by T. K. Leigh
Would my life be any different? Would my father still be as overprotective as he is? Would I have been pushed to excel like I was? Would I ever have formed the friendships I did?
Would I ever have gone to that party before the start of my junior year of high school?
They say there are certain moments in our life that define who we are. For some, it’s when they discover their true passion, like music, writing, or hockey. For others, it’s when they see an injustice in the world and decide to make it their life’s mission to stop it, to put an end to hunger, poverty, hate.
For me, as silly as it sounds, the moment that defines my life is Brody Carmichael’s party the summer of 2001. It’s the summer I learned what love is.
It’s also the summer I learned what a broken heart feels like. As Aunt Gigi had told me whenever she noticed a tear trickle down my cheek as I followed my best friend, Molly, down the hallway of her house and past the door to her brother’s room, “It’s okay to be a glowstick once in a while. Sometimes we have to be broken in half before we shine.”
After that summer, I decided I would shine, even if I was as dark as night inside.
A loud horn blares, bringing me back to the present. I glance up to see the stoplight is now green, cars passing on both sides. “Shit,” I mutter to myself, stepping on the gas and rejoining the flow of traffic.
After battling the streets of downtown Boston for fifteen minutes, I pull my economical Honda in front of La Grenouille in the Financial District. A valet attendant strides toward me. I can’t help but feel him turn up his nose at my choice of automobile. Most of the patrons here drive Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs. My job at the Massachusetts Department of Children and Families doesn’t pay me enough to afford that type of car. I can barely afford the payments on my used one.
With a tight smile, I take the ticket from the attendant, then head toward the front doors of the restaurant. Tourists and professionals alike fill the sidewalks in this popular section of the city. Suit-clad commuters hurry from tall buildings and toward the closest subway station, skirting shoppers weighed down by bags, students hauling backpacks, and couples bickering over where to grab dinner. Boston has an energy I love, which is why I’ve never lived anywhere else. I doubt I ever will.
Approaching the ornate front doors, which appear to be more of a statement than a necessity, I start to pull them open when I stop, staring at myself in the reflective glass. Inadequacy washes over me. I’m about to walk into a restaurant where the price tag on most dishes is more than my mortgage. I don’t even want to consider how much the bottle of wine we’ll have is going to cost. Everyone will be wearing the latest fashion trends from designers whose names have more vowels than I can pronounce. My simple black dress came from a sales rack at a discount clothing store. Will I ever feel like I measure up?
I fill my lungs with air, doing my best to ward off my nerves. I’ve been on dozens of dates like this one. Tonight is no different. But I still can’t shake the feeling deep in my bones that everything’s about to change.
Resolved and calm, I open the door. The instant I cross the threshold, the hustle of downtown Boston disappears, the sound of cars and horns replaced with forks scraping against fine china, low conversation, and ostentation. Such is the life I’ve been immersed in since agreeing to that first date. I thought things would be different, that we’d be a normal couple who went to the movies or bowling. Then again, we aren’t most couples. He isn’t like most men. I’m still not sure whether that’s a good thing.
“Bonsoir,” the pretentious maȋtre d’ greets in a heavy French accent. “Welcome to La Grenouille.”
“I’m meeting someone here. He may have already arrived.”
“Mademoiselle Tanner?” He lifts a brow, surveying my attire.
“That’s me.”
“Magnifique. Your date is waiting. Follow me.”
He turns from me, neither smiling nor frowning, and leads me into the intimate dining area. Heavenly aromas assault my nose, making my stomach growl. Steak. Scallops. Garlic. The tables are filled with people enjoying the most delectable food presented so beautifully, you almost hate to eat it.
As I walk farther into the dining room, blue eyes catch mine and my initial worry about tonight disappears. He seems so informal, as if he isn’t sitting at a table in a restaurant where a membership fee is required to even dine. Standing, he re-secures the button on his suit jacket, a smile building on his lips. He shaved his face and trimmed his dark hair, but there are still a few curls hanging over his collar.
“My beautiful Brooklyn,” his smooth, deep voice murmurs in the refined Georgia accent that soothes and pacifies me. He leans forward and kisses my cheek, then lingers for a moment, inhaling a deep breath. “You look incredible. And you smell even better.”
I close my eyes, allowing his words to bathe me with a momentary feeling of contentment. It’s not a butterfly-inducing, can’t eat, can’t sleep sensation I feel deep in my bones. There’s only been one person who’s ever made me react that way.
“Thank you, Wes.” I pull back. “You clean up nice, too.” I wink.
The perfect gentleman, he holds my chair out for me, helping me into it. Once I’m settled, the maȋtre d’ places my napkin in my lap. Apparently, those who run five-star restaurants don’t believe we can take care of that small movement ourselves. It’s just another thing I’ve grown accustomed to since I began dating Weston James Bradford.
“How did court go?” he asks after a few moments of awkward silence. I know not to even bother asking for a menu. Wes has likely already ordered for both of us. When we first started dating, I considered it archaic and overbearing. Now it’s just part of what it means to date him. He enjoys taking care of me, making sure all my needs are met. And if he wants to order for me, I won’t complain. He’s yet to choose something I don’t like.
I reach for my glass of sparkling water and take a sip, then return it to the table. “As good as can be expected, I suppose, especially when you’re telling the judge the biological parent shouldn’t get physical custody of their children yet, and that parent is sitting in the courtroom shooting daggers at you.”
His hand clasps around mine, compassion in his gaze. “I understand how hard that must be.”
I smile, biting back my remark that he has no idea how difficult it truly is. Sure, he devotes much of his free time to designing and building homes for those in need, but his charitable work isn’t the same. He’s never had to sit in a courtroom and tell a judge he doesn’t think the person who gave birth to a child should have custody of them. As the case manager and therapist to these kids who’ve been pulled from their homes, the judge listens to my recommendation. I have to remind myself it’s my job to look out for the best interests of these children. It’s what I swore to do when I began this job. And I’ve held up that promise for the past ten years.
Just as I’m about to give him one of my standard responses, a waiter shows up, presenting a bottle of wine to Wes. My muscles relax, grateful for the interruption. After my day, I don’t want to talk about work, although that seems to be the only thing either one of us talks about lately. After being together for the better part of a year, shouldn’t we be comfortable enough in our relationship to share our dreams for a future? What are his dreams for a future? I’m not sure.
All I know about Wes is that from an early age, he wanted to design buildings. It’s in his blood. His father’s an architect and shared his love and fascination for how things are made with his son. Wes has followed in his footsteps, using his Ivy League education to build his father’s firm into one of the most sought-after companies in the country, if not the world. Wes grew up in Georgia, but attended Harvard for his undergraduate studies. After moving back home upon graduation, he missed the energy and pace of life up north. So he convinced his father to open a branch of the firm in Boston, one Wes would oversee.
He often travels around the globe, checking in on one of their many projects, p
itching to prospective clients, or overseeing the charity program he started where volunteers from his company help construct homes for those in need. Wes is a good man, one any woman would fall hard for. It doesn’t matter how many zeros are in his bank account. He still does good deeds routinely, even donating a huge portion of his annual income to charity. The world needs more people like him.
When a burgundy hue fills my vision, I snap out of my daze, offering the waiter a smile as he finishes pouring the wine. After he retreats, Wes raises his glass. I follow suit.
“To you, Brooklyn. Thanks for agreeing to date me after months and months of my begging and groveling.” With a wink, he sips his wine. I bring mine to my mouth, savoring the robust flavor.
“It wasn’t months,” I retort coyly as the alcohol coats my stomach.
“Yes, it was. Why else do you think I went to Modern Grounds in the North End when my office is in the Financial District?”
I swirl the wine in my glass, the liquid coating the sides. Before I met Wes, I was never much of a wine drinker. Over the past several months, he’s spoiled me in that area, the bottles he orders during dinner sometimes costing several hundred dollars.
“Because their coffee is better than any spot in the city,” I quip.
“True, but it was to see you…since you’re a regular. It took me a while to work up the nerve to talk to you once I learned you’re close friends with Andrew Brinks.”
My spine stiffens and I inhale a sharp breath. Wes doesn’t seem to notice. I’ve always found his observational skills to be lacking. Or maybe because I’ve spent my entire life watching and analyzing the world around me, I notice the tiniest things about people. Like the way Wes now seems to take repeated small sips of his wine as opposed to drinking casually. Like the way he doesn’t look directly at me. Like the way he chews on his bottom lip.
“I’ve watched him play.” He blows out an anxious laugh. “Worse, I’ve seen the fights he got into on the ice. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of his fists.”
“You and dozens of other guys.” A small smile cracks on my lips, my gaze unfocused as memories of my childhood rush back. Of sitting in the stands with Molly as we watched her brother play. Watching him grow into a local celebrity, at least in hockey circles. Seeing scout after scout court him when it was time for him to choose a college to attend. The day he signed with the Bruins.
It’s amazing to think of the paths our lives have taken. After he left for college, we barely spoke again for years. Every time he came home to visit, he avoided me, as if I carried some infectious disease. If it were anyone else who acted that way toward me, I wouldn’t care, but this was Drew. He gave me my first kiss. He was supposed to be my first everything…until I realized they were just lies. It wasn’t until he had a daughter that we began speaking to each other again, but neither one of us ever brought up that night or why he never came to my house the following day, as he promised he would.
I wish I could say I learned my lesson after that, but I didn’t. I wish I could say I never thought of Drew as anything other than my best friend’s brother, but that’s a lie. I wish I could say I’m smart enough not to fall for his charms again, but I’m not.
Because I did…only for the same thing to happen.
“He’s always been protective of you, hasn’t he?”
I know Wes means nothing by it, but discussing my friendship with Drew with the man I’m dating makes me uncomfortable. Then again, I’m not sure friendship is the correct term. Not after everything we’ve been through. Things with Drew are…complicated. Yes, according to the outside world, he’s a friend. Now, I’m constantly skirting the giant elephant in the room Drew doesn’t even know exists. I’ve made it my elephant, my burden to bear.
“He has.”
“I picked up on that right away. The first day I walked into the café and saw you, I was breathless, Brooklyn. Your eyes were so mesmerizing, the green unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And don’t even get me started on your adorable little freckles. But that’s not what caught my attention.”
My skin warms as I listen to Wes’ words, allowing myself to bask in his obvious affection for me. “No?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It was your laugh. I ducked in to grab a quick coffee before a meeting I had close by.” He reaches across the table and grabs my hand in his again. “As I waited to place my order, the sound of your laughter filled the place. I was transfixed. In that moment, I needed to know you. I wracked my brain, formulating what to say to you. It had to be smart, bold, especially since you were sitting with your friend.”
“Molly.” I nod, briefly closing my eyes as I’m transported back to the day a debonair stranger walked into the café Molly’s family has owned for decades. “You’d think she’d be the one you would have noticed first.”
“Never,” he assures me with a breathtaking smile. “Yes, I’ve learned Molly can be loud, but something about the way you carry yourself spoke to me from the beginning. But when I saw Andrew Brinks—”
“Drew,” I interrupt.
“Right. Drew…,” he corrects, still hesitant.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve been dating for eight months. He’s still not used to calling him Drew, since only those of us who knew him before he made it big call him that. To everyone else, he’s Andrew Brinks, star hockey player forced into early retirement after one too many injuries to his head.
“So when I saw him approach your table and sit down, then kiss your and Molly’s cheek, I lost what little nerve I had. But someone was looking down on me because I soon found myself in the same area of the city for another meeting. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, thinking there was no way you’d be there, but you were. So I made it a habit of stopping by the café at eight every morning for three weeks on the off-chance you’d be there. That’s when I realized you went every Friday morning, and so did I. Finally, after two months, I worked up enough courage to ask to buy you a cup of coffee. To which you replied—”
“‘I never pay for my coffee here,’” I answer with a smile, recalling our first interaction. “You must have thought me so self-centered.”
“Perhaps.” He winks, a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes. “But when you heard your words, you got so embarrassed. With just that one look, the way your cheeks flushed, you stole my heart.” He brings my hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “And I’m so grateful you agreed to go to dinner with me.”
“And I’m grateful you didn’t walk away after my response.”
“Never.” He releases his hold on my hand. “You forget, I’d been observing you for the past several weeks.”
“Stalking, you mean,” I joke, taking another sip of my wine.
“Nuance, my dear Brooklyn. Regardless, I could tell what type of woman you were. I needed you in my life, overbearing hockey player as a best friend be damned,” he finishes with a wink, and I lift my wine to my lips, polishing it off.
As if our waiter has an internal alert when one of his patrons needs something, he appears instantly. With a smile, he refills my glass. It’s rare for me to drink like this. Normally, I only have a single glass of wine throughout an entire five-course dinner. But everything about tonight has me on edge. The ambience. The way Wes looks at me. The way Drew’s name keeps creeping into the conversation when we rarely ever talk about him. I need the wine.
“Will he ever coach in the professionals?” Wes asks, digging the knife a little deeper, unbeknownst to him.
“I doubt it.” I take another long sip of my wine. “He’s had offers, but has turned them all down. He doesn’t want to be away from the girls that much. He already doesn’t like being away from them as much as he has to be with coaching college, but he loves the game.” A slight smile builds on my lips. “I can’t remember a time Drew didn’t have a pair of skates on. But he loves those girls more.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
I choke on my wine, eyes wide. “Wh
at?”
“No. Not like that,” he corrects in haste. “It’s just amazing how close you two still are, even all these years later. Most friends grow apart over time. I can’t say I’ve remained close with any of the people I went to high school with. But you and Drew… At first, I thought he was your brother.”
“I suppose that’s what Drew’s always been,” I mutter. “Like a brother.”
At that moment, two waiters approach and simultaneously place a dish in front of us in a carefully orchestrated show. The first time Wes took me to an upscale restaurant like this, I marveled at how perfectly timed everything was. Now I’ve grown accustomed to it and it no longer holds excitement. I stare at the pristine white plates as our waiter rattles off what Wes ordered — a diver scallop with a cauliflower puree. The presentation looks too good to eat, like a piece of art, not food.
Over the course of the next two hours, we eat the exquisite food, keeping our conversation easy. There’s no talk of our hopes, our dreams, apart from him asking if I’m excited about starting my PhD program in the fall, to which I answer in the affirmative, with no further embellishment.
After we finish our main course and our plates are removed, Wes clears his throat, rubbing his palms along his pants before tugging at his tie, a slight tremble in his hands. He bites his lip, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. He lifts his eyes to mine, his expression awash with sincerity and yearning.
“Brooklyn…,” he begins as he reaches across the table to grab my left hand in his, toying with a very important finger. A sinking feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. I should have known something was amiss with the way he’s been acting tonight, the nerves seeming to consume him when he’s normally carefree and relaxed. “These past eight months have been some of the happiest I can remember.”
“I’ve enjoyed my time with you, too, Wes.”
He’s spoiled me in a way most woman yearn to be spoiled. He brings me to the most exclusive restaurants. He buys me jewelry that probably costs more than what I make in a year. He’s taken me to places I’ve only imagined visiting — Paris, Rome, London, Berlin. But they all seem to lack meaning. I’m not like most girls Wes is used to. I don’t need to be bathed in jewels and whisked off on a private jet to some exotic location. I just want to feel loved.
