Page 7 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Chapter Three
Jordan
One thing I learned quicklyabout Houston Briggs: if he wants something, he gets it. It’s not a bad thing most of the time—I don’t think there’s a bad bone in that man’s body—but it causes problems for the rest of us when we can’t say no to him.
And I really want to say no.
Nothing against Brooklyn—literally nothing—but spending my weekend in this basement apartment sounds like the acutest torture of all time. I don’t even know ifacutestis a word, but torture certainly is, and I don’t think anything could be more accurate about this situation than that.
I know what Houston’s doing. Yeah, he’s worried about his sister, but he could have easily followed through with his threat and called an ambulance. I almost did that myself when she got knocked out, but she wasn’t out very long. No, Houston’s order to stay with Brooklyn has more to do with me than it does with his twin, and I want to punch him for it.
“You really don’t have to stay,” Brooklyn says once she’s situated on the couch.
I grunt as I head into the kitchen to find some ice for her swollen ankle. That will probably bother her more than the concussion, though neither injury is great. “I really do,” I argue. How many times are we going to go through this? Brooklyn is just as stubborn as her brother, so I don’t think this will be the last time.
I search her horrifyingly bare cupboards quickly until I find a Ziploc bag, and then I load it up with ice.
“We can just tell him that you did,” she suggests.
“Nope. I won’t lie to my best friend.” I pause when I say that, considering the million and a half things I haven’t told him. I won’t outright lie to him, but there’s plenty I keep from him. Always have. For being my best friend since we were fourteen, you’d think he’d be the guy I tell everything to.
He still doesn’t know the real reason I left California, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to tell him.
“I didn’t know you were back in Sun City,” Brooklyn says. “When did you come back?”
I grab a bottle of ibuprofen from above the sink and a glass of water before heading back to the couch and sitting on the edge of the coffee table. I’m surprised she even noticed I was gone, though I guess she probably would have felt relieved when Houston and I went off to college in California and she stayed in New Mexico. I didn’t make her life easy. “About a year ago.”
“Why has Houston never said anything?”
I chuckle, handing over the bottle of meds and holding the glass within reach. “Probably because you hate me, Queens.” Almost as much as she hates that nickname.
Brooklyn frowns. “I don’t hate you.” She says it so slowly that I’m not sure she believes herself. I know I don’t.
Not when the last words she ever said to me were basically along those lines. It’s not like I can blame her for disliking me. I wasn’t exactly nice to her back in high school. I wasn’t cruel either—one, it’s not in my nature and two, Houston would have beaten me to a pulp—but emotions and I didn’t get along. I had a lot of feelings back then, none of which I knew what to do with. Houston was as emotionally stunted as I was, so his sister often got the brunt of our misplaced bravado and overall stupidity.
And pranks. She was on the receiving end of so many pranks that it’s a miracle she’s trusting me now. In my defense, she dished them out just as vehemently, but that’s not exactly a good basis for a friendship now that we’re civil adults. I hope we can be friends now that there’s a full decade between us and our younger selves.
Brooklyn slowly untwists the cap on the ibuprofen, taking her time and keeping her focus on the bottle. It gives me a chance to really look at her without getting glared at, something I will absolutely make the most of.
She looks so much like I remember her—the same blonde waves, the same soft blue eyes. She’s like if someone took a warm spring day and put it into a person with a sprinkle of sugar and cream. Everything about her is warm and gentle. But she has absolutely grown up in the last decade, all of the changes subtle but significant when combined. She lost any last traces of baby fat, her cheekbones becoming more pronounced and her jawline growing sharp. Though she’s in loose pajamas, she’s clearly shifted in other ways, though I’m trying not to catalog those changes. Just holding her earlier—something I don’t think she would have allowed if she hadn’t been concussed—gave me a pretty good idea of how her curves might look in something more form-fitting. I’m doing my best not to let my imagination run with that one. Brooklyn has always been beautiful, but this grown-up version makes high school Brook pale in comparison.
“Are you done staring at me?” she asks as she takes the water out of my hands.
“Almost,” I reply, even if my stomach lurches from being caught. “Just trying to get over the shock of seeing you after all this time.”
“You and me both,” she says on a sigh. “You really don’t have to stay, Jordan.”
There it is. I knew she wouldn’t leave it alone. “You and I both know that I do. If Houston finds out I don’t stick around the whole weekend, I’m a dead man.” Although, I’m honestly surprised he trusts me to be here alone with his sister. He must have been too focused on his game and the fact that Brooklyn is hurt to realize what he was saying.
I’m not going to argue. Not if I can take this chance to make up for some of the things I did in high school. Besides, I caused her pain this morning, which means I have to fix it as much as I can.
“I can hang out in the corner like a disobedient dog if that would make you more comfortable,” I tell her, “but I don’t feel great about leaving you alone with these injuries.” I hand her the bag of ice, which I’ve wrapped in a towel. “Did I say I’m sorry for scaring you?”
“It’s not your fault. I’m easy to scare.”
“Oh, I know.” I used that to my advantage more than once back in the day. “I also know you can dish it right back, so I’ll be on my guard.”
Brooklyn flashes a smile, the mischievous kind that temporarily leaves me breathless. Always has. “You’d better be.”
