I would never allow myself to be Brooks’s obligation, and I also wouldn’t allow his career to take precedence over mine. Staying there any longer in hopes of some kind of happy ever after would not only have been a fool’s errand, but it could also have cost me this incredible opportunity at the gallery.
“And what about you moving to the Thicket for yourself?” she asked softly. “It doesn’t need to have anything to do with Brooks. The rent is cheaper there. Your niece or nephew will be there. I’ll be there.”
Except it would be about Brooks. Every blade of grass in every pasture in the town would make me think of him. If I ever managed to get my longing under control, I’d have to avoid him every time he came for a visit, or the addiction would come back stronger.
But then I thought about Brooks’s dad, and how he said I was welcome no matter what, and how Dunn had called me his friend, and how the week I’d been forced to spend in that ridiculous town had been the best week of my life. Not all of that had been about Brooks. Not even half. If I made this choice for me, then I wouldn’t be resentful. I just had to figure out what that would look like.
“I’ll think about it,” I told Ava. “But in the meantime, I’m going to finish this piece so I can sell it for a fortune and buy your Jedi baby a LEGO Death Star.”
19
Brooks
“Partridge Pit is the real deal. It’s small-town good,” a smiling guy in a Gators hat said.
“You know I gotta add a couple little secret touches to make the sauce my own, right?” the middle-aged lady in the box braids said with a wink for the camera. “But I’d never start with anything else. Partridge Pit is small-town good.”
“It’s yummy!” a pair of redheaded twins in identical outfits sang in unison, sitting on the scrub grass in their backyard. Their mom leaned into the frame and added with a laugh, “And if these two will eat it, you know it’s small-town good.”
Even sitting in the ergonomic chairs in Storms Marketing’s sleek glass-and-chrome conference room, I could feel the warmth as real people, diverse people, from hometowns across the country, filled the screen in a montage of squares that expanded out—what I liked to call Paul’s Love, Actually montage—in a chorus of, “It’s small-town good.”
And then an older gentleman’s face filled the screen, nodding as he told the audience, “You can believe me when I say… Partridge Pit is small-town good,” in a manner so dignified and sincere, I’d have voted for him as president, let alone trusted his opinion on barbecue sauce.
The screen faded to black.
Holy. Shit.
We’d done it.
I caught Paul’s eye across the table, and he nodded once, a little smile playing around his mouth that said he felt the same way I did. It was the best campaign we’d ever worked on. This was the proudest moment of my career.
General Partridge, who was seated next to Paul, whistled appreciatively. His nephew Parrish, who Paul and I had gotten to know better on the General’s plane as he flew us from Tennessee to New York that morning, even slow-clapped while shaking his head and grinning. “Epic,” he pronounced as someone turned the lights in the room back on.
To say this win felt good was an understatement, especially after the last couple of days.
They said it was better to have loved and lost, but I was not on board that bullshit train. Maybe I’d be able to find some silver linings later, after I’d laundered my shirts that still smelled like Mal’s sandalwood fragrance, after I stopped looking for him in every room I entered and hoped to see his name on my phone every time it rang, after I stopped working on the project he’d spearheaded by tossing me the perfect tagline. Maybe once I stopped feeling like a stranger in the city that had been my home for ten years.
I remembered standing in my parents’ backyard just over a week ago and feeling like a stranger, but the Thicket had sunk its claws into me, and now it was New York that felt weird. Too busy, too fast. Not a bovine or a crotchety old neighbor to be found.
No Mal. Not home.
Paul cleared his throat to catch my attention and subtly nodded toward Pamela.
Right. I snapped out of my reverie immediately. Head in the game, Brooks.
It took me a second to register that the silence from the other side of the table wasn’t appreciative silence, but the silence of people who’d witnessed something embarrassing and weren’t sure where to put their eyes. Pamela stared at the black wall screen and drummed her pink fingernails against the glass table thoughtfully. Kale watched me with a disdainful expression. Everyone else—my assistant Carlin and the members of Kale’s “Team Fresh Blood”—studied the table like they might be tested on it later.