One More Time (Bremmy 1)

Chapterish 19

The calm after the storm.

LOL.

"What do you want to do?" Brooks asks.

The way he asks it makes me stay quiet. I know he isn't asking what I want to do now. I know it's more than that. I turn my neck against the pillow to look at him. He's staring straight up at the ceiling.

"I don't know," I sigh, biting my lip. "I don't have any answers."

Brooks looks down at me and grins. "Don't look at me. I don't have them either."

"At least we agree on something," I laugh.

"You still want to get married and have a picket fence for your dogs or kids or whatever else you used to want? Big wedding and fancy house?" Brooks asks, his eyes flashing.

"Not that fancy. And the fence was for the kids." I laugh.

"Course," Brooks mumbles.

"Who knows. So many things I used to want don't really make sense anymore," I say. Like how much I HATED Brooks less than two weeks ago. How much I never wanted to see him again.

"Did you ever come close?" Brooks looks at the ceiling again. "To the picket fence life, I mean."

My stomach tightens as I think about the years I spent *wasted* wondering about the life I could have or should have had. I dated lots of dudes, some more than others. But the truth is the image of the picket fence married life died along with our relationship. Those visions left my head when he left me.

"Once or twice I thought about it. Never seemed right, not truly." My voice is quiet. I roll my eyes at the seriousness and clear my throat. "How about you, huh? Must have ladies lining up to get you a fence."

"Tons." Brooks shrugs beneath me. "Never found fence I fancied enough. Always found an issue with them all. Shotty workmanship."

"Ha-ha," I laugh, nudging his ribs.

"So you've been close once or twice," Brooks says, recapping. "But how many guys have you dated? If you call it date or whatever..." Brooks asks.

"If I date or whatever?" I ask, raising my eyebrow.

"You know, do you often casually sleep with people?" Brooks looks at me closely.

"Well, that took a turn," I smirk.

"What do you mean? It's just a question." Brooks pulls back from me.

"Seriously, you're asking my number? What are you 18 again?" I can't help but laugh.

"No. If I were 18 again, I'd know the answer was one."

"Yea, lucky you," I mumble.

"Seriously, give me an estimate," Brooks nudges me.

"I don't know, Brooks."

"Don't know like you don't want to tell me or don't know like it's that many?" His eyes are intense now and his voice is losing its playful beat.

"Dude, what's with the interrogation? What's your number, huh? I know it ain't one anymore." I squeeze his arm.

"Doesn't matter what mine is," Brooks says.

"Excuse me?" I push myself back away from him so I can fully take him in. "Doesn't matter what yours is?"

"How come you won't answer?" Brooks asks, his voice dangerously accusatory.

"How come you're asking? How come this conversation is real right now?" I ask.

"Just answer, Em." Brooks crosses his arms over his chest. The corners of his butterfly wings are peeking out.

"Nah, don't think I will. Don't really appreciate the slut-shaming right now." I sit up in his bed, pulling the sheets around me.

"It's obviously warranted if you can't even tell me how many dudes you've dated," Brooks says harshly.

"Excuse ME? Do you hear yourself, Brooks? How many girls have YOU dated?" I yell, careful to air-quote the shit out of dated.

I know he doesn't care how many nice dinner-and-a-movie nights I've spent with people. Anger is boiling inside me right now. How can he even ask when he has no right to? How can he make me feel bad for not being 18 anymore?

"Just wondering if you make a habit of it." Brooks sits upright too.

"Well, I know YOU do!" I scoff. "You're revolting. You're such a fucking douche! News flash, NOT a topic for bed conversation." I'm on my feet, collecting my soaked hoodie and tissue-paper thin tank.

"So, you're leaving then?" Brooks asks. He's still sitting in the middle of the bed.

"Sure looks like it, huh? You remember what it's like, right? Walking away?" I try to make my voice sound hard, steady. But I know it doesn't.

The weaker side of me is close to tears right now. Brooks knows how to ruin anything and everything. I really should expect it by now.

"Great, enjoy the rest of your summer," he says.

"It'll sure be better than this!" I fake a cheery tone.

My throat is tight, like the pre-cry kind of tight. Motherfucker.

I stomp out of his door and onto the porch. The thunder and lightning stopped, but it's still raining. When I'm off the porch and on the sand, it's OK to let the tears out. The rain falls onto my face and washes them away.

I tell myself it's out of character. That Brooks behaving like a sexist pig is atypical behavior. But I can't even know that it's true. I don't know him anymore. I only know the idea of him. The memory of who he was before.

As I grab my bike and start peddling over the cracked blacktop, I wonder if this is how we leave it. If this is the end.

Does it even matter?

Can't be worse than the last time.