Regret lived inside of Brooklyn now. She had battled with it for years. Guilt over leaving after Austin’s funeral. The blame she put on herself when he died. The remorse she felt for staying away. Shame for her actions in general. Years of therapy hadn’t been able to cure her; of course it may have helped had she stuck it out with one therapist, but her job wouldn’t allow for that. Moving from place to place was how she operated. She chose to live out of hotels because they were easy, no commitment, and her permanent residence was a post office box in Jacksonville, Florida. Yet deep down, she knew Brystol wanted friends—she wanted to feel like a normal teenager—and giving her daughter a stable homelife would be the right thing to do. She often thought of sending her to her parents, letting her daughter grow up in Seattle. Go to a real school and make real friends. But the thought of not being with Brystol every day literally made Brooklyn ill. She was her reason for breathing, for waking up every morning. Brystol was the only reason she was back in town and staring down the man who had been the catalyst for everything disintegrating before her eyes all those years ago.
Brooklyn sighed heavily. The loud, exaggerated sound was meant to get Bowie’s attention. His eyebrow popped, almost as if he knew what she was doing. No, he definitely knew. He knew Brooklyn better than she knew herself. At least, he used to.
“What happened to you becoming a nurse?” he asked. She couldn’t tell if his tone was snarky or just curious. There was a time when he’d known her hopes and dreams and she’d known his, but those days had long passed.
“What happened to you not becoming your father?” Answering a question with a question was the easiest way to avoid giving an uncomfortable answer. As soon as she’d found out she was going to be a mother, her dreams of being a nurse had been put aside, and she’d started doing what she knew how to do best, answering phones and setting schedules for a construction company in Montana, which had turned into painting the interior of homes after she’d had Brystol. Bowie had taught her how to use a paintbrush, and she had always found the job therapeutic, taking her anger out on the walls of unsuspecting homes by jabbing the brush a little too hard in the corners or pressing the roller irately into the walls, until a general contractor who’d liked her a little too much had handed her a hammer and told her to imagine whoever had hurt her was on the wall that he needed torn down. Brooklyn had done just that. Beating the old plaster until it was dust. She’d worked with that contractor for about three years, taking home-improvement classes at the hardware store until she’d set out on her own. Remodeling had become her therapy, and still to this day, the person she imagined each time she hit the wall hadn’t changed.
“Things are different since you left,” he told her. She found his statement both odd and accusatory. She gathered he wanted her to ask what changed or who, for that matter. While she was tempted, she didn’t want him asking about her and her life, so she didn’t take the bait.
Just then, the door to the carriage house where Carly lived opened, and she stood in the doorway, looking at Brooklyn and Bowie expectantly. She wanted to get down to business—that much Brooklyn knew. There was something about this whole situation that felt off to Brooklyn. The phone call, asking that she come back to complete the renovation, and now Bowie being there. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but her gut was telling her something was amiss.
Bowie fell in step behind Brooklyn, following her into the dining room, where they sat across from each other. On the table, the renderings Brooklyn had drawn for the project were spread out, covering every inch of wood. They weren’t as detailed as she would have preferred but better than nothing. She could show Bowie the full scope of her ideas if he wanted or needed to see them, but, in her experience, the contractors did as they were told.
She watched as Bowie picked up each sheet, studying her hand-drawn work. It had taken her years of night school to master the art of fine lines, arches, and framing, but she had. She sketched her ideas first before she put them into her computer. Most of her clients still loved the idea of paper; they loved holding the concept in their hands. With most of her custom jobs, she would frame the drawings and hang them on the wall for her clients, as it was their vision that helped Brooklyn. It was a small gift from her to them.