twenty-seven

AS SOON AS SHE LEFT, students rushed pell-mell into the makeup room, a wave of humanity breaking around Brooke’s rigid, shocked body.

Great. I’m paralyzed. They’re going to have to use the Jaws of Life to lift me out of this building and Brick is going to throw me into the pool house and hire a mean old nurse to sponge bathe me until I die of a blood clot.

“Brooke.”

She blinked and her eyes focused on what looked like a small bonsai tree standing in front of her.

“Brooke,” Max said again. “I just saw Molly run out of here like her hair was on fire. I couldn’t catch her. What the hell happened?”

“She’s done,” Brooke said dully, handing Max the tabloid so hard that it thwacked her in the gut.

“Oh, crap,” Max breathed, scanning it.

“Oh, crap,” Brooke echoed.

“Let me guess. You did this,” Max said.

“Please, you think I want the whole world to see her wearing that sad little no-name tank top?” Brooke snapped, her senses clearing a bit. “It was an accident.”

Max eyeballed Brooke for a long moment.

“I believe you,” she finally said. “But I can see why Molly wouldn’t. I probably would’ve left, too. Maybe even punched you in the face on the way out.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Brooke moaned.

Max tapped the tabloid against her palm, thoughtfully. “I think I know someone who does,” she finally said. She tossed the tabloid back at Brooke and headed off toward the theater.

“Brooke!”

As if on a lazy Susan, Brooke’s head turned, all motion and no emotion. Mavis Moore, who’d volunteered to be the stage manager once she’d realized she could do it while knitting and still get the credit on her transcript, appeared before her.

“Don’t you go on soon, or something?” she said to Brooke. “I think it started.”

Mavis was not a good volunteer stage manager.

Brooke stayed rooted to the spot. She could barely remember the name of the damn play.

“Come on,” Mavis said, bodily dragging her backstage.

“Thank God,” Jennifer said, taking over for Mavis and steering Brooke to the spot from which she’d make her entrance. “The curtain just went up. I almost had a stroke. Where were you?”

Brooke let herself peek out at the crowd. Brie sat in the second row, and there was Ari, sitting as close to Teddy as the armrest would allow. Ari’s parents sat near them, with the Parkers and Jen’s brother, Free, who was sporting his usual feather boa and a red wig. Stan, to their left, had shaved his chin and put on a suit and was clutching a Kleenex as if prepared to cry. Perched in the front row wearing a tiny and tight cocktail dress was the almost-A-list starlet from Beer o’Clock, and then—dead center with his hand on her knee—there was Brick.

He’s here. Holy crap, he’s here.

“Brooke!” hissed Jennifer. “Pay attention! You’re on in ten seconds!”

Brooke’s mind went blank. All she could see was Molly’s face, then Brick’s, in a never-ending loop. Every second that passed without going after Molly, Brooke felt the chasm between them get wider—and the amount of trouble she was in get bigger. But she had no idea where Molly went. And Brick was here, at last, supporting her. The child who’d longed for this moment stood next to the adult who knew that, for the first time ever, she’d made a huge mess that she needed to clean up herself. Fast.

It was the biggest choice Brooke had ever had to make.

Thunderous applause burst in Brooke’s ears. She stared up at the lights, hot and bright, and waved randomly at various parts of the theater before taking another deep curtsy. She was aware of people getting out of their chairs, not to leave but to clap harder.

She was a hit.

Brooke had surprised herself by taking those steps onstage, but it worked in her favor: Eliza was supposed to be flummoxed, having just crashed into Freddy Eynsford-Hill as he ran off to find a cab and knocked her flowers into a puddle. Once she found her footing, as Eliza did, the rest had been a triumph. The audience laughed. The cast responded with renewed vigor. Even Jake had been great.

And now, Brick was leaping out of his seat with a bouquet of roses, wrapping his arm around Brooke and weeping tears of joy.

“Brilliant, Sunshine!” he crowed. “I have never been prouder of your grace and talent!”

The crowd let out a collective coo and clapped even harder. Brooke drank it all in: the cheers, the flowers, her father’s delighted eyes locked on her and only her as they stood in the spotlight, together. It was everything she’d ever wanted.

And it sucked.

Snap out of it, her inner voice lectured. This is it. This is your moment.

Yeah. A moment that sucked. She had picked herself over her sister, and even though she partly did it because she thought Brick would be too embarrassed if she jilted her cast and the audience—the show, as he always said, must go on, after all—Brooke knew she mostly did it for herself. And she was afraid it meant she really was a bad person.

But Molly understood how much Brick’s attendance was worth, right? And once Brooke proved that the e-mail was sent by accident, Molly had to forgive her, right? She wasn’t unreasonable. And then the two of them together could sit down with Brick and show him the magazine and present a united, adult front.

In the meantime, there was no wisdom in pretending she hadn’t just brought down the house. With the rapturous approval from the audience ringing in her ears as the curtain closed for the final time, Brooke gazed up at Brick, who drew her into another bear hug.

“You are a tribute to the Berlin genes,” he bubbled. “Maybe we should come out with a denim line. Kicky double meaning!”

Brooke giggled against his chest and finally allowed the glee to flood her veins. At last, after sixteen years, Brick finally saw her. So whatever waited for Brooke back at the house, it simply couldn’t, wouldn’t, have anything but a happy ending. Brooke simply wouldn’t allow it. Not tonight.