The game had stretched on well after ten, and Brook said good night before the last of our guests left for the evening. Even though I was still upset, I couldn’t resist snuggling up to him when I finally crawled in bed. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself pulled back against him.
Even in a fight, we wanted to be close to each other. That has to be a good sign, right?
But I still wasn’t ready to behave like a grown-up on Monday night. I skipped secretly watching wrestling—and it’s too bad, it looked like a good lineup of matches—because I didn’t want to be home and available to resume our fight when he came home. I’d been tempted to go to the bar to watch the game with everyone else in the league, but I didn’t want to break my “no-Monday Night Football without the other person” promise. Instead, I went to dinner and a movie with Meg. I purposefully chose a film that didn’t get out until well after Brook’s usual bedtime.
To be safe, I stopped by the grocery store on the way home. Passive aggressive? Yes, but Blitz needed food. And we were out of coffee and milk. Brook would’ve missed both when he woke up this morning. I was being a good provider for my family. And I’d sent him texts to keep him informed of my whereabouts. And I’d responded to a few of the random texts he sent me. We’re not completely freezing each other out.
Still, I was extra careful not to wake him when I slipped into bed. I watched him sleep for a few minutes before I finally drifted off. My last conscious thought was about how much I missed him, and how I wished I had the courage to be the first to say, “I’m sorry.”
By tonight, I was ready to make nice, but he wasn’t around. And after two late nights in a row, I didn’t have the energy to stay up. I’d crawled into bed at eight and dozed until I heard the front door open.
Now I’m lying perfectly still under the covers, listening to Brook’s movement throughout the apartment. He quietly chats with Blitz while he starts the microwave. Good. He found my note about the plate of leftover stir-fry.
I should go sit with him while he eats his reheated dinner. I should ask him about his day. I should find out how the test he gave in AP American History went. I should check to make sure everyone on the team is healthy going into the playoffs. I should see if he’s heard from the Paxtons lately. I should massage the tension out of his neck—it’s been steadily building since August. I should tell him about my day. I should tell him about my own drama at work.
I should get out of bed and do all of that, but I stay put.
It’s like I’m immobilized by the fear that Brook will tell me he can’t deal with my moodiness and drama. That he’ll say he needs a more understanding woman; someone who can hold down the fort while he does battle.
I can’t be that person. I’m not one for keeping the home fires burning. Not when I’d rather be out conquering my own world, whatever that includes.
He has to understand that. He has to understand me. He has to give us another chance. We’ve invested too much to throw it away. We can’t let a dispute over going to see a cover band break us up.
We need to get through this season and the ones after as one unit. We have to find a way.
He doesn’t take long to eat, and I listen to him rinse his dishes and set them in the dishwasher.
His footsteps quietly pad toward the bedroom. I clench my eyes shut and try to keep my breathing even. The bed creaks and dips under his weight as he sits next to me.
“Harper,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Are you awake?”
Now is my chance. I can avoid confrontation or meet it head on. With the tips of his fingers, he brushes a rogue piece of hair away from my forehead.
“Harper?” he asks again.
The uncertainty in his voice is my undoing. I open my eyes and turn onto my back to gaze up at him. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he replies, a small grin playing on his lips. “Sorry to wake you.”
“It’s okay.”
Time ticks by, and we stare at each other, both seemingly trying to decide what comes next. Part of me longs to reach for him. To pull him down and kiss him until we forget there was ever any discord between us. The other, the part that’s still nursing injured feelings, holds back.
Brook’s fingers trace the curve of my cheek. “Would you do me a favor?”
I blink, a quick surge of disbelief flooding over me. This wasn’t the direction I figured we’d be headed. I assumed one of us would have to grovel or cry (okay, maybe just me on that last one) before he started volunteering me for more responsibilities with the team.
“It doesn’t require you to do anything too strenuous or time consuming,” he adds quickly, correctly interpreting my silence. “I just . . . would you please throw on a pair of jeans and come with me?”
Come with me? I bolt up in bed, panic slicing through me. “Oh my God. Is everything okay? Who’s hurt?”
“It’s okay.” Gently grabbing my shoulders before I swing my legs out of bed, Brook rubs his hands up and down my arms. “I suppose I should have led by telling you not to worry. Everything is fine. I . . . I want to show you something.”
My heart still racing, I take a deep breath through my nose to try and steady it. “And I need pants to see this?”
He nods. “And shoes. And probably a jacket.”
“Shoes and a jacket?” I let out a shaky laugh. “Sounds pretty serious.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
With a parting pat on the leg, Brook strolls out of the room, humming under his breath. I stare after him, trying to process what happened, or guess what he has in store. I’m drawing a blank on both.
In the kitchen, Brook opens and closes cupboards. Whatever we’re doing apparently requires supplies. And based on how happy and carefree he seems about the whole thing, it must be a good surprise.
I push myself out of bed to get dressed. The sooner I put on my jeans—and shoes and jacket—the sooner I find out what he has in store for us.
WE TAKE A HIGHWAY NORTH and west of town for what feels like hours. It’s probably only twenty or thirty minutes, but my eyes are too blurry from sleepiness to properly read the clock. Steering the car one-handed, Brook’s other hand rests casually on my knee. Two steaming mugs of hot chocolate are in the cup holders between us, and classic rock plays through the speakers.
Aside from asking me if I’m warm enough, Brook hasn’t said anything else. It would be a peaceful drive through the country if my mind wasn’t busy spinning, wondering what was coming next. If I was the suspicious type, I’d be nervous about how far away we are from civilization. And if Brook was the vengeful, violent type—which would be news to me—I might worry he was abducting me. But I’m not that paranoid, and he’s the opposite of vengeful.
All the same, I’ll feel a lot better when we get wherever we’re going.
After a few more miles of open, gravel road, Brook pulls to the shoulder. I glance out the window at what was probably a cornfield before the harvest. He turns off the headlights, and I blink at the nothingness, willing my eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Where are we?”
“Here.” He winks—or at least I think he does, I still can’t see properly. Reaching in the back seat, he grabs a couple of blankets and hands me one of the travel mugs. “For you.”
I stare at the mug in my hand a second, but follow him. There doesn’t seem to be any other option unless I want to wait in the car. He walks a few yards and stops in a bare patch of hard ground in the middle of overgrown grass.
“Perfect.” He spreads out one of the blankets and plops down in the middle. Glancing up at me, he pats the space between his legs. “Come here.”
My eyes narrow. Is he serious? On what planet would I ever sit on his lap?
“I’m not the cat,” I remind him. “I’m not going to crawl into your lap.”
“Come on. Please?”
With a sigh, I gingerly lower myself, still clutching the mug and shaking my head at the situation.
While I make myself as comfortable as I can between his thighs, he drapes the other blanket around us. He tucks the corners around me, wrapping an arm around my waist to trap the warmth. Leaning back against the familiar wall of his chest, I finally relax a little.
“Look up,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling my ear. A shiver of pleasure runs down my spine.
I lift my chin and stare up at the clear night sky, waiting for whatever it is Brook brought me out to see. It doesn’t take long. A bright light flickers across the sky, followed soon by another.
“Shooting stars,” I whisper. “It’s a meteor shower.”
“One of the science teachers mentioned tonight would be a good night for watching the showers,” Brook says, his voice low like mine. “When we were kids, Mom would wake us up in the middle of the night whenever there was a big event, like a meteor shower or a comet or an eclipse. She’d drive us out of town, just like this, so we could get a good look at it without the city lights. We’d be wiped the next day, but it made for a lot of good memories.”
“Sounds like it,” I murmur.
“I thought, well.” He clears his throat. “With everything going on, with all that’s happened lately, maybe we should take a moment and make one of those memories. For us.”
It’s a nice idea, made even sweeter because it comes from him. After the angry words, the tension of the past few days, here we are—capturing a moment for ourselves before it burns away in the atmosphere like a space rock. Or whatever it is meteors do.
“That’s what you were trying to do on Saturday,” Brook continues, his grip on me tightening. “You were trying to get me to stop and enjoy a moment with our friends. And I . . . I was a dick about it.”
“You were tired. And stressed out. And—”
“I’m always tired and stressed out.” He lets out a sigh. “Going to that concert would have been a fun break from everything. You were right about that. It was a nice gesture on your part, and I blew it.”
I shrug. “You didn’t mean to.”
“No, but I’ve been so caught up in this whole situation with the team. I’ve taken you and our relationship for granted.” His chest rises up and down. “You’ve been supportive, and how do I repay you? By volunteering you to chaperone trips and plan craft fairs and bake cookies—”
“What’s this about baking cookies?”
He winces. “Yeah. I forgot to mention that. Again. Would you be able to make some for the spaghetti feed the boosters are holding? They were a big hit with the kids—and coaches last time. I figured . . .”
“I can bake cookies.” It’s an easy enough way to help. And I’m already baking for the league guys once a week. “I’m glad to help. I’d stay up all night baking a thousand cookies if it would make your life any easier.”
“Careful or I might take you up on that offer.”
I nudge him, but he only pulls me tighter, planting a kiss behind my ear. “Just don’t cut me out. Please.” My throat tightens. “If we’re in this together . . . let’s be in it together. Let’s be partners with equal say.”
“Okay,” he agrees easily. “But the same goes for you, too.”
“I never cut you out,” I protest.
“Oh, come on. I’d like to think I’m a halfway intelligent guy—”
“Such humility.”
“But sometimes I mess up or don’t notice what’s happening right in front of me.” He rests his chin against my hair. “I might need you to smack me upside the head and tell me what’s going on.”
“What do you think you’re missing on my front?”
“Well . . . lately I seemed to forget that I have a beautiful, wonderful woman, who happens to be center of my world—my universe.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“She’s the center,” he repeats, ignoring my sarcastic remark. “And I need to treat her like it. Every day, not just in the off-season.”
I swallow hard against the lump that’s still forming. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“I’m sorry I gave you a reason to yell at me.”
I let out a short laugh and shake my head. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more patient.”
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t more spontaneous.”
Rather than carry on with the apologies, I set my travel mug aside and turn, cupping his face with my gloved hands. “We’re still new at this. We’ll figure it out. This time next year, we’ll be old pros.”
He murmurs my name and leans forward to kiss me. My heart pounds as his hands move down my back. I slip my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Needing to feel every inch of him.
We fall backwards, and he twists to cover me, knocking over the discarded mugs. Hot chocolate spills all over our blankets, and probably us, but I’m too preoccupied to care about the mess we’re making under the stars. Not when we’ve captured this moment, this spark between us. It’s too bright to ignore.
Brook tears his lips away at last. “We shouldn’t probably . . . I have no idea where we are . . . There could be . . .”
I look up at him through hazy eyes and he swears under his breath, dipping his head once more. This time when we part, I grab his hand and toss the damp blankets over my arm. He grabs the mugs, and we race back to his SUV. I toss the blankets in the backseat and reach for him again.
He freezes, his eyes wide. “Here?”
I nod.
He glances worriedly over his shoulder.
“We haven’t seen a car in forever,” I remind him, tugging him closer by his belt loop. “And this would be a true display of spontaneity.”
My hand dips a little lower, and fire ignites in his eyes. He tumbles after me into the back, pulling away only long enough to shut the door behind us. We toss aside our layers, not caring about how hard it will be to locate each piece of clothing later. It doesn’t matter. Not now.
Intertwining his fingers in my hair, he rests his forehead against mine. “I love you, Harper.”
His mouth covers mine before I can answer. Instead, I show him.
Later, once we’re both still catching our breaths in the back of the SUV, he pulls me against him, splaying his hand across my back to hold me close.
“You know . . .”
“Hmm?” I ask, peppering light kisses along his chin, delighting in the scratch of his day-old whiskers. It’s almost time for him to grow his annual Movember beard with the other coaches.
“Spontaneity . . . it has a lot of merits.” His hand moves lightly up and down my back. “We should take more time to explore what it has to offer.”
Chapter Seventeen
MONDAY NIGHT I GET the same text I’ve received every other Monday night for the past two months.
Brook: Practice is running long, and I have to meet with the assistants. Be home late.
Only now, instead of experiencing even a twinge of disappointment, my heart speeds up in excitement. The tension around us has melted considerably since we had our talk—and oh-so-satisfying tumble—under the stars. We still had a tiny spat when he rolled his eyes about last night’s Sunday Night Football song from Journey, but we kissed and made up.
We’re somewhat back in our pre-football honeymoon zone.
Which means tonight, with Brook safely tucked away at the high school, I can happily indulge in my new guilty pleasure without interruption. After my hectic work schedule the past couple of weeks followed by an equally busy weekend with our families, I deserve this. The moms had basically made me promise I’d make some “me” time following my panic attack in the kitchen a few weeks ago.
Settling on our bed with a bag of freshly popped popcorn and a bottle of water, I flip open my laptop and turn on the TV. I can still track my fantasy game without actually watching it.
I also have some paperwork from the dealership. I’m not going to let it slack just because our jobs might not be around months from now. I also have some follow-up material to send Mr. White and the other lawyers. After returning to their respective firms
to study their findings, they had a few questions. With any luck, I’ll answer them and prove why the Lincoln branch has more worth open than closed.
Blitz chirps while he hops up onto the bed to curl up on Brook’s pillow to watch TV.
“It’s time for wrestling, little guy.” I lean over and scratch behind his butterscotch ears. “Think any of our favorites will be up tonight?”
In response, Blitz tucks his face and tail into his paws. Even he judges his mommy’s new hobby. I don’t have time to worry too much about his unnecessary criticism. It’s starting. The screen flashes with shots of hulking men—who I’ve now learned are legendary wrestlers—and the show’s theme music.
The announcers’ voice sound from the screen as the camera pans the arena in Austin, Texas, where tonight’s matches are being filmed. They talk about redemption and the never-ending quest for a wrestler to prove his legacy. That can mean only one thing.
“Randal Ryan is going to be in a match tonight,” I tell an unimpressed Blitz. “I bet he’ll go up against that creepy jerk with the nasty, pit-stained shirt.”
Then, like I’ve cued it, Ryan’s theme music plays to the thunderous cheers of the crowd. I clap my hands excitedly from my seat at home.
“Called it,” I sing to Blitz, who curls up even smaller. “Sounds like we’re going to have ourselves a nice little main event.”
Waiting for the crowd to quiet down, Randal Ryan lifts a microphone that somewhat magically materialized in his hands. Over the lingering shouts, he says, “A lot of people have questioned my ability to earn a heavyweight title. Well, last night, I proved the naysayers wrong when I made my opponent, Mike the Cobra . . . Eat. His. Words.”
The cheers rise again, and Ryan pauses, a bright smile on his face as he points to an audience member waving a sign with “Randal Ryan for President” written across it in bold black and blue letters.
“But to those of you who question my ability to keep this honor,” he shouts, waving his championship belt in the air. “I say . . . Bring. It. On. I will fight to keep what is mine. The only way you’ll take this from me is if you . . . Beat. Me. Down.”
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