Brooke Roberts

Kyle holds me, lazily drawing circles on the bare skin of my back, our breathing gradually slowing down as the remnants of pleasure from our third round begin to fade. He kisses my hair, and I turn my head, which was resting on his chest, to look at him. I’m met with his deep blue eyes staring at me intensely.

"I like those books of yours," he teases.

"Oh yeah?" I stretch and kiss his chin. "What’s your favorite quote?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but my phone rings, filling the room with its classical melody. I search for the source of the music, and my heart does a full-on Olympic-worthy somersault the moment I see the smiling faces of my parents lighting up the screen in a video call.

"Shit. Shit." I jump off the couch, rummaging through the clothes on the floor in search of my shirt and panties. "Fuck!" I curse. "Kyle!" I snap at him while he stays lying down, laughing at my panic.

"You don’t have to answer right now," he says, way too calmly.

"You know my mom. Helen Roberts won’t stop calling until I pick up, and then she’ll interrogate me for taking so long," I say, finding my shirt and putting it on in a rush. I comb my fingers through my hair but decide it's safer to put it up in a bun. "You need to go."

"I live here, Sunshine."

"Ha. Ha." I laugh without humor. "And this house is a mansion, so disappear. I'm not ready to explain whatever this is." The ringing stops for a few seconds before starting again.

"Explain what?" he asks, feigning ignorance, placing one arm behind his head and flexing his muscular bicep.

"You know very well." I gesture from his deliciously naked body to mine.

"They know me, Brooke. Your parents adore me," he replies, finally sitting up.

"And you think that’ll still be the case once they find out you're sleeping with their daughter?"

"Honestly?" he counters, grabbing his gray boxer briefs and putting them on. "I think so, but since I’m so generous..." Kyle approaches, placing both hands on my hips and pulling me close, tracing my lips with his tongue before kissing me quickly and pulling away, catching my bottom lip between his teeth. "Is that the third or fourth call?" he asks, a smug grin on his face, nodding toward the phone still on the floor.

"Get out of here," I complain, swatting his shoulder and bending to pick up the device, mentally preparing myself for the interrogation and to pretend everything’s fine.

I take three deep breaths before answering.

"Hi, Mom!" I greet her. "Hi, Dad!" I add when I see him enter the frame.

"Where were you? Why are your cheeks flushed?" she starts, suspicious, and I roll my eyes. Her hair falls in perfect, intentional waves over her shoulders, her brown eyes scan me up and down, and her thin lips are coated with her classic nude lipstick.

"Leave her alone, Helen. How are you feeling, sweetheart?" William Roberts, my dad, cuts in, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders. His hair is more gray than before, and his green eyes—the same shade as mine—stand out against his sun-kissed skin from hours of golf.

"I was in the kitchen, making a sandwich, and rushed when I heard the phone ring, that must be it," I say, making sure the mess on the couch next to me isn’t visible on the screen. "I’m feeling better, Dad, thank you," I force a smile onto my lips.

"Don’t you think it would be a good idea to come home for the week?" my mom asks. My dad nods emphatically beside her in the living room of my childhood home. Their concerned looks and the way their eyes search my face for any signs of trouble tense me up. The frozen smile on my lips makes my cheeks hurt. "You’re going back to work soon and haven’t come to Palo Alto even once." She tucks a strand of hair as blonde as mine behind her ear.

I don’t correct her—I still haven’t told her I don’t plan on working this year. I haven’t told anyone, actually.

"I can’t this week, Mom," I lie. "I still have a follow-up with the doctor," I make up an excuse.

"I always said that sport of yours was dangerous," she comments, curling her lips in disapproval.

"Accidents happen, Helen," my dad interjects, always the peacemaker.

Accidents, sure. That’s what they think happened, a simple surfing accident. I didn’t mean to lie, but when my impulsive mom decided to pay a surprise visit on my first vacation weekend and found me covered in bruises, with broken ribs and busted fingers, I couldn’t think of anything else to say—and before I knew it, I was spinning a story. The fear was real—just not its source.

"Dad's right. I promise I’ll take better care of myself from now on." It was a promise, both to them and to me. Maybe even more to me. "I’ll try to organize myself to come home soon. How’s Mrs. Clotilde?" I ask, referring to one of our neighbors who lives three houses down.

"Oh, you know how she is," Mom begins, and Dad rolls his eyes. "She decided, out of nowhere, to redo her garden. I’ll give you three chances to guess which flower she chose."

"Hydrangeas," I say with a half-smile. For as long as I can remember, my mom and Mrs. Clotilde have been in a sort of cold war. Who has the best-decorated yard for Christmas? For Halloween? One does something and the other soon changes things too.

"Purple ones!" Mom says indignantly. "Didn’t even change the color."

"You should take it as a compliment—she liked yours so much she put them in front of her own house."

"That’s what I try to tell her every day, Brooke," my dad chimes in.

"You two just don’t get it!" she huffs and launches into recounting all the neighborhood gossip she can think of, and my dad and I exchange a knowing look.

Mom is in the middle of remembering the infamous Thanksgiving Day eight years ago when Apollo jumps on the couch, pushes his head in front of the screen, and licks my face, knocking me off balance with the force of his affection. My heart races as I check the small box in the corner of the phone screen to make sure my parents didn’t see I’m sitting in the middle of the living room wearing only a T-shirt and panties.

"What is it, Apollo? Hungry?" I ask the dog in my lap, stroking his gray fur. "I have to go, Mom. I love you guys!"

I wait for them to respond and end the call, the fake smile disappearing from my face.

"Good job, buddy," I praise him, burying my face in his neck, hugging his body and holding him for a moment. I feel exhausted—just talking to my parents on the phone is enough to drain all my energy. All I want is to curl up on the couch and sleep, but I know what’s waiting for me when I close my eyes. So I sigh deeply before getting up and tidying the mess in the living room.

Once everything is back in its place, I settle back into my spot, grabbing my phone and my Kindle, eager to return to my reading. But when I check my notifications, I see almost ten messages from my best friend.

Liv: Are we going to the mall this week?

Liv: You can’t ignore me forever, you know?

Dramatic—it's not like I was ignoring her. We talk every day, but since she’s anxious and I didn’t reply within the first ten minutes, she’s already freaking out.

Liv: All our favorite stores are on sale!

Liv: I know you don’t feel ready to leave the house yet, but you’ll never know unless you try.

Liv: I promise we can come back anytime.

Liv: No questions, no pressure, no expectations.

Olivia Jones knows me so well that she understands my fear isn’t just about leaving the house—it’s about leaving and failing. Not being able to handle the world beyond my front gate, beyond my safe place.

Liv: You’re stronger than you think.

Liv: Just promise me you’ll at least think about it?

That, I could do—I could think about it. I could try.