught me off guard at first because, I mean, what in the small world are the chances? But we’re both mature adults. We’ve grown and changed. We can handle being friends! Wearehandling being friends.”

“Okay.” Her tone of voice says the word as a statement, but her eyes clue me in that it was more of a question.

“It’s really okay,” I reassure her. “I can handle it.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not seventeen anymore. We had fun last night without it being awkward at all.”

I completely leave out all irrelevant information, such as Brooks’ pensive expression while singing “Love Story.” Or him rescuing me from a drunk man. Or the brush of his fingers against my elbows. Or the melancholy heartache in my chest that won’t dissipate.

“If you say so,” she remarks. “Wait—you said that he was staying at his dad’s house. What about Angela? Are she and Steven not together anymore?”

My expression falls at her question, and I can see on my mom’s face that she senses the answer before I even explain Brooks’ loss.

“Their poor family. Oh, that’s so heartbreaking,” Mom says, dabbing tears from her eyes. “Angela always was a special soul.” I nod my agreement, unable to say anything more.

“Well, how’s the rest of life going?” my mom asks.

Appreciating the opportunity to move on from the sadness in the room, I tell my mom about all of the different groups and individuals I’m leading with Arrow this year. We discuss my job extensively before pivoting to hers. I love the way her demeanor lights up when she talks about her executive assistant role.

“Of course, you’re killing it, Mom,” I praise her. “I’m not surprised at all that your boss gave you a raise already.” She blushes at my compliment, but I can tell how much it genuinely means to her.

“When’s the next time Logan will be home?” I ask.

“Probably not until Christmas,” Mom replies with a sigh. “He’s taking some big guys’ fishing trip over Thanksgiving week. Something about better rates. But he promised he’d be here for a week at Christmas. I’ll go visit him in St. Louis sometime before then.”

I drain the rest of my lukewarm coffee before announcing, “Okay, I desperately need a shower.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell you that you smell, but . . .” Mom trails off with a cheeky grin. I roll my eyes at her before retreating to my room to shower and get dressed. I have about four hours before Brooks will pick me up to drive back to Brooklyn, and I’ll need every possible minute to prepare myself to spend another three hours alone with him.

“Let me get this straight. You spent every summer during collegeat the beach?” Brooks glances over at me as he asks the question, a teasing grin on his face.

I slap him on the arm, light enough he won't swerve the steering wheel but hard enough to express my displeasure at his prodding. “We were not lying out on the beach all day! Yes, we were in Florida, but Summer Projects were a lot of hard work. Especially as a leader. You’re working a full-time job plus doing all the meetings and group Bible studies in the evenings and on the weekends. I barely slept. I swear it wasn’t all fun and games.”

“But there were still fun and games. At the beach for eight weeks.” His lighthearted tone and taunting smirk reveal that he’s still having too much fun messing with me.

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