Page 38 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
I shake my head.
“How do you know it will taste good if you’re not measuring everything?”
I shrug, still fighting a smirk. I knew she was a rule-follower, but I didn’t realize it was this ingrained in her. “I don’t know. That’s what makes it fun. Are you going to chopsomeonion or not?”
Her eyes are wide with panic, but I think she realizes I’m not going to give her any sort of guidelines beyond what I already have. I could tell her that a quarter cup would work great, but with how much this bothers her, I’ve decided she needs more chaos in her life.
“You know,” she says as she resumes her chopping. “If I didn’t measure everything at work, I would probably blow up the school. Precision is important.” She scoops up what she has, shakes it around in her fist as if weighing it, and then goes back to chopping.
I peek inside the oven at the potatoes. “I’m not saying precision isn’t valuable in certain places. But in cooking? Cooking should be done with the heart. Matters of the heart can’t be planned or measured. They’re too important for that.”
Deciding she has a proper handful of onion, Brooklyn scoops it all up and holds it out to me. “Are you telling me that all this practice and planning that we’re doing for Mark is impractical?”
When our hands touch as I take her offering, I do my best not to react. I don’t need her knowing how much I’m affected by her since my stupid teasing lesson at the gallery. Even if I expected it, I don’t know why things have changed. Why didn’t I feel this zing yesterday? We touched plenty of times then, and my heart didn’t start racing with every contact.
“Is that enough?”
I blink, realizing that my attempts at not reacting left me frozen. I don’t even look at what’s in my hands; I toss it into the pan, focusing on the sizzle as I remind myself that this is only an attraction. It doesn’t mean anything. She has always been attractive, and this is just a delayed reminder after our decade apart.
Maybe being around her is simply reminding me of the way things used to be. The wayIused to be.
I miss carefree Jordan. He was fun.
“It’s not like we’re going to plan out your whole conversation with Malcolm,” I say, stirring the onions so they’re all coated in oil. “I’m just giving you some tools so you’re better equipped to charm him off his feet.”
Though, if the guy hasn’t realized by now that he can’t do better than Brooklyn Briggs, he’s an idiot. He’s probably an idiot anyway. It would fit her MO.
Why am I so fixated on who she dates? That can’t be good for me.
“What if I completely blow it? He’ll never talk to me again.”
The question catches me off guard because she sounds so defeated already. She looks it too, staring down at the floor with her head hanging low. Once upon a time, this girl snuck out of class early and hid in my locker so she could jump out and shower me with glitter right before baseball practice. She had most of the guys at school in love with her because she shone so bright just by being her fun and confident self.
Where did that girl go? Who cut her down so thoroughly that she doesn’t think she can even have a conversation with a guy who doesn’t deserve her?
Though I need to say something, and soon, I grab my phone and quickly shoot off a text.
Me: When was the last time Brooklyn had a boyfriend?
I clear my throat. “As long as you don’t light the guy’s eyebrows on fire, you’ve already improved. I think you’ll be fine. You don’t have a lot of technology in your classroom, do you?”
She peeks up at me, her smile making it easier for me to breathe. “They tried to install a smart board last year, but I begged them to leave the white board.”
My phone buzzes, and I turn to stir the onions while I glance at the screen. I probably shouldn’t hide things from Brooklyn, but I doubt she would appreciate this text conversation.
Houston: A few years ago I think. Why?
Houston: How’s she doing? She either accidentally blocked me or she’s ignoring my texts. You’re not driving her crazy, are you?
I stifle a laugh. It’s not Brooklyn he needs to worry about when she spent all afternoon sending my nerves spasming with each accidental touch. If anyone’s going crazy, I am.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re making?” Brooklyn asks.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, though I know I can’t ignore Houston’s questions for long. If I don’t reply soon, he’ll start overthinking and jumping to conclusions. Probably some right ones, and I don’t need Houston Briggs jumping anywhere.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask.
Brooklyn frowns. “Why wouldn’t I want to know?”
