“Perfect,” she says. “Get your butt over here, girl.”
“On my way,” I say, happily ditching my laundry for a much better—and tastier—chore.
Martha has always been there when I needed her, even when I was just a random kid who was always following her girls home from school. She’d give me a homecooked meal and a hug, and I always knew I could talk to her if I needed her.
I guess all I really want today is a little of that happy-ever-after optimism that she writes into all of her novels, because I’m falling hard for Prescott and it’s a little overwhelming.
But when I get to the Baker house, I go inside and hear crying. My heart stops.
“Martha?” I call, following the sound to the kitchen.
She’s sitting on the floor with half a ceramic dish in her lap, the rest of it shattered on the tile around her.
“Martha, what happened?” I ask, going to her. “Are you okay?”
She looks up, embarrassment in her eyes. “Oh, Brooklyn… I didn’t hear you come in. I’m okay.”
She holds out a hand and I help her to her feet, then go to the closet for a broom.
While I’m sweeping up the shards, she explains, “That was my mother’s scone pan and I dropped it because I was thinking about stupid Jacob and his stupid grand gesture to win Tabitha back. I can’t believe it’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my heart breaking for her. I have so little left of my own parents—I know exactly how she must feel.
Martha pulls me into a hug, squeezing me tight, then she swipes away the tears on her cheeks and smiles. “Well, I’ve got an aluminum scone pan too, so the day is not lost.” She digs into a cupboard and retrieves the second pan, then says, “Oh, I’ve been so in my head about Tabitha and Jacob all morning, I never even asked why you called.”
Well, it feels sort of frivolous now, but I shrug and say, “I met someone.”
Martha’s face transforms, and suddenly she’s beaming. “Oh, really, sweetie? That’s wonderful! I’m going to make tea and you’re going to tell me all about him.”
I laugh. “What about the scones?”
“We’ll get to those later,” she says with a wave of her hand. “First, talk. How did you meet?”
I tell her about the teen outreach center, about how my heart pretty much melted when I saw how much the kids love Prescott, and then I tell her about his invitation for this evening.
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “Like, really nervous.”
“Why? I’m sure his parents are going to love you.”
I hear the front door open, and we both turn as Cory comes into the kitchen and sets his briefcase down on the counter. “Who’s going to love you?”
“Brooklyn’s going to meet her boyfriend’s parents tonight,” Martha says, and my cheeks flush.
“I never said boyfriend,” I point out.
“But you don’t bring any old girl home to meet the folks,” Martha counters. “This is serious.”
“And fast,” I say.
“Well, Martha knows all about fast,” Cory points out. “What’s it called, insta-love?”
I smile. It’s cute that he pretends not to know all the details of his wife’s writing, because I happen to know he’s read every single one of her books.
“So… you both think this is a good idea?” I ask. I’m twenty-four years old and these aren’t even my biological parents, but I still want their approval. Whether I want it to or not, it means a lot to me.
“I do,” Martha says.
“And you know I always think it’s a good idea to follow your heart,” Cory adds. He sits down at the island and notices the scone pan. “Ooh, are we baking?”
“Yep,” Martha says. “Blueberry scones. Oh, and Brooklyn, we have to show you the new drywall upstairs! You’ve been so busy that we haven’t even gotten to show you the plans for the rest of the house.”
Come to think of it, I have been keeping myself busy lately, distracting myself from the loss of Cassidy as my roommate and throwing myself into the teen programming at the library. Maybe I’m not the one being left out—maybe I accidentally left myself out.
“I’d love that,” I say.
8
Prescott
I pick Brooklyn up from a new address tonight. She tells me she’s been baking with a friend’s mom and that she’s bringing a batch of scones for dessert.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say as she slides into the car and it instantly fills with the scent of blueberries. I lean across the seat and kiss her deeply, picking up the flavor of baked goods on her sweet lips as well.
“You have no idea how many scones we made,” she says with a laugh. “Martha’s kitchen looks like she’s planning to open up a bakery. Besides, I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“All you ever need to bring, as far as I’m concerned, is your gorgeous self,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine as I drive us over to my parents’ house.
“Well, no offense but I’m not trying to impress you tonight,” she says and laughs again. There’s an edge of nervousness in it, and I squeeze her hand.
“Hey,” I say, “there’s nothing to worry about. This dinner is just an average Friday night for my folks, okay? No big deal.”
“Maybe not to you,” she says, her smile thin.
She’s putting on a brave face, but I can tell this whole meeting the parents thing has her rattled, and I wonder if I made a mistake. I spent all day thinking about her, about last night, about how instantly we connected, and I’m pretty damn sure I’m in love with this girl. But just because I’m moving a mile a minute doesn’t mean she’s ready to do the same.
“Do you want to blow this dinner off?” I offer. “We don’t have to do this.”
Brooklyn sits up a little taller and shakes her head. “No, we’re already on the way, and I do want to
