Page 19 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
“We’ll start with the basics and go from there,” I say. “What kind of conversations do you and Morgan have?”
“We don’t,” she replies, surprising me by not correcting his name again. “We’ve said a few things to each other at, like, staff meetings and things, but we’ve never really had a conversation until yesterday. And I got all flustered like I always do around guys.”
When I return to the couch, she’s gone bright red, her eyes locked on the throw pillow she holds.
I gently place the bag of ice on her foot. “You don’t get flustered around me.”
I say that as an indication of her ability to have a normal conversation with someone, but she must take it a different way because she rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, well, that’s because you don’t intimidate me.”
That’s a good thing. But in a weird way, it hurts that she doesn’t see me as someone intimidating. Maybe if she’d seen the Jordan Torres who was in California, the one who worked PR for some of the richest people in the state, she would change her tune.
A shudder runs through me. I hope Brooklynneversees that side of me. I hopeno onedoes. And yet my eyes jump to my laptop sitting on the floor nearby, and the urge to grab it is only curbed by the ice in my hands, which I still hold because Brooklyn is letting me help her with her injury in a rare show of vulnerability. I miraculously forgot about work for a moment there, and I need to keep my focus on Brooklyn so I don’t end up pulling up my website and spending the rest of the night deep diving into market research to find new clients. I should do that at some point this weekend, but I have a feeling Houston would somehow know it if I took my focus off of looking after his sister.
“Why is Mario intimidating?” I ask to distract myself.
Brooklyn barely resists an eye roll, though it threatens to make an appearance if I keep misnaming her crush. “He’s crazy smart,” she says.
“Ouch. Is that why I don’t intimidate you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m kidding, Queens.” Mostly.
“I just mean he’s basically a math genius, and his kids always get really good test scores which means he’s an excellent teacher too.”
That’s something. I’m pretty sure most of her past boyfriends have been way beneath her, so it’s nice to know the guy at least has some decent qualities. Teaching isn’t an easy profession, and teaching well takes some skill.
“He’s totally cultured and classy, and he has really great tastes in fashion and music. He travels all the time and probably knows a million languages based on where he’s gone. And he reads things likeMoby Dickand Jack Kerouac.”
I adjust my hold on the ice before my fingers go numb; I’ve been gripping the bag too tight. “What does this guy look like?” I ask. Right now, the image in my head is along the lines of a white Steve Urkel, complete with oversized glasses and suspenders. Not someone I can picture with the ever-gorgeous Brooklyn Briggs.
Brooklyn frowns at me. “Why does it matter?”
It doesn’t, but her hesitation has my curiosity piqued. “Just answer the question.”
“He looks like a thinner Matt Damon with, like, sharper angles.” She gets a dreamy look in her eyes that has my stomach twisting in knots. From the sound of things, he’s very much not like me, and I hate that more than I should. Brooklyn and I are never going to be an item, but my ego would like to know if she finds me attractive. It’s been a question in the back of my mind for years, even if I’ve never spoken it out loud.
Oh wait.She told me I’m attractive.This morning, though I’m not sure I can count it if she’s concussed.
Whatever. I’m counting it. Let it be known that Brooklyn Briggs finds me attractive.
“Here’s the thing,” I say, both to pull her away from her little Mark fantasy and because I’m feeling way more confident now that I’ve remembered the things she said this morning. “Conversation is crucial to any good relationship. Without it, things fall apart.” Something I know a little too well. “Try finding a common interest with Miguel and running with it as long as he seems into the topic.”
“That makes sense…” she says slowly, and her hesitation comes out clear. I’m pretty sure she grasps the concept, but she finds the execution a bit more difficult.
“Let’s practice,” I tell her, moving her legs onto my lap so I can also put my legs on the couch and face her. “Even if you’re not intimidated by a lowly landscaper, I’m sure we can at least find something in common and have a conversation. Baseball?”
Her deadpan stare makes me laugh. “Seriously?”
“You never know. It’s been a long time since I saw you last. Are there any sports you like?”
She shakes her head. “Do you listen to any podcasts?”
“Nope.” I should, though. Houston has recommended a few self-help books that he says have been changing his life one chapter at a time. His favorite stepsister recently got married, and apparently her husband suggested he read them. According to Houston, that guy is#goals. Houston practically idolizes him. “I already know you’re not big into cooking.”
“Icancook,” she argues. “I just don’t like to. Pets?”
