To the nearest liquor store.
If I’m sinking with this guy, I’m going down my way.
MASON
“Next week, then. Have a good night.”
I wave to everyone, parents and attendees as they leave the studio after class. Trish gives me a gracious look on her way out, silently thanking me for the third time tonight for orchestrating this.
She doesn’t need to thank me. I’ve wanted to get something like this started for years, and without her help spreading the word I’m not sure when or if it would’ve happened. I’m the one who’s grateful. Elated, actually. I’m running on a mysterious energy. The best kind of high. What a difference from yesterday and the day before when I tortured myself by avoiding all contact with Brooke.
Now, I don’t need to avoid her. I just need to find her.
Where the hell did she run off to?
I take the stairs two at a time and burst through the door, stepping out into my loft. After turning on the nearby lamp, I swipe my phone off the table and dial her number. It rings until her voicemail clicks over. My eyes pinch shut.
For fuck’s sake, Brooke.
Worry pricks at my encouraging mood. Is she having a minor freak out? Over-thinking things again? And so soon . . . I was at least hoping for a few days of bliss with her before I had to talk her off another ledge.
I shoot her a quick text, asking if everything is all right, then strip off my shirt and toss it onto a chair.
I step into the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face. I run my wet hands through my hair and along the back of my neck. My reflection stares back at me, one I recognize from the past two days. Laden with uncertainty and tension.
Fucking hell. She ran out of here. She ran away from me.
As I debate on taking an actual shower to keep myself here and not pacing the streets, a habit I’ve acquired as of recently, a knock sounds on the front door, startling me. I move swiftly through the room and tug on the handle.
Brooke pushes past me the second the door swings open. I inhale a lung full of soft vanilla.
She’s here. That’s a good sign. I begin to breathe a bit easier, my anxious mind starting to settle.
“Hey. You had me worried. I thought maybe you were changing your mind.” I close the door and watch her move into the kitchen.
She sets a bottle on the table. Tall, amber in color. Tequila.
Our eyes lock.
All right. Instead of pulling away, I’m now driving her to drink? Not sure this classifies as progress or not.
“Everything all right, Brooke?”
A small laugh bubbles on her lips. She unscrews the bottle, bringing it to her mouth for a taste. “I am so mad at you right now.”
I watch her take a sip, then another. “Why?”
“Why?” she echoes, pointing at me with the bottle in her hand. Her eyes narrow. “You know exactly why.” Taking another sip, she moves around the room with the bottle, gesturing with her free hand. “How long have you been planning this for, Mason? Since that first day, in front of your studio? Or maybe in the alley when I made you lay it all out there for me? Was this always your motive?”
She takes another sip of tequila as she paces in front of the window.
I rub my jaw, moving closer to the bed. I have no idea what she’s referring to. “Brooke, what exactly . . .”
“I mean, you knew!” she yells, not in anger though. Disbelief maybe? Her voice breaks with a short burst of laughter. “You knew from that first day what I wanted out of this. From that first day. It wasn’t a secret. Then you go and convince me to try things your way, with false intentions, I might add.”