We Go Down (Bremmy 2)

Chapterish 26

| NORTH CAROLINA |

TWO
WEEKS
LATER

So here I am sitting on the white bedspread of this Marriott room, paid for by Brooks, alone. In NC. Waiting.

Yes, waiting.

My flight landed 37 minutes ago and only after I called Brooks asking why he didn't meet me at the airport did he tell me he's stuck in LA.

WHAT.

The nerve, I know.

He had to fly back last second for an unforeseen emergency meeting. Some PR disaster or marketing fiasco about releasing a new line. Whatever the reason, it's not reason enough for me.

I had to listen to Brooks utter some lame apology to my voicemail, telling me he already booked a room in my name at the airport and him assuring me he'll be back first thing in the morning.

So that's cool.

Who cares if I spent hours grooming myself, excited to see Brooks, if I can raid the mini fridge and surf channels for late-night old movies instead?

Part of me wants to face time Trix and Meg and vent vehemently about the ridiculousness of what's happening. But then the other part of me reminds myself to calm down.

With a few deep breaths I put my phone back in the side-pocket on my bag and change into sweats.

I decide I'm giving him a pass. A break. The benefit of the doubt. Sure we had this planned. Sure I confirmed it TWO nights ago. But hey, shit happens.

He is running a million dollar company that just keeps growing. He is in demand. He's fucking 28 for crying out loud. And 28 year-olds are prone to make mistakes every now an then. Not that it's even a mistake. More a decision. That he's making. Leaving me in an airport hotel room.

Fucking benefits of the doubt.

My hand is getting carpel tunnel from this remote. I finally stop flipping through the channels when I find a decent Drew Barrymore rom-com. Never Been Kissed.

I can't help grabbing my phone, slipping under the covers and surfing through the Gram. All is quiet on Brooks's page, but I can't stop stalking it.

I read my mom's text and put on a recent playlist, fully prepared to stalk the shit out of everyone right now. Trix and Travis are having a date night. Looks like Nate's posting some gym work-out sesh. Meg posted a selfie. Am I hoping to catch a glimpse of Brooks somewhere? Or expecting to?

I know he's in LA and I know I don't know anyone he is with.

Still.

I spend twenty minutes or so on the phone with my mom. She fusses over the next time I'm coming home and asks where her and my dad should go next Christmas. There's hardly any down time after I hang up when I see Trix is blowing up our group chat.

Trix and Meg are still whining at the boys' secrecy about the joint pre-wedding bachelor/ette party. I make a mental note to bother Brooks when I see him tomorrow.

If.

You have no idea how easy it is not kissing boys, Drew.

Time escapes me and I fall asleep without the will to get up and do my nightly routine. No primping. No teeth-brushing. No facial moisturizer.

The hotel room looks strange and haunted under the flashes of the TV, colors spilling onto the walls and floors. I turn the volume down low to help break up the dead silence as I fall asleep. 

I'm just about in a dreamy stupor (thanks mini vodkas) and thinking about being in high school, undercover, when my phone vibrates against my leg. I stare at the screen.

1:17 AM

INCOMING CALL: BROOKS

My heart races.

"Hello?"

There's a second of silence on the phone.

Heart still racing.

"EMS!" Brooks's cheery voice fills my ear-drums.

"Fuck!" I groan, pulling the phone away from my ear.

"Ems –Oh, shit. Sorry, babe. Did I wake you?" Brooks asks. I can tell he's trying to sound sober.

"No. Watching some movie." I lie, sitting up straight in bed.

A lesser Ems would take note of the loud music and screaming voices I hear coming through the tiny speaker. She would panic and harp on what Brooks's is doing. A lesser Ems would sure as shit whine about this tomorrow.

I'm a greater Ems.

"Sorries. I was dragged out. Gotta be at the airs-port in a few hours." Brooks laughs into the phone. I hear more laughing in the background. "Shit. Like AN hour."

"Hope you aren't driving," I say, sarcastic.

"Nahs. We getting limo."

"Limo?" I ask. "Who is we?"

"Me –Tate-n-Wells." Brooks slurs.

Tate 'n' Wells. Dafuq kinda names.

"OK," I mumble lamely.

"Agh. Gotta go. Don't be mad. Loves You! Sees you tomorrow." He hangs up without waiting for any response.

Seems right.