by Frankie Love
She’s sitting on the floor with half a ceramic dish in her lap, the rest of it shattered on the tile around her.
“Martha, what happened?” I ask, going to her. “Are you okay?”
She looks up, embarrassment in her eyes. “Oh, Brooklyn… I didn’t hear you come in. I’m okay.”
She holds out a hand and I help her to her feet, then go to the closet for a broom.
While I’m sweeping up the shards, she explains, “That was my mother’s scone pan and I dropped it because I was thinking about stupid Jacob and his stupid grand gesture to win Tabitha back. I can’t believe it’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for her. I have so little left of my own parents—I know exactly how she must feel.
Martha pulls me into a hug, squeezing me tight, then she swipes away the tears on her cheeks and smiles. “Well, I’ve got an aluminum scone pan too, so the day is not lost.” She digs into a cupboard and retrieves the second pan, then says, “Oh, I’ve been so in my head about Tabitha and Jacob all morning, I never even asked why you called.”
Well, it feels sort of frivolous now, but I shrug and say, “I met someone.”
Martha’s face transforms, and suddenly she’s beaming. “Oh, really, sweetie? That’s wonderful! I’m going to make tea and you’re going to tell me all about him.”
I laugh. “What about the scones?”
“We’ll get to those later,” she says with a wave of her hand. “First, talk. How did you meet?”
I tell her about the teen outreach center, about how my heart pretty much melted when I saw how much the kids love Prescott, and then I tell her about his invitation for this evening.
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “Like, really nervous.”
“Why? I’m sure his parents are going to love you.”
I hear the front door open, and we both turn as Cory comes into the kitchen and sets his briefcase down on the counter. “Who’s going to love you?”
“Brooklyn’s going to meet her boyfriend’s parents tonight,” Martha says, and my cheeks flush.
“I never said boyfriend,” I point out.
“But you don’t bring any old girl home to meet the folks,” Martha counters. “This is serious.”
“And fast,” I say.
“Well, Martha knows all about fast,” Cory points out. “What’s it called, insta-love?”
I smile. It’s cute that he pretends not to know all the details of his wife’s writing, because I happen to know he’s read every single one of her books.
“So… you both think this is a good idea?” I ask. I’m twenty-four years old and these aren’t even my biological parents, but I still want their approval. Whether I want it to or not, it means a lot to me.
“I do,” Martha says.
“And you know I always think it’s a good idea to follow your heart,” Cory adds. He sits down at the island and notices the scone pan. “Ooh, are we baking?”
“Yep,” Martha says. “Blueberry scones. Oh, and Brooklyn, we have to show you the new drywall upstairs! You’ve been so busy that we haven’t even gotten to show you the plans for the rest of the house.”
Come to think of it, I have been keeping myself busy lately, distracting myself from the loss of Cassidy as my roommate and throwing myself into the teen programming at the library. Maybe I’m not the one being left out—maybe I accidentally left myself out.
“I’d love that,” I say.
8
Prescott
I pick Brooklyn up from a new address tonight. She tells me she’s been baking with a friend’s mom and that she’s bringing a batch of scones for dessert.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say as she slides into the car and it instantly fills with the scent of blueberries. I lean across the seat and kiss her deeply, picking up the flavor of baked goods on her sweet lips as well.
“You have no idea how many scones we made,” she says with a laugh. “Martha’s kitchen looks like she’s planning to open up a bakery. Besides, I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“All you ever need to bring, as far as I’m concerned, is your gorgeous self,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine as I drive us over to my parents’ house.
“Well, no offense but I’m not trying to impress you tonight,” she says and laughs again. There’s an edge of nervousness in it, and I squeeze her hand.
“Hey,” I say, “there’s nothing to worry about. This dinner is just an average Friday night for my folks, okay? No big deal.”
“Maybe not to you,” she says, her smile thin.
She’s putting on a brave face, but I can tell this whole meeting the parents thing has her rattled, and I wonder if I made a mistake. I spent all day thinking about her, about last night, about how instantly we connected, and I’m pretty damn sure I’m in love with this girl. But just because I’m moving a mile a minute doesn’t mean she’s ready to do the same.
“Do you want to blow this dinner off?” I offer. “We don’t have to do this.”
Brooklyn sits up a little taller and shakes her head. “No, we’re already on the way, and I do want to meet your parents…” I can tell there’s more she wants to say, so I just stay silent and she takes a deep breath. “I want to tell you something, to explain why I’m so jittery tonight.”
“You can tell me anything.”
Another deep breath. And then, “Remember at the outreach center, when I said I loved books because they let me escape growing up poor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that was only half the story,” she says, and I can hear the struggle in her voice.
This is clearly something she hasn’t shared with a lot of people, and if I wasn’t driving, I’d pull her into a bear hug right here and now.
“My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen. Drunk driver,” she forces the words out.
“Oh, Brooklyn, I’m so sorry.”
“That house you just picked me up from, that’s where I lived after,” she goes on. “My best friends’ parents took me in and they’ve been like a second mom and dad to me… I told them about you while we were baking and they were so excited for me.”
I smile. “I’m glad you have them.”
“I was lucky,” she agrees. “But the point is, my whole life I feel like I’ve been bracing for something else bad to happen, for the other shoe to drop, you know? And I really like you, Prescott… but I’m afraid this is all some beautiful dream and doing something as serious as meeting your parents is gonna wake me up, drag me back to reality.”
I lift her hand to my lips, kiss her knuckles and wish I could do more. “This is reality, Brooklyn. I like you too—I’m falling hard—and I promise I will never let anything bad happen to you again as long as it’s in my power.”
She smiles, I kiss her while we’re at a traffic light, and then I add, “Seriously, though, if you want to get takeout and go back to my place, we can blow off this whole dinner.”
“Thank you,” she says, “but I made these scones and darn it, we’re delivering them.”
I chuckle, then turn the car onto the winding road my parents live on. I can see Brooklyn’s eyes widening as she realizes where we are—the part of Golden Creek that widens to a small lake, with million-dollar homes arranged around it.
“I have a confession to make as well,” I say. This is the part of the evening that I’ve been dreading.
“Yeah?”
I let out a sigh, then nod toward the largest house on the lake, a sprawling Tudor-style estate. “That’s my parents’ place.”
Brooklyn’s eyebrows rise. “The Beaufont Mansion?”
I cringe at the word mansion. Hell, it’s hard not to cringe at Beaufont too.
She continues, “Prescott, are you a Beaufont?”
“Yes,” I admit. I used to wear that identity like a badge of honor. I used to throw money around like it was confetti, and even though I’m not that person anymore, I feel guilty by association as I pull
into the driveway, with its meticulously pruned topiaries lining each side. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Umm, yes it is,” she says, looking down at the daisy-printed sundress she’s wearing. “Look at me—I can’t go in there in this!”
“You look beautiful,” I say, then point out the fact that I’m in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, my standard work uniform.
“That’s different,” she starts to sputter, and I worry that I made another mistake in not warning her further in advance. But I thought it’d be easier if she didn’t see all this sickening opulence coming.
Fortunately, at least one part of my plan works out, and my mother is coming out of the house to greet us as soon as I pull up to the front door. There’s no time to worry any more, and no time to dwell on the whole Beaufont thing.
I lean over and kiss Brooklyn, whispering, “You’ll be great. I’m right by your side.”
Then we go meet my mom on the steps.
When I told her I was bringing a woman to dinner, her curiosity was more than a little piqued, and she never turns down an opportunity to feed people. Cooking is the one thing she actually still does for herself, and takes great pride in, so I figured Friday night dinner was the perfect time to introduce Brooklyn.
She takes the scones, making a comment about the fact that she’d already made chocolate soufflés for dessert. We go inside and I give Brooklyn a brief tour, and we find my father in the formal dining room. That introduction goes a little better, and he stands to pull out Brooklyn’s chair for her.
We all sit and Mom rings the ridiculous little silver bell she uses to tell the staff she’s ready for them to bring in the first course. I can see Brooklyn struggling not to look shocked, and I squeeze her hand beneath the table. Why the hell did I think this was a good second date?
“So, Brooklyn,” my dad says once the salad course is under way, “tell us about yourself. Did you grow up in Golden Creek?”
“Yes,” she says, “born and raised.”
“What neighborhood?” my mother asks, and Brooklyn’s cheeks color.
“Umm, the Westend Trailer Park, actually,” she says. “My dad worked in logging, and my mom was a substitute teacher.”
“Past tense?” my mother says. “Are they unemployed now?”
I choke on my arugula, but Brooklyn holds her own. “No, actually, they passed when I was fifteen,” she says. “But they were both really hard workers and they did everything they could to provide for me.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” my dad says.
“Yes,” Mom agrees. “A trailer park, can you imagine?”
Now my face is burning. I have to admit I haven’t brought a woman home in a while, and the ones I used to bring around tended to be from the other large houses around the lake… but I never expected my mom to treat Brooklyn like this, or I definitely wouldn’t have brought her here.
“Mom, Brooklyn is the teen librarian at Golden Creek Library,” I say, trying to salvage this conversation. “That’s how we met, actually. We’ve been collaborating on a project between the library and the outreach center.”
Now even my dad is getting irritable, tossing his napkin on the table, and I realize that mentioning my work was a mistake. It’s been a point of contention ever since I opened the center, and I don’t know why I thought tonight would be any better.
“Really, Prescott, did you just come over tonight to rub salt in our wounds?” my father asks.
“Excuse me?”
“When are you going to get serious and live up to the Beaufont name?” he continues. “Isn’t two years long enough to slum it with those kids?”
My mom makes a pointed glance in Brooklyn’s direction and mutters, “Clearly not.”
I can see tears welling in Brooklyn’s eyes and my own vision is narrowing with rage. I stand up and hold my hand out to her. “Come on. This was a mistake and we’re leaving.” Brooklyn stands, takes my hand, and I look at my mother as I add, “And we’re taking our scones.”
They sure as hell don’t deserve them.
9
Brooklyn
I’m holding back tears by the time we get outside, and when Prescott puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me to him, I won’t meet his eyes.
“Hey,” he says, “I am so sorry about that. If I knew—”
“That your parents were going to humiliate me? That I wasn’t rich enough for them?” I ask. “Please take me home.”
“Wait,” he begs, and I steal a glance toward him. There’s emotion brimming in his eyes and part of me wants to accept the comfort, buy into the us-versus-them story he’s trying to tell me… but most of me just wants to go home and lick my wounds.
“Please, Prescott,” I say, “take me home.”
I don’t know what I ever thought I was doing with a guy like this, anyway. He’s clearly too perfect, and when I found out he was a Beaufont, I should have turned tail and ran.
They’re the richest family in Golden Creek, notorious for being flashy with their wealth and ruthless about acquiring more of it. And sure, I noticed Prescott’s nice car and the house that seemed out of the price range of a man who dedicates his time to disadvantaged teens. But I never guessed this was the reason.
Prescott drives me home, mostly in silence, and tries again to apologize when he drops me at my apartment building, but I actually want to be alone for once.
“I guess you were right,” he says sadly. “It was definitely too early to meet the folks. This isn’t the end though, right?”
I give him a pitiful excuse for a smile. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I fit in your world, Prescott.”
I go inside, polish off the rest of that bottle of champagne that Nora and Cassidy brought over on the night of the Casablanca screening, not even caring that it’s gone mostly flat. I spend the rest of the night wallowing and when I’m good and drunk, I get up the nerve to look Prescott up online.
I gotta find out just how wrong I was about all those insta-love feelings I was having for him. I have to open my eyes and see that we could never really belong to each other.
And it doesn’t take a very long scroll through Instagram to see that fact, plain as day.
Prescott hasn’t posted for a long time—over two years, in fact—but what’s there is evidence of the Beaufont lifestyle. Yachts, private jets, gorgeous, stick-thin women. It seems like every other photo, he’s in a new, exotic location, wearing fancy designer clothes and looking like he’s having the time of his life.
I flip over to my own Insta feed just to really drive things home for myself.
Every single one of my pictures was taken right here in Golden Creek, most of them with Nora or Cassidy pressing their cheeks against mine, plus a few with the teens I’ve gotten close to at the library, and of course, the Bakers. There’s one of Martha at a book signing at the little indie bookshop in town. One of Cory grilling up dinner for the whole family. Even a few throwbacks, pictures of Polaroids I took with my parents back in the day.
In the trailer park.
Not Bali or Jamaica or any of the other flashy places Prescott has been.
And how can I compete with that? The simple answer is that I can’t. I thought all this was too good to be true, and damn it, turns out that’s because it was.
The next day at work, I tell Cassidy and Nora all about that disastrous dinner, and the intimidatingly lavish life I found Prescott living on Instagram. Unfortunately, neither of them offers a shoulder to cry on.
“You said he hasn’t updated in two years,” Nora points out. “A lot can change in two years.”
“But do people change?” I ask, knowing there’s no easy answer to that question. “Especially super-rich ones like the Beaufonts?”
“Well, maybe not the elder Beaufonts,” Cassidy says. “But it sounds like Prescott has. Or at least, it sounds like he doesn’t care about money anymore. He just cares about you.”
I sigh. He did stand up for me to his parents, and he apolog
ized like half a dozen times before we got back to my apartment… but… “How can I have a future with someone whose parents hate me because I’m not good enough for their son?”
“Because they think you’re not good enough,” Cassidy corrects. “Don’t buy into that bullshit.”
Nora practically swats her sister’s knuckles. I have no doubt if she had a ruler handy, she would have done it. “Don’t swear—there are little ears around.”
“Where?” Cassidy asks. It’s early afternoon and school has let out by now, but the library is still pretty quiet for the moment.
“Fine,” Nora says, noting that there are no patrons in earshot. “Point taken, but the kids’ll be here any minute.”
“Speaking of… don’t you have storytime to prep for?” Cassidy says with a smirk.
Nora wanders off to get ready—her kindergarten group is reading a Pig the Pug book this week—and Cassidy gives me a nudge before she heads over to work the reference desk for the rest of the afternoon.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, okay, Brooks?” she says. And I want to try. It’s just that Prescott’s cover is really ornate… and mine’s not.
I go over to the teen section, expecting a few regulars who come here to do homework and just hang out after school. I’m surprised, though, when Ty from the teen center comes in about half an hour later.
“Hey, Ty, what are you doing in my neck of the woods?” I ask.
“Hi, Miss Hart,” Ty says, polite and friendly since he’s by himself and he doesn’t have Jaxon and the other boys around to impress. “I finished Ender’s Game.”
“Oh yeah, what did you think?”
His eyes light up. “It was really cool. It’s a series, right?”
I smile. “Yeah, you want the next book?”
“That’d be great,” he says, and my chest swells with pride. This is exactly what the partnership between the outreach center and the library was meant to accomplish, and it’s only been a couple of days. I immediately want to tell Prescott how great it’s going.
