“So, you’re what—friends—now?” I can’t blame her for being incredulous. The idea of Brooke and me ever being friends is ludicrous. She glances out her window and adds, “And where are we, by the way?”
I chuckle. “We’re stopping for breakfast tacos at this very authentic place I know. And let’s just say Brooke and I have reached an understanding.”
Her brow knits as she takes in the East LA scenery. “Is this a safe spot for us to stop?”
“This car is like the Batmobile. It’s bulletproof.”
She peers at me. “Is that true?”
“Um…” I laugh at her gullibility and she swats my arm.
Pulling into a patchy, fissured parking lot and trying to avoid the potholes, I park and pull out my cell. Emma stares at the row of multi-ethnic businesses while I make a short call. With a limited Spanish vocab stemming from a lifetime of Hispanic caregivers and housekeepers, I request my usual order, doubled. Five minutes later, a tattooed guy in a wife-beater and a loosely-tied apron exits the restaurant storefront with a paper bag and two coffees. He makes a beeline in our direction. The Lotus would stand out in this lot even if it wasn’t yellow.
My window slides down noiselessly. “Gracias, Raul,” I say, passing the coffees to Emma and swapping a twenty for the bag.
Raul pockets the money and tips his chin up once, murmuring, “De nada,” before sauntering back inside.
Handing off the cream containers and sugar packets to Emma, I unwrap one of the small stuffed tortillas, suddenly starving. I’ve already finished one and am starting another while she’s mixing her coffee. By the time I’m backing out, I’ve finished a second burrito and Emma is taking her first tentative bite.
“Good?”
She nods. “Potato? And—?”
“Cabrito.” I hope she doesn’t know what that is.
Her brow furrows. “Is that… goat?”
Damn. “I said it was authentic…” She doesn’t look too disgusted. “Not as bad as tuna, huh?” I remind her of our first official onscreen kiss. MiShaun had admonished me for eating tuna sandwiches beforehand, and I’d played cool about it in front of them and then sprinted to my PA and demanded a toothbrush and toothpaste before we did the scene.
Emma laughs while finishing her bite, holding a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
My answer is an indirect smile and nothing more, because all I’m remembering right now is the sweetness of her kiss. Brooke can’t get her half of this insane arrangement completed quickly enough for me.
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?”