Page 50 of Falling into Place
Brooks scrubbed a hand down his face, any and all thoughts of chess strategy disappearing altogether. “She’s part of the team making the whole thing happen, and she mentioned its success somehow being important for her job, too. I don’t think it’s an option.”
“So you wait, then,” Coach said, as if it were just that simple. “How much longer do you have to be auctioned off?”
“What? God, I’m not ... That’s not ...” Brooks pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what, never mind. I have two and a half months to go.”
“That’s not too bad. If she’s the one for you, she’ll be worth the wait.”
Brooks kept his expression carefully neutral. Even if he was a little rough around the edges, Coach adored his wife and was absolutely a commitment man. It wouldn’t do any good to tell him Brooks wasn’t looking for “the one.” On the contrary, he wanted to steer clear of anything resembling it.
But when it came to spending time with someone he enjoyed being around and had fun with, Coach was right: Carly stood out, well above the rest. Obviously he found her attractive, and if by some coincidence she felt the same about him—and understood he wasn’t interested in anything deeper—he could probably get on board with taking things one step past friendship.
He just had to figure out if that was what he wanted. If it was, and even if he managed to wait until theLiveOKCproject was over, starting something with his sister’s best friend would be complicated in more ways than one, for both of them.
He wasn’t sure an added level of complexity was a good idea, and honestly, he wasn’t convinced she’d find him worth the trouble.
Chapter Thirteen
Brooks
Just be yourself. Trust me—it’s better to learn up front you’re not compatible than fake it early on and realize your mistake when it’s too late and you’ve wasted both of your time.
—Carly Porter to Brooks Martin
Coach was in the doghouse.
After the man who was like a second father to Brooks had opened his big mouth, Brooks had spent the rest of the weekend thinking about their conversation.
And about Carly.
He got in his head about it, and it started wreaking havoc on his dates. He went out with three women over the next two weeks, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself from comparing each of them to Carly. Wondering how she might have answered a certain question differently, or if she’d have been willing to order four appetizers from the brewery downtown and divvy them up as their meal (Danielle had not been so inclined).
Though, to be fair, the third date was a failure all on its own, without any inadvertent help from Coach or Carly.
Sasha partnered with several small businesses in the Paseo Arts District and suggested he take a date on a First Friday Gallery Walk, a monthly event where every store in the area stayed open late for the public to walk through their shops and stop at the various restaurants along the way. He thought it sounded cool, so that’s where he invited Taryn, the graphic designer he’d been messaging, to meet him.
She showed up in some sort of sequin skirt and shiny red platform shoes, which seemed like a strange choice for a casual perusal of art galleries in a district that could only be described as full-on hipster.
Then again, he only looked presentable tonight because of Carly, and who knew what he’d have worn if left to his own devices. So he gave Taryn the benefit of the doubt.
The first stop was a gallery of sculptures, and Taryn giggled each time they passed any with partial nudity, earning side-eyes from the other observers.
She’s probably nervous. You’re a doctor and not everyone’s as comfortable with the human body as you.
He asked a few questions (he was basically a small-talk master by this point) as they made their way to the next gallery, some of which she answered and others he had to repeat because she was distracted, looking at her phone.
Wasn’t that, like, Rule Number One of a first date? No phones except for emergency? If it wasn’t, he’d motion for a formal addition.
At one point, she asked if they could go downtown to hit some clubs after this. Apparently she had a DJ friend working the music at Shotz, and she liked getting there early to be close to the booth. The dance floor got wild when the strobes started, a detail she’d imparted with the gravity of a business owner laying off her entire staff. He’d never heard of Shotz—and yes, when she held up their Instagram page for him to see, he made note of the spelling. It didn’t sound like his scene at all.
Flashing lights and music so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think wasn’t his definition of a good time, not to mention he was a shit dancer.
Confusion seeped in, too, because hadn’t she said in her messages she liked folk and indie rock, like him?
He suggested they stay on Paseo a little longer, wondering how he’d get out of going downtown. Their conversation was awkward and stilted, and he wondered how the hell they’d had such good conversations when messaging on the app over the past week. Judging by tonight, they had absolutely nothing in common. He even brought up Thunder basketball because she’d said in a message she loved going to games, but tonight she gave him a sort of nervous look and admitted to not going to any baseball games last year.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, now more suspicious than confused. “The Thunder’s abasketballteam. You said you were a huge fan, like me.”
She balled up her fists and pressed them together near her abdomen, shifting on her feet. “Okay, um ... There’s something you should know.”
