Page 37 of Crossing Into Brooklyn

“We both know that drink in your hand won’t be your last.”

That’s a fact.

“I’ll go with you to the station tomorrow. We can stop for breakfast on the way,” she suggests.

“Will you stop worrying if I agree?”

“For now,” she concedes.

“All right. Then you can take me to breakfast.”

Brooklyn grabs my glass and hers. “Bottoms-up, then!”

Just so long as bottoms-up doesn’t lead to tops-down.

***

I feigned exhaustion to coerce Brooklyn into heading to bed. I should be asleep after the parade of Speakeasy drinks Brooklyn mixed. I can’t seem to quiet my mind—or any other part of my anatomy. We talked until after midnight. Brooklyn told me she’s considering broadcast journalism. She has a few friends in the business. I think she’d be fantastic. I told her as much. She’s hesitant. I know why. Brooklyn is gorgeous. That isn’t a bias opinion. Anyone would have to be blind not to notice Brooklyn. I watched tons of men and women glance her way while we shopped. She wants to be a journalist not a reporter. I told her she can be on camera and still be a serious journalist. I offered her at least a dozen examples. In this day and age, her work is likely to reach far more people on camera. That seemed to warm her to the idea.

Brooklyn’s not the least bit conceited, not about her appearance or her intelligence. And she is every bit as smart as she is beautiful. She received her bachelor’s from Columbia, and a master’s from NYU. But people can’t see intellect or education when a person walks by. She’s aware that others view her as attractive. I think there are times that makes her uncomfortable. She fears what people can see on the outside will eclipse the woman who exists underneath. I can’t say I relate. I’m not a woman who has spent much time being complimented for my physical attributes by women or men. People call me funny, kind, sensitive, talented—someone who possesses an “inner” glow. I suppose that’s meant to be complimentary. It often feels like a justification to find me worthy. Ali is a bit of a looker. I also wish I could claim I’ve grown comfortable with the fact that people initially gravitate to Ali when we are together—at least those who are seeking any type of sexual or romantic connection. I’ve ended up with her rejects or leftovers more times than I can count. My point is I don’t know what it’s like to be Brooklyn or Ali. I don’t need Brooklyn to explain her concerns about being in front of a camera to me. They’re obvious. It’s also evident she fears expressing those concerns might make her sound vain. Impossible. One of Brooklyn’s most alluring attributes is her humility, and I find nearly everything about Brooklyn Brady enticing.

It’s becoming more obvious by the minute that exiling my emotions toward her is a pointless endeavor. It’s driving me crazy thinking of her sleeping a few feet away. I’ve played games on my phone, tried to read, attempted to imagine the final chapters of my book—nothing is capable of distracting me from my thoughts of Brooklyn. It’d be simple if sexual fantasy plagued my mind. I know how to relieve that. I also know that lustful inclinations fade and can be replaced with a new object of interest. Have I imagined making love with Brooklyn? Yes. Not often. The pictures that frequent my thoughts are of us cooking together in the kitchen, Brooklyn sitting on Santa’s lap, holding her hand—holding her close. It’s heart-wrenching. There must have been a dozen times tonight when the word, “love,” popped into my head. I am completely unprepared for this reality and determined to find a way to keep my cool.

Tossing and turning has become my nightly routine. Maybe when Brooklyn finishes her work next week, she’ll quietly slip away, and gradually my feelings will follow. That’s laughable. Brooklyn isn’t going anywhere. She’s made it clear that our friendship means something to her. It means something to me too. I know I’ll never push her away. The question is when something or more likely, someone will pull her away. I pound my pillow and flop my head back onto it. There’s no sense in fighting the images rolling in my brain. Better to fall asleep thinking about Brooklyn than remain awake until morning. I close my eyes and let my feelings dictate my dreams. Control what you can. That’s what my mother would tell me. Let go what you cannot. I’m still learning the difference. Tonight, I don’t have the energy to resist. I take a deep breath. What could be better than dreaming about Brooklyn?

CHAPTER SIX

DECEMBER 10th

Fifteen hours. That’s how long I sat at the keyboard. I’m relieved to be finished with this novel. I’m also wiped—mentally, physically, and emotionally. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to click send on an email. Nell can exhale too. One more deadline met. One more story in the hopper. I crawled into bed at five this morning. I could swear I just fell asleep when my phone pings with a message from Nell.

“What’s on deck next?”

Is she serious? A break. That’s what’s next. I need a few weeks before I start thinking about tackling another novel. I’ll think about it after the holidays. I should be grateful for the message. Without it, I likely would have overslept. Brooklyn is due to arrive sometime around nine. That gives me half an hour to make myself look like something resembling a human—a human woman. Good luck. I pull myself out of bed and head for the bathroom. Lord, help me. I’m not sure who is looking back at me. I swear I’ve aged about twenty years in the last twenty-four hours. It’s going to take a lot more than a hot shower and a vat of coffee to remedy this mess. I don’t even think a pound of makeup will help. My eyes look like I spent an epic night smoking pot and drinking whiskey. I laugh. That’s probably what a few people think I do after they read my books. Laughing brings about an unexpected coughing fit. Fabulous. Hopefully, a hot shower will help. At least I won’t stink. “Realistic goals, Carter,” I tell myself as I step into the shower. “Take the small wins.” Can I go back to bed now?

***

I open the door for Brooklyn. She steps inside and sets down her bag.

“You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Brooklyn presses her palm to my forehead. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“I’m just over-tired.”

I watch as Brooklyn sheds her coat and drapes it over the chair. When she turns to face me again, her eyes narrow with worry.

“I finished the book.” I don’t have the chance to continue. A deep cough grips my chest.

“Carter.” Brooklyn grabs the coffee cup in my hand and places it on the counter. She takes my hand and starts to lead me from the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” I argue.

“You’re full of shit.”

I start to chuckle. I can’t even be amused without coughing.

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