“You ladies were busy this morning,” Carly commented on the collection.
“I believe you’re the one who told me that morning is the best time to gather shells.” Brooklyn brushed her hand over Brystol’s long dark hair. “Why don’t you run in and take a shower. I need to get to work, but I need an hour of reading from you before you start bugging Simone, okay? And don’t forget your book report.”
“Okay, Mom.” Brystol kissed her grandmother and disappeared into the house while both women watched her.
“She’s happy here.”
“She loves you, Carly. Of course, she’s happy.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
Brooklyn glanced at Carly and smiled. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
Carly stared at her with a guarded look. “Stay.”
“What do you mean?” Deep down she knew what Carly wanted, but something inside told her she needed to hear the words.
“Make a life here. Give Brystol a home. Let her grow up with her father’s friends. With me.”
She sat across from Carly and prepared to ask her a barrage of questions. “Why don’t they know her? Why haven’t they come around? Why haven’t you left this house?” She hadn’t meant to ask so many at once, but they just wouldn’t stop coming.
“Losing Skip was hard, but Austin’s death crippled me. If it weren’t for Brystol . . .” She paused, and Brooklyn knew what she was going to say. “Simone tried to bring life back to me, but to face everyone, to see the look of pity and sorrow on their faces—I wasn’t ready.”
“But you are now?”
Her mouth curved into a smile. “You’re here. My granddaughter is here. You both give me purpose.”
Brooklyn reached across the table and held Carly’s hand. “I’ll think about it. Truth is, I have so many thoughts about moving back here, mostly for Brystol. She seems to think it’d be funny to go to school where Austin and I had.” Carly’s brow shot up, causing Brooklyn to laugh. She had been on the receiving end of one too many calls about Brooklyn’s and Austin’s schoolyard antics.
“Brystol needs roots.”
“It would be nice to come home to a home. The thoughts are there, Carly. I promise you.”
Brooklyn left Carly sitting at the table. She went into the house, to her room, and changed into her work clothes. As soon as she heard the backing-up beeps from the delivery truck, she ran down the stairs and out to the front. She saw Bowie’s crew, but not him, and a few of the guys sent up from Seattle by a friend of hers. “Where the hell is he?” she mumbled as she walked out the door and prepared to start her day.
ELEVEN
Bowie woke to Luke licking his face. He tried to push his dog away, but to no avail. His head hurt, pounding like a jackhammer was right next to him. He groaned aloud, earning another round of wet, slobbery kisses from his best friend. He had drunk too much, laughed too hard, and mourned a lost friend right along with his lifelong friends. They had stayed at the Whale Spout long past closing, talking about nothing yet seemingly everything. The elephant in the room was Brooklyn’s return. Her close friends were pissed, at least those who used to be close to her. Monroe seemed to be the only one who understood why Brooklyn had left, while others did not, and a few kept going on about how well she had aged and how they would like to take her out. Those comments had pissed Bowie off, and the only way to shut out the voices had been to drink more.
He reached for his phone, thinking it was past the time Luke normally ate. When his clouded eyes finally registered the numbers, he sat up too quickly and felt sick. He barely made it to the bathroom before the appetizers he and Monroe shared the night before, and the copious amounts of beer he drank, came back full force and without pause. Once his stomach was empty, his throat parched, and his ribs aching, he lay there on the cold tile floor, contemplating life. He hadn’t been this hungover in years . . . not since Austin died and he found out that Brooklyn had left. For weeks after, he had drunk himself into a stupor to numb the pain from the realization that in a matter of days, he had lost both of his best friends.
His phone rang. The shrill tone made his ears bleed. By the time he made it back to his bedroom, the ringing had stopped, only to start again. He pressed the accept button and brought the offending electronic to his ear. “Hello?” His voice was raspy, and not in the sexy sort of way. It hurt to speak, think, and move. The only thing Bowie was planning to do today was sleep.