“Well, tell me you’re at least carrying your pepper spray with you. That many people crammed into a tiny space, and you’re practically begging to get mugged.”
“I wonder which one will kill me first,” Brooke mused. “The pollution or the mugging?”
“Or a runaway cab,” her mother said. “I’ve heard some of them don’t even have their driver’s licenses.”
“Where?” Brooke challenged. “Where have you heard that?”
“At least tell me you’re happy,” her mom said, ignoring the question.
“Of course!” Brooke said, the response rolling off the tip of her tongue before she had a chance to even consider the question.
But it was true—she really was happy. She loved her apartment. Loved her job. Loved her clients, and her work colleagues, who were slowly but surely becoming her friends. She was even growing to love the city, which, while admittedly completely different from what she was used to, was a bit addictive.
So what if she was a little lonely sometimes? If she ached for the unmistakable caress or touch of a lover at the end of a long day, someone to listen to her stories and pour her a drink as she walked in the door and kicked off her shoes? Brooke firmly believed that happiness was a choice, and she was choosing to be happy, therefore . . . she was.
“I’m glad,” her mother said cautiously.
“I really like it here,” Brooke said, consciously quieting her voice so it didn’t come off quite so manic.
“Good,” her mother said with an audible sigh of relief. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the selfish in me wants you to come back home so I can make you my homemade kale cakes while we watch Real Housewives of Orange County, but the part of me that’s a rather exceptionally well-adjusted parent is glad to see you thriving.”
Brooke laughed. “I miss you guys, Mom.”
“We miss you, too, sweetie. Did I tell you I found a package of Oreos in your father’s sock drawer?”
“No! Not Oreos,” Brooke said in an exaggeratedly scandalized tone. “What’s next? Cocaine?”
Brooke’s father went along with his wife’s health-nut crazes, but only to a point. He’d embraced meatless Mondays, developed a taste for quinoa, and could choke down a smoothie in the morning, but he refused to give up his Saturday-morning bacon, his Friday-night martini, or, apparently, his Oreos.
“He said he was stress eating,” Heidi said. “Because he missed you.”
“Aw, that’s sweet,” Brooke said. “Good to know I can be replaced with chocolate wafers and fake sugary cream.”
“That’s what I said!”
Brooke smiled at the legitimate outrage in her mother’s voice. “So other than your new yoga place and Oreo-gate, how are you guys? Anything new?”
There was a moment of silence, and Brooke’s smile slipped. Her mother’s moments of silent were rare, and they almost always were a precursor to not-great news.
“Well, sweetie.”
Brooke closed her eyes. “Lay it on me, Mom. Whatever it is, I can take it.”
“It’s about Clay,” her mother said in a rush.
Brooke sucked in a breath, even though she’d known that that’s what any bad news must be about. It was just that she wasn’t used to hearing his name. Her friends and family went out of their way to avoid mentioning him, so if her mom was bringing it up now, it must be important.
“You know his trial’s coming up,” Heidi continued quietly.
Brooke said nothing. She’d known, of course, in the back of her mind, and had even started to prepare herself for hearing his name in the news again, maybe even hearing her own name. But she resented his intrusion on her life just as she was starting to get her feet back under her.
“Well, I guess we knew it was coming,” Brooke said, keeping her voice calm. She started to take a sip of her latte, but the sugary, foamy taste suddenly turned her stomach, and she set it aside.
“That’s not all, honey,” her mom said. “The thing is . . . well, we had a meeting with the prosecutor last week.”
Brooke tensed. “Why did the lawyer want to talk to you guys?”
Her mother fell silent again, and Brooke groaned. “Mom. Please. Rip off the Band-Aid.”
“Your father lost most of our retirement fund in one of Clay’s scams,” her mother blurted.
No.
Must breathe. Must get air.
There was no air in this office.
Brooke put a hand to her chest and forced herself to draw in a ragged breath.
“Sweetie, say something,” her mother begged.
“Tell me you’re joking,” she said when she was convinced she was no longer going to pass out.
“I wish. We didn’t want you to know. You’d already been through so much, and we both felt so foolish, but they want us—your father—to testify.”
Brooke let out a little manic laugh. Her dad was going to be testifying against her fiancé. Ex-fiancé.
Brooke’s father was the senior vice president of marketing for a major Hollywood studio. His income wasn’t insignificant, which meant that his retirement account likely hadn’t been, either. And Brooke’s mother had sold her organic bakery for some hefty sum a couple of years earlier, most of which they’d set aside . . .
For retirement. Which they’d now lost, thanks to Brooke’s stupidity.