Maroon Socks

07: (ACTUAL) WET CLOTHES

07: (actual) wet clothes

DAY 3

BROOKE HOLLINS WAKES up to the aroma of freshly brewed Starbucks coffee. Her eyes groggy, she peers through her eyelashes to find a talking Fiona and Arthur. The right side of her lip lifts. She questions, in her mind, what the both of them are doing up at such an hour. "Wha-"

"- Morning, Brooke," Fiona smiles at her. She gets up, walking to the bed. Fiona hands Brooke a cup of hot coffee. Fiona looks at her, cocking her head to the side. "How are you feeling?"

Brooke open and closes her mouth a few times. "What did I do, last night?" Brooke manages to say, examining the messed up sheets. Elijah's sleeping at the far left side. Calvin's sleeping horizontally, his head resting on Brooke's thigh, his arm lazily sprawled over Dakota, who's sleeping in the middle like a baby. "Ok, what the flip? What did I do?" Brooke panics, looking up at Fiona for answers.

"You drank a little. . . Well, more than you should've." Fiona gives her a sheepish smile.

"Okay," Brooke nods, seeming to accept what Fiona said, a bit too quickly. Her eyes fall back to Calvin. Fiona follows her gaze, making a sound of realisation when she sees the boy. Fiona leans down, grabbing the back of Calvin's head. She lifts it up, moving it to rest on the bed. Calvin grouses and with one quick move, he's ridden Dakota's t-shirt up. Dakota, then, mumbles a few things, moving further away from Calvin. Her hands skim the back of Elijah's back, before falling limp. Brooke thanks Fiona, slipping out of bed.

Without saying anything, Brooke slips into the small, drab bathroom. When the mirror reflects her, she decides that slapping herself right now will be a good idea, right now. Her hair that was previously up in a ponytail, has now been untangled, the rubber keeping it together lost. And then she looks at what she's wearing. Surely, after having a bit of an idea to what happened last night, she changed her clothes. "Oh my god," she whispers, leaning forwards to inspect her face. She then sees it. She sees the blemishes of red lipstick rubbed in with her pink. There's so much of each colour that Brooke doesn't know which one is the initial lipstick. And then, the adrenaline begins to rush through her, panic rising.

Storming out, she walks quickly towards Fiona. Grabbing her face (which seems suggestive, but she isn't thinking at this point) Brooke takes glances at her lips. Sighing in relief, she backs away. Fiona's lips are stained of deep red roses. Then Brooke slowly realises she must've been kissing a girl. That will explain the two colours. Honestly, Brooke doesn't care. But what Brooke does care about is that she drunkly kissed a complete stranger (who she vaguely remembers is named Clementine). "I could've had sex with her!" Brooke yells. She can't accept that while she's with five other people. Sure, put her on a bed with someone and herself, she'll agree to it. But with five other people, who will kill her if she shows up late, Brooke can't afford to to do. Walking out, she swipes the car keys from the small table.

Brooke wraps her arms around herself, furiously thinking if someone, one of the Maroon Socks, saw her. If they did, what will they think? And then, Brooke thinks that it shouldn't matter. It's the same. You kiss a girl, you kiss a boy, it's who you choose to love. Brooke silently hopes that her teammates have the same thinking as her. Shaking her head, she smiles for some reason. Maybe it's because she accepts who she is and maybe the others, she thinks, will, too. Opening up the door to the caravan, Brooke grabs her suitcase, plopping it open on the bed. Zipping it open, she goes through it. For the day, she picks up her denim shorts and a white t-shirt, with outlines of a few planets drawn in the corner. Only then does Brooke notice that she's cuddling a navy blue sweatshirt, to her rib cage. Frowning, she figures it might be one of hers. Locking the door, Brooke steps out into the California morning sun. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, Brooke begins to walk back to their motel room, only to be stopped by a head of long brown ruffled hair.