Chapter 28
Brooks
I lean against the kitchen counter watching Izzy scurry around her apartment, frantically tidying.
“I thought you said you didn’t care what they think.”
“And I thought you said I secretly do,” she snaps. She stops fluffing the sofa cushions. “I don’t care. It’s just she’s flown halfway around the globe.”
“Six hours.”
She launches the sofa cushion at me. “Now is not the time to be a smartarse, Brooks.”
The truth is, it’s all I can think to do because I’m afraid. I’m afraid her mother is coming here to tell her what a mistake Izzy will be making if she decides to stay with me. I’ve been here before. I know how this ends up. Me, alone, heartbroken.
I tuck the cushion under my arms for something to hold. A comfort. I’m already hurting, and I don’t know if I should stick around for the main event.
“You know why she’s coming, Izzy, and it isn’t to tell you that your two-week rental is untidy.”
Izzy stops and faces me. After long seconds of us staring at each other, she says, “I don’t know why she’s coming, Brooks.” Her words hold no conviction. Her shoulders sag and I am struck by a need to hold her.
I cross the living room, ditching the cushion and taking her in my arms. I hold her tight against my chest and stroke her shower-wet hair. “She’s your mom, Iz. What are you so afraid of?”
“Everything. Letting her down, letting you down, letting myself down. You don’t know her, Brooks.”
And I really don’t think I ever want to. I pull back and hold her cheeks in my palms. “Look, she doesn’t get here until after midnight. Let’s go to my place and go to bed for a while.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Izzy, tomorrow is our last day together. I don’t want to be apart from you tonight.”
“But my mother is coming. I have to be here.”
“Fine, then let’s go to bed here. Just let me be with you.”
The expression she offers could be apologetic or full of pity. Whichever it is, it cuts me deep. “You can’t be here when she gets in, Brooks.”
Those words finish me. I take a step back from her and nod, slowly. It’s happening again.
“We have to be up early for AMTV, anyway,” she says, her words coming fast. “It will take me ages to get ready in the morning. You’ll have a better night’s sleep on your own.”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks for thinking of me.” I leave her apartment, slamming the door behind me. Instead of going to my place, I head outside and start walking, aimlessly.
There’s a cool wind that chills me through my T-shirt. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans and keep moving west, until I’m standing on the edge of the Hudson. The city’s lights catch the ebb and flow of the water and take me back almost eighteen years.
I could hear Cady crying before I even got to Alice’s parents’ house. For a small thing, she had a big set of lungs. I didn’t care that she was crying, again, I was just excited to see them both. It had been a long day at the garage. A few emergencies came in, on top of the cars we already had booked. And I had been to Crazy Joe’s gym early that morning. I was exhausted.
But my feet started moving faster when I heard raised voices. I realized then that it wasn’t Cady’s normal crying; she sounded distressed. Alice was shouting above Cady’s screaming and, between the two of them, no one heard me enter the large suburban house.
I knew Alice’s mother would kill me if I didn’t take my work boots off before stepping on the new rug, so I fought with them, wrestling them off my hot feet.
“But I love him,” Alice shouted.
I could tell from the direction of her voice that she was downstairs with her parents and Cady was upstairs.
“Alice, you’re seventeen years old. You don’t know what real love is,” her mom said.
“Real love,” her dad began, “is providing for your family properly. Not being a mechanic at someone else’s garage. Now, Brooks is a nice boy, but that’s where it stops.”
“Look at his background, for goodness’ sake,” her mom said. “He comes from nothing and will come to nothing, Alice. We let you have Cady—”
“Let me have Cady? Is that a joke? She’s my daughter. Our daughter. Mine and Brooks’s. And he’s a good dad.”
Her father’s voice grew sterner. “He comes over every night for two hours, Alice. How can he be a good father?”
“I only see you for two or three hours a night. Are you saying you aren’t a good father?” Alice yelled.
“Now you watch that mouth, young lady. I put this roof over your head. I have given you a good education and, once this mess is straightened out, you’ll go back to having good prospects.”
“Did you just call Cady and Brooks a mess?”
“Open your eyes,” her mom shouted. “It is a mess, Alice. If you listen to your father, you might be able to salvage something of a life for yourself. You’ll be lucky now to find yourself a good, wealthy man who’ll take you on with baggage.”
I was rooted to the spot.
“I don’t want a wealthy man. I want Brooks. I want my family.”
Her mom cackled, and I felt my face twist with hatred as I imagined her perfectly made-up face and salon-styled hair thrown back. “We are your family, Alice. The people who put a roof over your head.”
I had heard enough and my baby was screaming. I walked upstairs and found Cady in her basket. I picked her up and held her to my chest. It surprised me every time I held her how tiny her head, her toes, her fingers were. How delicate she was. She was everything. And I would be everything for her.
I kissed her cheeks and swayed with her in my arms until her body relaxed and her tears disappeared.
“Brooks.”
I turned to see Alice, tears streaking her face, her eyes red and swollen. She still looked beautiful. “I love you,” I told her, because I had nothing else to say. Her parents were right. I was a mechanic and didn’t even earn minimum wage based on the hours I worked.
She sniffed. “I love you too.”
“I’ll show them, you know. I will. I’ll make something better for us, Alice. I promise.”
She crossed the room and put one hand on my head, the other on Cady’s back. “I know, Brooks. I know.” She dropped her cheek to my shoulder and we stood like that for what seemed like hours. Perfect. My family.
The next day, Alice broke up with me.
The wind rises from the Hudson in gusts. It hits my eyes over and over again, until they start to water. I can’t do it again.
* * * *
Day 14.
I hate wearing suits. Men like Drew and Marty look good in suits. They own the look. I, on the other hand, look like the Michelin Man being squeezed into fine fabrics. I own two suits. One I wore to my grandfather’s funeral when I was twenty-four, with skinny shoulders and about forty pounds lighter than I am now. The one I’m wearing is a suit Drew convinced me to splurge on for a networking event we went to last year. He told me it was an investment, which was why I eventually caved. This is appearance number two for the dark blue two-piece.
I fight with my tie in the mirror, with one eye on YouTube and the video that is instructing me how to tie a Windsor knot. Once I’m finally suited and I have run product through my hair—enough to look like I’ve made an effort, not enough to make me look like Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jay Gatsby—I shine my shoes and get set to leave.
When I receive a message telling me the car sent by AMTV is downstairs, I close my apartment door, really wishing I could spend the morning at the gym, rather than a television studio.
The door to Izzy’s apartment is ajar, as if someone exited and intentionally left it open so they could reenter.
“You don’t know anything about him,” I hear Izzy say.
The voice that replies is stuffy—with overpronounced vowels and drawn-out consonants. “I know that our friends and family have seen your blog. You’ve made your point, Isabella. You’ve flaunted a relationship with a man I could never approve of. Imagine what the ladies at the Savoy will think. The man is covered in tattoos. He’s a weight lifter, for crying out loud.”
“He’s a fitness instructor and he owns his own gym,” Izzy fires back, her words sharp, almost a shout.
“A fitness instructor, then. It’s hardly a life I want for my daughter.”
“How can you say that? I’m a fitness instructor.”
“Oh, please, we all know what this is, Isabella. You wanted to show your father and me that you can do something on your own that we wouldn’t endorse. You’ve done it now. The silliness ends here.”
“Silliness? This is my career.”
“No, darling, it’s a flirt with dancing and a few recipes. Do you intend to write another book about breakfast shakes and salads? How long do you expect to salsa yourself to a size whatever? You never stick to anything. It’s time for you to grow up and do something constructive with your life. Having some kind of public fling with that man is not a step in the right direction.”
“That man has a name.”
“I don’t care to learn it. You can do your show. Then you will fly home with your father and me and we will get your life back on track. You have a very good degree in English literature. We are well connected. If you want to write books, write something worthy of being read.”
“When will you realize that this is my life? I want to work in fitness. I want to date Brooks.”
“He has a grown-up child, Isabella! Do you really believe he is the man for you?”
Izzy’s voice seems to lose its conviction. “That’s my decision.”
“We both know you are incapable of making good life choices. Now, let me tell you how this goes. You will come back to London and fix your life. You will stop turning your back on the people you need to socialize with to thrive in life. And you will walk away from that man.”
“But—”
“You will do it, or your credit cards will be cut off and we will stop paying your rent. Then you could really see how far your life choices have got you on your own.”
I’m startled by the sound of a throat clearing behind me. I knock into Izzy’s door as I turn. A man stands before me, holding three coffees. He has Izzy’s eyes and nose. He’s tall and slim, with thin gray hair and an immaculate suited appearance.
I swallow deeply. “Sir. I’m going to take a guess that you’re Izzy’s dad.”
“That’s correct. You must be Brooks Adams?”
“Yes, sir.”
He takes a deep breath and seems to stand even taller than before. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
He gestures to the apartment door, sending my mind right back to the conversation I just overheard. I care less about her mother’s opinion of the inked, muscled man with no prospects, and more about what Izzy didn’t say. She didn’t really defend me. She didn’t stand up to her mother. She didn’t say I was the man for her.
I nod to Izzy’s father because I am struggling to form words. I’m seventeen again. My heart is breaking, again. It hurts every bit as much as it did then, maybe more.
“Could you tell Izzy the car is downstairs?” I manage.
“Yes, of course. We’ll be down soon.”
“Thanks.”
Outside, I lean back against the apartment building wall, needing a few minutes of air before I get into the ridiculous stretch limousine that must have been sent so that Izzy’s parents can ride with us. Great.
I can feel heat rising on my skin. Sitting in front of a camera, inches from the woman I love, knowing my eighteen-year walls have cracked… I don’t know if I can do it. I yank my tie loose and unfasten the top button of my shirt, needing to cool down, needing to breathe. I ball the overpriced fucking tie in my fist and lean my head back against the wall, trying to get a grip on myself.
I was a fool to think I could fall in love with someone after two weeks, that she would love me back, and that any of it would be enough to erase eighteen years of pain. I was an idiot to think Izzy isn’t just another rich girl.
“We’ll meet you in there,” Izzy says. “I just need to speak with Brooks.”
I open my eyes to see her folks walking to the limo. Her mother has on a cream-colored suit. Her blond hair is perfectly styled into a roll at the back. Pearls decorate her neck and ears. Even her goddamn shiny shoes look expensive.
“Brooks.” Izzy’s hair falls in waves across her shoulders. I love seeing her with her hair down. She has on a peach-pink dress that sits off her shoulders, hugs her slender waist, and finishes below the knee. Her high heels make her entire body taller and straighter. What looks like a diamond bracelet sparkles on her delicate wrist. Her nails are painted to match the dress. She looks incredible and out of reach, all at once.
“You look beautiful.”
Her smile is soft and doesn’t shape the rest of her face. “You look good in a suit.”
Men in suits. That’s what she’s used to. It’s not me. I’m just the mechanic who got lucky when Crazy Joe left a little pot of cash to me and I started a gym. The kid with no direction and no money is still inside me. The kid who got his girlfriend knocked up at sixteen is right here. The man who has an adult daughter and no fucking clue how to move on with his life is hiding behind the suit she likes.
“Brooks, what my mother said…”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, Izzy. I get it.”
“You mean so much to me, Brooks.”
“Just not as much as credit cards and a nice apartment.”
“That is unfair!”
“Is it? You and I are very different people, Isabella.”
“You’re being a dick.”
I push off the wall so we’re standing face-to-face. “No, I’m being a realist. You come from money and you like money and wealthy circles. I’m just a small-town guy lifting weights in the city.”
“You know I don’t think that.”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t tell your mother any different, did you?”
She exhales tightly and heavily, shaking her head. “Well, you didn’t manage to tell me that you aren’t still in love with your ex. I guess we both have shit to figure out before we hurt each other.”
It’s way too late for that. We stare at each other for seconds that feel like an eternity. I wish I could take her in my arms. I wish we could go back to the gym and bicker about the Charleston. I wish we could stay in bed, just the two of us, where we make sense. But that isn’t real life. Real life grinds you down and tears you apart.
“We should go. We’ll be late,” I tell her.
She looks to the ground, not meeting my eye again as she walks to the limousine.
* * * *
When we arrive at the studio, Izzy and I are met in the lobby of the high-rise by Kerry. In her usual stylish way, she’s in heels, pencil skirt, and blouse. Her shoes make a clicking sound against the marble floor as she comes toward us. “Wow, did someone die? You two are going to have to cheer up, at least for an hour. Brooks, I thought we agreed you would wear a tie?”
“I’m in a suit, aren’t I?”
I hear Izzy’s mother tut behind my back and feel Izzy tense at the sound. Her mother hardly spoke two words to me on the ride over. Her father asked a few questions and made small talk about the city. I can tell neither of them have an interest in getting to know me and I’m certain my life wouldn’t be incomplete if they weren’t in it. But I was polite, for Izzy’s sake.
“True. It beats sneakers and running shorts. Follow me. We’ll go up to AMTV’s floor. Makeup might want to see you, and then there’s a breakfast buffet.” As we reach the elevators, one of six opens and Kerry leads us inside. “I’m sure you can fight over what you can and can’t eat.”
Kerry leads Izzy’s parents to some place in the studio, where viewers are permitted to stand behind the cameras. Izzy and I are brushed and fussed over by the makeup team—not something I take kindly to—then a studio runner leads us to the breakfast room.
Two guests of the show are already inside the small room, sitting on a red sofa and talking about their upcoming political segment. We have short introductions; then they get back to discussing the latest Senate scandal. Two flat-screens on the walls show AMTV in real time. The clock in the corner of the screen tells me it is eight fifty. Izzy and I are on at nine fifteen.
I watch the show for a few minutes, then move to Izzy’s side as she scours the breakfast buffet. Pastries. Muffins. Cream cheese bagels. “I’m guessing I can’t have any of this?”
She looks up at me quickly, I think surprised that I’ve broken our silence. “You can have fruit,” she says, gesturing to the far end of the spread.
“Why don’t you go for half a cream cheese bagel and add some of that smoked salmon,” I tell her. I hate that we are speaking to each other like robots. But I don’t think there’s anything meaningful left to say. That thought alone has me rubbing a fist against the lingering ache in my chest. My worry is, like the DOMS—delayed onset muscle soreness—this pain is only going to get worse tomorrow.
We plate our breakfast and each take a bottle of sparkling water from the minifridge. We stand to eat. Izzy picks at her bagel, her gaze focused on her plate the entire time.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
She finally looks at me. “We are still going to say what we agreed, aren’t we?”
I should have known she would be less bothered about what is happening between us and more concerned about her public appearance. “Yes, Izzy.”
“Please don’t be like that.”
The runner is back. “Ms. Coulthard, Mr. Adams. Can you follow me, please?”
We do, relieved—at least for my part—to be spared another discussion about how we just aren’t compatible. The guy leads us to the edge of the studio, where we are wired up with microphones. Two presenters are sitting on a cream-colored sofa.
“All right, guys, you’re up. Take a seat on the sofa here opposite Marcha and Aaron.” We briefly shake hands with the presenters and take a seat opposite them. We both shuffle, crossing and uncrossing our legs, sitting taller, then more relaxed. Izzy settles for crossed legs and I settle for parted knees.
I glance around at the cameras and lights on us. I read the autocue, set up for Marcha’s first line after the weather segment that is currently airing. I’m nervous as hell and way out of my comfort zone.
Izzy’s hand comes down on my thigh, stealing my attention. “You’ll be great,” she says.
I lock my fingers in hers and squeeze her hand, grateful to have her next to me, letting her know I’m here with her too.
The moment is gone and we part our hands when Marcha welcomes back viewers.
“Next up, we have Brooks Adams and Izzy Coulthard on the sofa. Brooks, you are the owner of the gym Brooks Adams and a renowned trainer here in the city. Izzy, you are visiting from the UK to promote your book, Be Green. Be Clean. Now, to help any viewers who haven’t followed the story, you two have slightly different approaches to health and fitness. That’s fair to say, I think. Brooks, why don’t you start by telling us about your methods?”
My nerves are back with a vengeance. Remembering Madge’s advice, I try to imagine this is just four people chatting on two sofas in a private living room. “My method really revolves around the idea that no one size fits all.” I feel my voice strengthen as my heartbeat calms. “I believe a plan for exercise and nutrition advice should be tailored to each client. As a starting point, I would include cardiovascular and muscular training. I would include healthy carbohydrates and proteins. But the rest depends on what the client wants to achieve. They could be training to run a marathon, for example, or they might want to increase muscle mass.”
“Interesting. So, for you, Izzy’s method of dancing and structured detox recipes would be incorrect?”
Izzy fidgets uncomfortably beside me. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Incorrect is not the term I would use. For some people, dancing as exercise and going green, detoxing, would be a fine way to achieve their goals.”
“But it wouldn’t work for everyone?”
I glance at Izzy, conscious that I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. She doesn’t deserve that. “In my opinion, it wouldn’t work for everyone, no. But I will say, I feel good after following her plan for two weeks. There are some things I will take away and continue to do.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I feel cleaner and leaner. I’ll continue to include detox shakes and superfoods along with my regular diet.”
“Will you still do the Charleston as exercise?”
I don’t feel like it, but I recognize that I should laugh with Marcha, Izzy, and Aaron, so I do. “I don’t think the Charleston will be one of the things that stays.”
Laughter seems to have suited Izzy. She appears to relax a little.
“So, Izzy,” Marcha begins. “How did you feel following Brooks’s plan?”
She glances at me and smiles. I don’t know if it’s genuine. “Honestly, I hated it initially. I felt like I was eating a lot more than usual. I missed dancing and disliked the regimented approach to exercise. But now, I feel great. I’ve actually gained weight but not body fat, which means it is all strength and toning. I feel better for it, physically and mentally. So, I do recognize that advice should be tailored. I stand by Salsa Yourself Slim and clean eating. I also appreciate that if you want to build muscle, or really enhance your cardiovascular fitness, introducing weights and interval training could be beneficial.”
Marcha leans forward across her knees and presses her hands together. “This is interesting. For viewers who don’t know, Izzy and Brooks’s relationship has been dubbed ‘love, hate, salsa, and weights’ by some reporters. Which I love, by the way. Very catchy. But what I’m seeing here is definitely more reconciliatory. So, tell us, are the rumors true? Has this competition led to a blossoming romance?”
Izzy and I look at each other. What the hell kind of question is that? I glance at the cameras and see Izzy’s parents looking on, worry lacing her mother’s expression.
“We’ve certainly come to respect each other,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “I’m sure we’ll stay friends after this and continue to give each other grief about weight training and salsa dancing.”
Marcha laughs and pats Aaron on the arm. I keep my gaze on the coffee table between the sofas. “What about a collaboration? Are we likely to see a salsa and weights book being released next?”
I open my mouth to speak but Izzy beats me to it. “We both have things to work on as individuals. A collaboration is highly unlikely. Plus, I’m not sure I could stand more than two weeks of Brooks Adams. I like designer handbags and kale. Brooks hates extravagance and enjoys burgers.”
I look at her now. Though a fake smile is planted on her face, I don’t misunderstand one word she said. She’s acting like the Izzy she was two weeks ago, not the Izzy she wants to be. The fact is, she is going back to the Izzy of two weeks ago, and she isn’t putting up any fight.
Whatever we were or might have been, we’re done.
“Well, we think you both look great, and that you would look great together, don’t we, Aaron?”
“We sure do, Marcha.” He turns to the camera. “You can find the results of Brooks and Izzy’s competition on our Web page. Next, we have Nigel Anderson discussing his new sitcom Anything Goes.”
After dewiring, I chase Izzy along the corridor to the elevators. Her parents are already waiting on the landing. “Izzy, can we talk?”
She spins on her heels to look at me. “There’s no need, Brooks. I got the message, loud and clear. You’re right. We are two very different people. I have no clue what I’m going to do with my life. You have a business, Cady, and Alice in Wonderland. I’m supposed to move in circles with skinny, wealthy people and you like grungy karaoke bars. I want to be number one to someone. You already have a number one in your life. I’m not even mature enough to be able to accept that. We have nothing in common. This would never have worked. I’m a fool for thinking it could have.”
The elevator doors open and she steps inside. I don’t follow.
* * * *
I decide to walk from the studio, knowing it is miles from home. I don’t care. I take off my suit jacket and hold it over my shoulder, my other hand in my pants pocket, as the sun beats down on me. After a while, I reach my street but I keep walking. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t need to see Izzy packing to leave. I don’t need to know she’s only two doors away from me but will be gone by tomorrow.
My goddamn shoes start blistering my feet but I keep walking, all the while remembering why I prefer to wear sneakers. Without realizing, I find myself in Central Park. I sit on a bench, alone, watching families and tourists smile and laugh, watching Rollerbladers and runners zip by me.
She’s right. We are two very different people. But I don’t believe what she said about social circles and handbags. She hates those people. She’s so much better than those people. They put her down, made her feel like shit. And we do have things in common, so much. Music, movies, sports, exercise. She challenges me. I thought I hated that at first; then I realized she makes me feel alive.
But she does deserve to be someone’s number one and right now, I can’t figure out how to make room for her. She isn’t just talking about Cady; she’s talking about all the other shit inside me. I’m lost. I’ve been lost for eighteen years because I’ve been so focused on Alice. Every move I’ve made, every thought I’ve had, Alice has been in there somewhere. Alice. Alice who broke my heart.
Sitting here, I see the difference between Alice and Izzy. I feel it. Izzy has caused a different kind of hurt. Not deeper or more painful, just different.
But it ended the same. She’ll go back to the life she hates, with her parents telling her who she can and can’t date.
This time, I won’t just accept it. Things are going to change.