Where You Are

Chapter 19

GRAHAM

My research paper boasts a formidable title concerning Flannery O’Connor and didacticism… and not another complete or coherent thought. I’ve completed the research and bits of draft, but my deductions and conclusions are a jumbled mess. Thank God this one isn’t due until Friday—I still have 48 hours to finish it.

I decide to take a break and see what Mom and Cara are doing when I catch myself staring at nothing and composing a new story for Emma. She seems fond of the steamy narratives I’ve been feeding her every night.

After which I take freakishly chilly showers.

I committed to dinner tonight with Brooke, and I shouldn’t have—not with everything I have to do. I suffer from a vague sense of guilt where she’s concerned. At times I sense that she wants more from me, but she never says so. Leading a girl on isn’t something I’ve ever knowingly done, and that’s exponentially true for someone I consider to be a friend. But she’s only pushed me for more once during the course of our friendship, and she was very drunk at the time. Ignoring that whole episode seemed like the best way to deal with it.

Brooke regards her hard shell as strength. In reality, it’s nothing more than a shield, though I can’t say I blame her for it. I’m one of the few people she allows behind that barrier, and I’ve always felt the need to prove to her that relationships, including friendships, can survive without manipulation or exploitation. Whether I’ve been successful at that attempt is debatable.

Until last fall, I was sure Brooke’s damage was mostly Reid’s fault. I still believe their relationship had a lot to do with it, but having met him and watched them interact, I think they’re just too similar. Like their impairments run parallel, and some subliminal recognition of that similarity was the reason they were originally drawn to each other.

Mom always warned my sisters and me that having been raised by a psychologist, we’d all know just enough to be dangerous; I guess I should lay off the amateur analysis. In reality, I have no clue how to help Brooke beyond preserving our friendship. So that’s what I do.

I meet Mom and Cara on the staircase. My daughter is obviously ready for a nap; when I pick her up, she drops her head on my shoulder after one huge yawn. Mom continues up the stairs and I turn and follow.

“I’ve got that emergency client in about fifteen minutes, and then I have to start grading these damned finals.” The stack of Blue Books in her arms is at least four inches thick. “And don’t forget I have that faculty retirement party tonight, and I’m dragging your father along with me.”

Crap. I forgot about the party, and the client appointment—which I’m not telling her since it looks like I was on my way down to retrieve Cara because of it. “Um, I’m supposed to go out to dinner tonight… I totally forgot to ask about that, didn’t I?”

She hands me Cara’s bunny. “Call Brynn. Maybe she’s free.” Watching me from the doorway as I lay Cara in her bed, Mom tries to pretend like she’s not dying of curiosity. So not working. “Er… who did you say you’re having dinner with?”

I tuck Cara under her nap blanket with the stuffed toy. “I didn’t. It’s Brooke.”

Mom’s face falls. “Oh.”

I can’t help but laugh as soon as we’re out of the room. “Come on, Mom. You haven’t even seen her in what, two years?”

She harrumphs. “Has she made positive changes in her life since then? Started therapy? Gained some maturity or had a personality adjustment?”

Sighing, I tap out a text to Brynn to see if she can watch Cara. “Mom—try to remember that you’re a professional therapist.”

She takes my arm, a tactile connection she’s always used when she wants to make sure I’m listening. “I’m also a mother, and I can’t help wanting what’s best for my children.”

I frown down at her, knowing exactly what she’s implying. “Mom, I’m not dating her.”

One of her eyebrows crooks up in the expression we share.

“I’m seeing Emma now. I could have sworn Cassie would spill the details of that.” When we get to my room, I start reorganizing the mess of books, journals and paper on my desk and bed as she leans on my door frame.

“Oh, she did. I was just waiting to see if you’d tell me about her.” I crook an eyebrow back at her and she sighs. “Cassie liked Emma quite a bit.” A smug smile creeps across my face, and then she adds, “But watch out for Brooke. I think she has an agenda, whether you see it or not.”

I’m trying really hard not to roll my eyes like a ten-year-old girl. She makes it sound like I’m incapable of seeing Brooke in a realistic light. “Mom, I know you think I’m awesome, but not every girl I meet wants me. Plus, I’ve known Brooke for four years. Don’t you think I’d have seen some evidence of scheming if it was there?” I never told her about that drunken mistake of a kiss, of course, and I don’t plan to.

“Are you sure you haven’t?” She inclines her head as though she knows I’m withholding.

“I’m sure,” I say, in the interest of placating her.

She sighs, walking up to me. “It’s your life, honey.” Frowning again, she pushes the hair off my face, something she’s been doing to me for about a dozen years now. She likes it styled short, but has always deferred to whatever style I prefer—usually a little shaggy, unless I’m required to cut it for a film role. Cupping my chin, she stares up into my eyes. “Just don’t make me say I told you so, because you know I can’t resist saying it.”