Following the Rules (The Script Club 1)

Truthfully, I couldn’t tell if I was in limbo or just lost. Either way, Topher had been the lone bright spot in my world in a long-ass time. He was quirky and odd but interesting too. Call me crazy, but there was something intriguing about a straightlaced dude who blushed when asked if he wanted a slice of pizza yet didn’t shy away from sexy topics. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

And let’s not forget…he kissed me. And I liked it.

I might have to do some soul-searching to figure out what that meant exactly. But there was no point in denying I thought it was hot. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt excited about…anything or anyone. I couldn’t let him go now. The problem was I didn’t know how to get him to stay. I needed help.

That afternoon, I made the forty-five-minute drive from Malibu to Pasadena. Of course, it took longer than that. LA traffic was notoriously ridiculous, and it was always worse on a Friday. By the time I parked my BMW in my parents’ driveway, my nerves were shot. Not exactly ideal for dealing with my wacky brother, but I didn’t have much of a choice. George didn’t always return text messages. If I wanted to talk to George, I had to go to George…like he was a fucking Mafia godfather.

Fair warning…my brother was weird. He was also hands down, the smartest person I knew. He had a photographic memory, a relentlessly curious mind, and a dark sense of humor. He liked horror movies and Stephen King books, but his true passion was outer space. I didn’t get it. Why not Star Trek, then? But that was George for you. He was the ultimate contrarian.

Our oldest brother, Ben, and I were closer in age and had a bit more in common. Ben played baseball through college and dated extensively until he met his fiancée, Lauren, at the investment firm he worked at. They’d bought a house together recently and were planning a big-ass wedding. Ben and I didn’t see each other a ton, but we communicated via text almost daily. We could talk about sports, the stock market, politics…things George had no interest in whatsoever.

But George and I were still close in our own way. We didn’t talk about feelings, but we were there for each other. When he needed cash for school books, he came to me. When I was considering making a temporary return to the classroom, I’d called him for help. And now I needed more help.

“Hey, I’m home,” I called as I unlocked the side door to my parents’ two-story Spanish-style house.

“In here, honey.”

I peeked around the corner and grinned at the sight of my mom elbow-deep in flour.

“Ooh, whatcha making?” I asked, sidling next to her to lean against the granite countertop.

Mom gave me one of the super sunny grins she reserved for my brothers and me. “Soda bread. You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you? I have a roast in the oven. And I made cookies.”

My mother knew me well. Food was the best way to get me to go or stay anywhere, and Mom was easily the best cook I knew. She always had an apron around her waist and a smile on her face.

Maya Murphy was a petite albeit round woman in her late fifties with jet-black hair and kind hazel eyes. She was an elementary schoolteacher who’d recently switched to team teaching so she could concentrate on opening an online shop specializing in kitchen gadgets and cookbooks. She occasionally taught cooking classes at the local community college where my dad worked as an administrator.

If you hadn’t sensed a theme, let me enlighten you. My folks were big on education. And if I wasn’t quick, Mom would start asking a million questions I couldn’t answer about college. Was I having fun? No. Did I have a favorite class? Hell, no.

See, Mom knew I was hoping to get back on the field, and she did not approve. She got a queasy look in her eye at the mere mention of football and didn’t hesitate to remind me that my last concussion had almost put me in a coma. We’d agreed to shelve the topic until necessary…which wasn’t now.

“No wonder it smells so good. Sure, I can stay. I’ll probably spend the night too. I don’t want to get in my car again.” I made a show of sniffing the air like a demented Labrador. “Mmm. It’s like you knew I was coming home. Is that why you’re making a feast?”

Mom chuckled. “Naturally. And also because George is moving in the morning. It’s a mother’s prerogative to spoil her boys.”

“Lucky us. What kind of cookies did you make?” I asked, pulling open the pantry door.

“Chocolate chip. Dad will be home any minute now, and George is in his room.”