Where You Are
“Yeah.”
*** *** ***
GRAHAM
Yesterday morning, I woke up in bed with Brooke. Dressed and on top of the covers, but still. Not exactly the sort of thing I’d want my mother, my daughter or my girlfriend to walk in on, no matter how innocuous it was.
She woke when I was starting to move out from under her leg (imprisoning my thigh) and her hand (on my chest, gripping my t-shirt). Smiling up at me, she said, “Morning.”
I froze. “I’m sorry. I guess I was pretty wiped last night.”
“Me, too. It’s no problem. I liked sleeping with you.”
What the hell could I say to that?
And then she shifted up and kissed my jaw. I was fully awake by the second kiss, which landed just under my ear. She made a disappointed noise when I sat up, while I scrambled for something to say. Sitting up behind me, she pressed her chest to my back, her fingers trailing down my arm, and I stood and spun around to face her.
“Brooke, I hope falling asleep next to you didn’t give you the wrong impression, but nothing’s changed between us. You’re one of my oldest friends—but that’s what we are. Friends. You understand that, right?”
She smiled with those shuttered eyes. “Yes, I know, Graham. And I’m fine with that.”
I know Brooke has different relationship parameters than I do, but she’s going to have to defer to mine. Kissing? Sleeping together? Not things I do with friends. “Um. Okay.”
She swung her legs to the ground and took my hands in hers. “That doesn’t mean I’m blind to how great you are, or that I don’t sometimes, you know, think about you in other ways…”
Shit. “Brooke—”
“Hey, shh, I’m just talking. No danger, see?” She dropped my hands, still smiling. “Emma better take good care of you, though, or she’ll have to answer to me!” Her tone was so lighthearted that I felt almost silly for the warning I sensed under the words.
“It would probably be better if you don’t stay here anymore—and I know you’ll be in New York while you’re filming this fall—”
She waved a hand. “I’m getting my own place. No worries.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, I figured I was going to be here three or four months, and I’ve recently considered moving to New York, so I thought I’d sublet a place, see how I like it.”
While I was trying to imagine Brooke—every inch a California girl—living in Manhattan instead of Hollywood, she tossed her empty suitcase on the bed and gave me a gentle push. “Now scoot. I have to get packed and ready to go back to LA.”
***
Emma’s phone has been off since late yesterday, right after she hung up on me. She never signed in to Skype last night, I don’t know her home number, and it’s unlisted. I don’t have Emily’s number, either. My choices were limited to watching her on Ellen or getting on a plane.
I opted to do both.
I’m not a guy who makes rash decisions. Yet, I boarded a cross-country flight five hours ago with no thought in mind but see Emma.
I still don’t understand the whole photo-in-bed thing, and Brooke never answered my text asking her about it. If such a photo exists, Brooke must have taken it… and texted it to Reid? In what universe does that make any sense?
Watching Emma and Reid on Ellen supplied my final incentive to do something, anything. When he took her hand and kissed it, I had to stand and pace the room to keep from destroying the TV. And when he said, “We might as well come clean,” I think my heart actually stopped beating. He then proceeded to take every bit of tabloid gossip ever written about them and weave it into one insane story, but the way he looked at her said more than his words.
I know he wants her still. Why wouldn’t he? Even if I doubt his capacity to comprehend what a loving, compassionate person she is. He’s shallow and he has access to beautiful girls everywhere he goes, but it’s rare when one turns him down. He may want her for no other reason than to clear up that misstep in his perfect record, and that rouses the protective, possessive thing in me like nothing ever has.
I get a taxi straight to the hotel I booked, since even gaining three hours between New York and California didn’t get me here early enough to casually stop by her house. It’s almost 11:00 p.m. When I’m checked in, I try calling her again. Her phone is still off. That, or she’s blocked my number. My God, she’s stubborn. I can’t help smiling at that, because her obstinacy is what kept her from sleeping with Reid last fall.
I hit Brooke’s speed-dial number. If she’s not answering texts, maybe she’ll answer a call.
“Graham! Hi, baby.” Great. She’s more than a little trashed.
“Hey, Brooke. Quick question—I texted you last night about a photo you may have taken of the two of us…?”
The blaring pop music and voices yelling back and forth in the background tell me she’s at a club. “A photo? What? I can barely hear you.” She giggles and says something about another round to someone. “Oh, do you mean the one I took of us sleeping? Oh shit—I deleted that! How did you get it?” Well, that answers one question.
“Who did you send it to, Brooke?”
“What? Oh. I think just Reid.”
“You think—” I stand and pace. Inhale. Exhale. “Why in hell would you send him that? In fact, why in hell did you take it?”
“Don’t be mad, Graham. I’m really sorry. I was still a little hammered when I did it. It was stupid. I’m really, really sorry!” My teeth grit and I almost hang up, because I’ve got the information I need and she’s so out of it she probably won’t even remember this conversation.