Page 11 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
As I toss clothes at random into my duffel, I grab my phone and pull up the Red-tails game, though I don’t have time to watch much of it. Houston’s pitching today, and so far in the two innings he hasn’t allowed any runs. That doesn’t surprise me. My best friend is easily the most consistent pitcher in the MLB right now. It doesn’t matter if it’s a practice game or the World Series, like now; he plays his hardest.
The fact that he remained on the phone long enough to order me to stay with Brooklyn over the weekend is a testament to how much he cares about his sister. The only thing Houston loves more than playing baseball is his family. Especially his twin. He’s always looked out for her, even though she’s technically older. And I know he’ll rethink his order as soon as he’s no longer focused on his game.
That means I have to convinceBrooklynto want me to stay, or I’ll be sick with guilt for the next few days. Houston won’t argue against his sister, no matter what his own opinions are.
It’s not like he ever forbade me from dating his sister, but he made enough comments over the years for me to infer how much he didn’t like the idea. So I never really thought about it.
Much.
Houston doesn’t have a lot of people in his life despite his fame and fortune, and I would never make him choose between me or his sister if things ever got awkward. I would lose that battle, no question.
“Why am I even thinking about this?” I mutter out loud, only just now realizing that I’ve packed more nice clothes than comfortable ones. Am I trying to impress Brooklyn? Because if she sees me in slacks and a button up, she’s going to look at me like I’ve lost my mind. There’s little chance she’ll be able to go anywhere this weekend with her sprained ankle, so I might as well plan to chill.
I laugh at that. I’m not sure I even know what chill looks like anymore, though I’ve been trying to figure out that whole leisure thing. Maybe Houston is right by forcing me to stay away from my work for a few days. Relax a bit.
I keep one nice outfit in my bag, just in case. In case of what, I have no clue, but I’m going with my gut here.
I also pack my laptop because—let’s face it—I have way too much to do to actually take the whole weekend off.
Tucking my phone away with a mental reminder to check in later in the game, I step out into the hall right as my youngest brother, Mateo, reaches his own room. We both freeze, which is pretty par for the course with us, and I know I have maybe thirty seconds before he disappears into his room. I’ve been back home for a year now, and I’ve probably had only a dozen conversations with my seventeen-year-old brother.
It doesn’t help that when I went off to college, he was seven. I pretty much have no idea who this kid is other than knowing he doesn’t like me much. His scowl makes that pretty clear any time he sees me. If he would give me a chance to get to know him, I could change that, but he avoids me like the plague.
His eyes flick to the duffel on my shoulder. “Finally moving out?”
“Helping a friend for the weekend. Hey.”
He pauses halfway through opening his door.
I swallow. I rarely feel awkward around people, if ever, so every interaction with my brother is the worst. “What do you say you and I grab some lunch or something next week?” I do a quick mental search of my calendar to make sure that’s even possible. Dinner would be easier, but Mateo never seems to get home until late most nights.
As if he knows exactly how much I’m struggling to find a time to make it work, he rolls his eyes. “Not necessary. I get lunch at school.”
“There are so many places that are better than the cafeteria,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I could pick you up and—”
“Don’t bother.” He slips into his room and shuts the door, and it takes everything in me not to barge in after him and demand he tell me why he dislikes me so much. I haven’t even been around for the last decade! And, arrogant as it makes me sound, I’m incredibly likable. I can count on two fingers the number of people who haven’t liked me after spending some time with me, and I still haven’t figured out the reason for either. Yeah, there were all the pranks with Brooklyn, but shestarted outdisliking me, and I never managed to change her mind.
Maybe I can change Brooklyn’s overall opinion of me this weekend and cut that number in half. Mateo will have to wait.
By the time I get back downstairs, my head is swimming with thoughts of how to win over Brooklyn Briggs, and I almost don’t notice my mom watching me head for the door until she clears her throat.
I stop in my tracks, wincing before dropping my bag and hustling to her side. The kids have vanished elsewhere, hopefully not getting into trouble. “Got sidetracked,” I mutter as I kiss her cheek. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“I need you to remember that you’re human,” she says, raising a non-existent eyebrow at me. “And don’t take Matty’s surliness personally.”
I have been convinced since I was a kid that my mom can read minds, and yet it always freaks me out when she does. I may be nearing thirty, but I will always and forever be slightly terrified of my sweet-as-pie mother. Disappointing her is one of my biggest fears. Sighing, I crouch down and take one of her hands between mine. “Hard not to take it personal when he barely looks at me.”
“He barely looks at anyone,” Mom admits with a frown. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. He disappears for hours at a time, doesn’t talk when he’s here, pretends he’s busy with homework when I know he isn’t.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “He just started at the new school, right? Is he failing his classes or anything?” That would be a sure sign of going down a path he shouldn’t. I may not know much about Mateo, but I know he’s always been smart. He got into some fights at his last school, and my parents decided it would be best for him to be in a new environment. Beyond that, I have no idea why he might be getting into trouble.
Mom shakes her head. “The opposite, actually. But I’m worried about him. Worried that he’s getting himself into something he shouldn’t. He always has a sort of guilty look in his eyes, and your father doesn’t know what to do with him.”
That’s probably because my dad is home even less than Mateo. I love my dad, and he’s a good man. But he’s always been married to his job as much as he’s married to my mom. At least I know where I get it…
My phone buzzes in my pocket, reminding me that I should probably get back to Brooklyn before she trips on her coffee table and cracks her head open. “I’ll talk to Matty,” I say, though I have no idea when. This weekend is putting enough of a strain on my team as it is without me doing my share of the work. “Call me if you need anything. I’m only twenty minutes away.”
“Human,” Mom reminds me, though I’m not sure what she means by that.
