One More Time (Bremmy 1)

Chapterish 69

Who doesn't love dinner with the dad? Brooks. Brooks doesn't. Brody isn't too hot about it either.

Kenneth Brooks. Dare I say... silver fox? Judge me, it's OK. But Brooks and Brody got it from somewhere and while their mom is very much a middle-aged babe, there's no denying that these two sons are spitting images of their father.

He's just as tall as his sons, perhaps at one point was even taller. I know almost 10 years have passed since I last saw him, since he last caught Brooks and me in their basement, but he looks almost the same. More silver maybe. Foxier maybe.

His smartphone rings 44 times an hour, dings and vibrates and explodes with emails. Running a business, I guess has its setbacks. Ken gets up and leaves the table at least three times to take a call. Almost every waiter and waitress has stopped by our table –saying hi –asking if we need anything –seeing if we are OK –kissing some ass.

Still, as we all sit at the same quiet table in the main restaurant, I can't help but see Mr. Brooks just as I remember him: Busy, fast, oblivious at times. I also can't help but see how Brooks acts around him –how he tenses when his dad opens his mouth –or how he keeps flicking his eyes to Brody like they're sharing some unspoken exchange of conversation.

Maybe they are.

"So, Emmy," Ken says, turning to me. "I hear you do yoga for a living? How's that work?"

Ah, the unmistakable tone of belittling disapproval. How I love it.

"I don't just do yoga. I run a studio. And it works like a job," I say, focusing on my fork in my salad.

"Right, yes." He says, without even knowing what he is saying right to.

"Emmy doesn't just run the studio, she owns it. It's hers. Something she didn't tell me at first," Brooks says, smiling at me, looking at his father.

"Right, yes." I say, smirking. Brooks laughs at me.

"Well, that's good. But yoga is only trending, right? What happens when the trend stops?" Ken says, still swiping away on his smartphone.

"I guess I'll have to wait to find out."

Brooks rolls his eyes.

Ken picks up his phone again and then looks at the table –at the four of us like he's only just realizing we're there.

"I'm going to have to run. Now don't forget," Ken says. Not sure it's to any one of us in particular. "Tomorrow I won't be around. I'll be preparing most of the day. Just don't be late."

"Course not." Brody says.

Ken looks at Brooks over his phone.

Brooks nods too. "On time. Got it."

There are 100 things I'd like to say to Ken –about mistreating his sons –about current yoga trends –about answering phone calls at the dinner table. But I know my place.

And Ken is letting us stay here for free this weekend, so there's that.

"That was rude," I say. Ken left without even addressing Lauren or me with a goodbye.

"That's Ken," Brooks says under his breath.

"Probably best he leaves," Brody says, watching Brooks sideways.

"Seriously. We'll be stuck with him tomorrow night anyway," Brooks grumbles.

"Can't wait," I mumble.

The vibe at dinner sort of killed the mood for the night. Brooks was in such a mood I didn't even try to kiss him. Don't want to jump into it. He didn't try to kiss me either. Suppose he was still butt hurt about the V Day fiasco. We all agreed it was better we went to bed early, since we had a full schedule today. Saturday.

The sun is shining through the window and the sky is perfect Florida blue. Today will be better. Not thinking it could be any worse.

Four hours of wave running and poolside lounging later, we are walking back through the resort grounds, past the 17 pools and hot tubs and cabanas, our hands still holding fancy daiquiri drinks with tropical umbrellas. Lauren and I sampled them all.

The cool air condition blasts my face. It brings me back to reality. What is this reality? Flying on planes to fancy resort galas, parading on the beach, drinking $10 sparkling water and lounging in private teal-colored cabanas.

Who am I? More importantly, as I wonder looking at Brooks, what are we?

The elevator opens onto our floor. The four of us step out. I glance in the mirror behind the table with the coral and shell centerpiece. I look sunkissed, slightly rosy. I catch Brooks behind me, all tall and muscly. The way his dark hair falls over his face. The way he tucks it behind his ears. The way he's all sunkissed. GOD. I want to be the sun that's kissing him.

"Ok. TWO hours," Brooks says when we reach our adjoining rooms.

"Yea, yea," Brody says, opening his door. He slinks inside pulling Lauren by the hand behind him.

Brooks and I are so close I can feel the heat radiating from him again.

Deep breath.

They smell like him –like a perfume mixture of sun, salt, sand, and skin. I could die just looking at him. And it hits me. He loves me. Dafuq am I doing?

"What?" He asks, raising his eyebrow.

"Just looking." I shrug.

"Come on." He rolls his eyes pushing open the door to our room.

The room is even colder than the lobby and the elevator and the hallway. It was fine last night when we slept cuddled together with our bodies acting as heat warmers, but now it's just a mf ice box. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him cross the room. Maybe now we will talk. Maybe it's been enough time. Maybe we'll just continue avoiding the conflict and this entire weekend will pass. Maybe we will depart as friends.

"You can shower first," Brooks says. He drops his sunglasses and keys on the bedside table.

"K," I say, slightly annoyed he doesn't suggest we shower together.

Just wait. He's probably embarrassed or afraid or lord only knows what. No wonder he hasn't tried anything.

We've only kissed the entire 24 hours I've been here.

Chill, Em.

I leave the bathroom door slightly cracked. I turn on the shower and let the steam take me. Citrus shampoo covers my hair, my eyes, my soul. I shave and lather gel on my bod. I wonder if I seem like I'm dragging this out. Rolling my eyes at myself I turn off the shower and grab the white towel from the rack.

Brooks is talking when I turn off the shower. I almost think it's to me, when I realize he's on the phone. I hear the words Edge and apparel and can't do it. I pull the door open and walk to the side of the bed. Wrapped in a towel, my hair twisted into a bun. He mouths 'hello' when he sees me.

"Ok. I need to go," Brooks says into the phone. "Yes. OK. I know I do and I will."

He hangs up and pulls off his shirt, tossing it into the corner by his bag. Abs. "Sorry about that."

"No prob. Business calls," I tease. Pun?

"My turn to shower." He disappears into the bathroom. Door fully closed.

Ugh.

I plop back on the bed, still towel-wrapped like a bronze statue in a toga. This is my fault. My fault he's being so weird and anti-playful Brooks. The day is catching up with me. I'm not used to the sun and the drinking and the dehydration. It's impossible to stifle my yawn.

I sink back lower into the bed. I'm not even cold anymore. In fact the air feels nice against my heated skin.