Page 80 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Let me know if you find the real Brooklyn again, Jordan said.I’d really like to see her.
Is that what I need to do? Do I need to dig down to my roots and pull some harmless pranks in order to get in touch with my inner prankster? That’s the girl Jordan knew. She was fun, and she didn’t let anyone push her around. Does she even exist anymore?
“I don’t know,” I admit out loud. But maybe I do know. Even when I hide my sadness, I never feel more myself than I do with my family, and that’s because there has never been a risk of rejection with them. Houston has been on the receiving end of too many pranks to believe I’m no longer like that, and Micah is the queen of optimism and friendliness so it’s easy to be sweet right along with her. Chad has seen me at my worst and always looks beyond the surface.
I just need to find the courage to be me around everyone else.
Around Jordan.
As if reading my mind, Chad chuckles and says, “So, are we going to talk about your sudden interest in Houston’s friend, or are we—” He cuts himself off and then swears again. “Sorry, Brook, I gotta go. Talk later.”
Then he hangs up.
And while I hope everything is okay in the sleepy town of Laketown, I can’t help but grin as I pull up the website for the nearest party store. I have the best idea.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jordan
October 18
It’s a good thing Houstondoesn’t know I have his agent’s phone number because Houston doesn’t know that I know he’s home now. Roundy likes me because I’ve helped him with PR issues with some of his other athletes, so he was more than happy to tell me when Houston’s flight was landing.
I may have lied about wanting to pick Houston up from the airport this morning, but Roundy doesn’t need to know that.
It’s early enough as I pull up in front of Houston’s house—just after eleven—that I know he probably went straight to bed and crashed. That’s exactly where I want him.
Okay, that sounds weird. But it didn’t take long yesterday for me to figure out that it wasHoustonwho canceled all of our jobs today, and that deserves some retribution.
Grabbing the bag of Doritos I bought for just this moment, I creep up to the house in the unlikely event that he’s awake. He’s definitely going to regret giving me a key, but I can live with that.
Once inside, I pause as I always do and look around. Nothing about this house would make sense to someone who doesn’t know Houston. For one, it’s a duplex, twelve hundred square feet at most. The man is a multi-millionaire, but his house only has two bedrooms. For another, it’s clean. Like, anally clean. The average person would think Houston pays someone to clean it for him, but he does it all himself during the rare moments he’s actually home. Then there’s the sterility of it all. It looks like a showroom because there’s nothing personal except the small box of records he keeps by the record player and a few baseball books. Beyond that, this house could belong to anyone.
I really hope he’s ready to start thinking of settling down because this house always makes me sad. It’s the kind of place that would make a guy extra lonely. And if Houston is losing his arm as much as I think he is, he’s about to spend a lot more time here at home.
I find him in his bedroom, dead asleep with the blackout curtains drawn. I don’t blame him. After winning the Series on Monday, he’s been in non-stop interviews and photoshoots, and it’s probably been close to a month since he spent any significant time here at home. That would make anyone tired.
Plopping into the armchair he keeps by the window, I get myself settled in, nice and comfy. Then I tear the bag open as loudly as I can. If the guy made sure I didn’t have any work to do today, he gets to deal with me and all my free time.
He doesn’t stir despite my noise. Hmm.
I pop a chip in my mouth, chewing with my mouth wide open.
With a little moan, Houston moves.Of coursethat’s what gets him. It still takes him a while to open his eyes and look around while I keep snacking. The instant he sees me, he panics, limbs flailing as he screams and tries to get out from under his sheets. All of his scrambling sends him tumbling to the floor in a heap, and I lose it, busting up in laughter and wishing I had thought to record the moment. That would have gotten me all sorts of views.
“Jordan?” He mumbles something that I know his sister wouldn’t like, while I open his curtains so he can actually see me.
“Language,” I say before popping another chip in my mouth.
Houston groans as he sits up and rubs the sleep lines from his face. Just how dead was he? “Not you too.” Then he fixes a glare on me, a clear question in his eyes.
Though I know it’s not what he’s asking, I grin. “You gave me a key.”
“I don’t care how you’re here. I want to know why.” He disappears into his closet, hopefully to find some clothes. Currently, he’s wearing nothing but his boxers.
“I’m here because I haven’t seen my best friend in weeks, and he just helped the Red-tails win the World Series. By the way, I am so glad to learn you don’t sleep in the nude now. That is not something I need to see.” Even if I’ve seen plenty in locker rooms over the years. Still, I can’t help but be a little jealous of the man’s physique as he comes back into the room halfway through pulling on a t-shirt. High school and college Houston Briggs were tiny compared to MLB Houston. No wonder they want him on a Wheaties box.
“You would have deserved it,” he mutters, and then he snatches the bag of chips out of my hands. “No eating in the bedroom. What are you, a caveman?”
