Page 12 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
I know I’m only human. It’s a source of frustration every day of my life, and I don’t exactly need the reminder that I can only do so much when I know I need to do more.
As I climb into my truck and toss my bag into the back seat, I pull my phone out of my pocket and smile as soon as I read the stream of texts from an unknown number. I get texts from strange numbers all the time, but never do they get this kind of reaction out of me. I’m probably a little too excited, but I can’t help but call this a win in my blossoming plan.
Unknown Number: Hey, this is Brooklyn. I looked up your company and got
Unknown Number: Your number from your website.
Unknown Number: Sorry, this is probably do feel.
Unknown Number: So creepy
A part of me wishes I had been at texting levels with Brooklyn back in the day. After her failure to call Houston the first time, I have to wonder if she’s always this bad with a phone or if I just make her nervous. I save her number in my contacts, choosing to ignore the strange sense of pride I feel for being able to say I have Brooklyn’s phone number now.
Me: Totally creepy, Queens.
Queens: Sorry! I knew I shouldn’t have just texted you or if the blue.
Queens: Out of the blue
Queens: Ignore me
Me: I’m kidding, Brooklyn.
Queens: Oh.
Me: I’m going to assume you had a reason for texting me outside of displaying your sad inability to text like a proper millennial?
Queens: Technica
Queens: Technology hates me.
When she doesn’t say anything else, I take a chance and hit the call button, wondering if she’s the sort of person who stares at the screen and waits for it to stop ringing so she can send a text, or if she—
“Double mint chip!” Brooklyn’s voice sounds distant and muffled, and there’s a whole lot of rustling before she says, “Sorry! I dropped my phone.”
I press my lips together before I start laughing, mostly because I just realized she was using an ice cream flavor as a curse word. Unlike her brother, who has picked up some choice vocabulary words over the years, she seems to be just as sweet and innocent as she always has been.
When I’m sure I won’t bust up laughing, I switch my phone to my other hand. “I don’t remember you being clumsy, Queens. Is this the concussion talking?”
She lets out a quick sigh. “I told you. Technology hates me. I’m convinced my phone is out to get me.”
“Interesting theory. So, why did you stalk my number?”
“I didn’t stalk—”
“You looked me up on the internet so you could send me cryptic messages. Pretty sure that counts as stalking.”
“Forget it.”
Okay, maybe I’m pushing the teasing a bit too far. I must still be on edge from my interaction with Mateo. “Brooklyn. I’m sorry. Do you need something?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can imagine her debating whether to ask for help. It’s that Briggs stubbornness that makes her so much like her brothers. “Could…could you pick me up a soda on your way back? It helps with the migraines.”
I relax in my seat. A soda I can do. “Of course. What do you—”
“I’ll pay you back. I could even send you some money right now if you have one of those apps. Oh, except the last time I did that, I accidentally sent Micah half my bank account. So maybe I could—”
“Brooklyn?”
