One More Time (Bremmy 1)

Chapterish 2

SEATTLE-TACOMA AIRPORT

7:30 AM

My small rolly bag doubles as a mobile seat. I'm at my gate waiting to board. Starbucks iced coffee in hand and headphones hanging around my neck. Go time.

Moon left me in the warm, comforting hands of Sun. It's beaming through the large airport windows casting light off the ice cubes floating in my venti.

Trevor! That was his name –the cute boy with the sleeping dimples. He was super nice. Asked when he could buy me more shots. Had to tell him I was going away for a few weeks. Hardly lingered long enough to finish his coffee.

The way I like my boys.

The phone vibrates in my back pocket. I turn it over to see the caller ID.

"Hello? Trix?"

"Emmy Lou! How are you?" Trix screams on the other end of our thousand-mile call.

"Teresa Angela Barr, it's not even 11 AM. Are you drunk?" I ask. She hates when I full name her.

"Way, actually. I blame brunch," she says, like this is clarifying something obvious. "But this can like NOT wait. GUESS WHAT!"

"Trix, I'm boarding! Can't you tell me in person?" I ask her, because I still fear her confirmation on what I already know to be true.

"Emmeline Lou Rhodes, this is CODE X!" She shouts at me like she's trying to physically send me her words over the phone. I roll my eyes at my full name.

Code X was something we made up in elementary school. It meant top-notch news, crucial end-all and be-all news. Usually it wasn't. Nevertheless we agreed Code X meant you had to drop whatever you were doing and listen. Full-naming each other was also something we made up in elementary school. Both are a reminder of how far back our friendship goes.

"Code X. OK. OK!" I shout back into my sparkling phone case.

"He's back, Emmy Lou," she pauses. She doesn't need to say the name. I heard his name in the way she said 'he's back'. I heard *read* his name in between the lines of her drunken text messages last night. "Brooks is back."

"Holy Fuck!" It's all I could say before I walked through the security door, listening to the gate attendant tell me off for holding up the line.

My mind goes blank and my body goes numb. Ever get that weird shaky would-rather-black-out-than-stay-awake feeling? Like feeling your stomach turn into an actual black stone pit? Black stone pit isn't even dramatic enough to convey the feeling I just got hearing Trix say his name.

Yes, this is about a boy. You'd maybe think it was a murderer or otherwise extremely dangerous convicted felon the way I've gone on about my gut-feeling. But no. It's just a boy from high school. Well if you've ever experienced the pain of a broken heart, you can understand why the dangerous convicted felon may be preferable.

Jay Brooks. THE OG one that got away.

Solely because I pushed him. OK, we pushed each other but he started it. It remains above reason. Hindsight is not always 20/20, but retrospect is always a bitch.

He's exactly what you're probably thinking. Tall. Hot. Bit of a dick. At least that's how he was when I left nine years ago. Social media gives me unsolicited updates on what he's been up to. College in North Carolina. Semi-pro Lacrosse. A parade of hot blondes on his media page. Living the lax bro lifestyle.

Don't feel too bad for me though because it works both ways. My pages let him know I moved to the west coast. Do yoga. Frequent the hipster bar scene. And promote animal cruelty-free products to my weirdly above average social media following.

ON MY OWN DIME. Not like one of those insane influencers we all can't stand but secretly want to be. OK, I do get like free water bottles and yoga mats from promoting local places, but that hardly counts. Not when what's-her-face celebrities make 10k for showing up at a new restaurant in LA.

Anyway, we like each other's pictures. Big, right? Leave the occasional comment here and there. Dutiful like all other millennial exes that vow to stay friendly.

It's the extent of our let's stay in touch agreement. Sometimes even liking a picture is asking too much of myself.

Jay Brooks.

We dated through most of high school. He was my first crush and first kiss. First everything if you count whatever it was we did after prom. Poorest attempt at sex you've ever seen. Guess that's how your first time is supposed to be.

Makes for a good story now anyway.

He gave me life. He was everything I thought I ever wanted –what the movies and the media and basically all of society made me believe I wanted. The friendship that blossomed into romance –that hometown love that every single country song raves about. I was young and naïve and emotionally invested. We were one pick-up truck and small town road away from getting married.

It was everything. Until it wasn't.

We wanted to stay together through college and all that unrealistic shit. Be that power couple you hear about –the one that has it all.

We swore we'd last.

SPOILER ALERT:

We didn't.

He left one month after graduation to move to NC and start his lax bro lifestyle training. OK it was technically just lacrosse training for college, but still.

It was two weeks after that we called it quits. One guess why. While I was still stuck with the rest of our high school friends, trapped in our quiet town, Brooks was living college life. We slowly... drifted. Here's the kicker: I believed it was a mutual drift, a decision we both made together. It wasn't until after that I found out about her. That's the real reason we broke up.

It hurt at first. Fuck did it hurt. I was basic. I couldn't let it go even though I knew it was better for me. Better for both of us to move on together in separate directions. I mean, that rat bastard cheated on me, on us. He cheated on our fucking life together.

Shoulda been hella easier to hate him.

It got bad. The loss. Kinda felt like I threw part of myself away with him. Or he took part of me away. Both? Doesn't really matter now. I was worried about ever seeing him again. Knew I'd fall again. Knew I'd get hurt again.

Three. That's how many times I've gone home over the last nine years. Once for the holidays. Once for a funeral. Once for a summer visit –and only so my mom would stop hounding me about it.

First visit home freshman year I almost saw him. Came back from UCLA. I wasn't ready to see him. So I vowed never again. My parents visit me for the holidays now. A perk of being the only child. Sometimes they fly me out to meet them wherever they decide to go. Christmas in New York. New Years in Vail. Christmas in L.A. New Years in Bahamas. I almost prefer it this way.

Fuck.

On the plane now. Wedged between a middle-aged woman wearing too much perfume and a 12-year-old boy that's alone. Where's your parent, kid?

Here I am, a single 26-year-old, business owner, girl-power enthusiast, and I am giving myself a private mental health check. A pep talk to get myself through a visit to my hometown. I am a bad TV movie waiting to happen.

No going back. No going back.

It's OK. I'm only home for two weeks.

It's been nine years. It's OK.

How hard can seeing him be?

He's been living in NC, moved there after school. At least that's what his many media pages lead me to believe.

Trix was essentially dying over the phone. She couldn't contain herself while telling me that Brooks showed up back in town last night.

Why now?

Why does he choose the SAME WEEK to return home? It's like he knew I'd be home. Why do I smile when I think this? Because I relish the idea that he did this just to see me? Can I really be that pathetic?

Aren't we all?