“Please don’t what? Ask when you’re coming home?”
“Please don’t ruin this for me. I’m really, really excited—this is probably the biggest thing since the album deal last year. Bigger, maybe. In the grand scheme of my entire career, does another six or seven days really matter?”
Six or seven days until he came home, maybe, but what about being on tour? The mere thought of it made her panicky with dread. How would they deal with that? Could they? But in the very same moment she remembered the night, years earlier in Sheepshead Bay, when only four people showed up and Julian could barely contain his tears. Not to mention all the hours they’d already logged apart during their hectic work schedules, all the stressing about money and time and the what-ifs they threw out when one of them was feeling particularly negative. That sacrifice, it was all for this, for right now.
The old Julian would’ve asked about Kaylie. When she’d told him all about the girl’s hysterical phone call the month before and how she had researched fast-food alternatives and e-mailed them to her young patient, Julian had hugged her and told her how proud he was. Just last week Brooke had e-mailed Kaylie to check in with her and had been concerned to receive no reply. She followed up again a day later and Kaylie wrote back that she was starting on some sort of cleanse she’d read about in a magazine, and that she was certain this was the answer she’d been looking for. Brooke almost jumped through the computer screen.
Those goddamn cleanses! They were a health risk for normal adults, but they were an all-out disaster for the still-growing teenage population who seemed forever drawn to their celeb testimonials and promises of quick and miraculous results. Brooke had immediately called Kaylie to read her the riot act—she had it memorized by now, since cleanses, fasts, and juice diets were such favored Huntley methods—and was relieved to discover that Kaylie, unlike most of her classmates, was actually receptive to what she had to say. She pledged to check in with her once a week throughout the summer, and she was hopeful that as long as she got back to their regular sessions once school resumed, she could really help this girl.
But Julian didn’t ask about Kaylie, or her work at the hospital, or Randy, or even Walter, and Brooke held her tongue. She chose not to remind Julian that he’d only been home a handful of nights the past few weeks, and that most of those he’d spent either on the phone or at the studio in seemingly never-ending conversations with Leo or Samara. And, most challenging of all, she forced herself not to inquire about his tour dates or ask how long he might be on the road.
Almost choking from the effort of it all, she simply said, “No, Julian, it only matters that you get this right. This is truly great news.”
“Thanks, baby. I’ll call you later today when I have more details, okay? Love you, Rookie,” he said with more tenderness than she’d heard from him in a while. Julian had started calling Brooke “Rook” when they’d first started dating, which had naturally segued to “Rookie.” Her friends and family began using it themselves after they overheard Julian call her that, and although she often rolled her eyes or feigned some sort of displeasure, she felt an inexplicable gratitude to Julian for giving her this affectionate nickname. She tried to focus on that and not the fact that he’d hung up without so much as asking how she was doing.
The manicurist slicked on the first coat of polish, and Brooke thought the color looked too garish. She thought about saying something but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Her mother’s toenails were painted a perfect shade of pinkish-white, a color that looked both chic and natural.
“Sounds like Julian got some good news?” Mrs. Greene asked, placing the magazine facedown in her lap.
“He sure did,” Brooke said, hoping her voice sounded brighter than she felt. “Sony’s sending him on a warm-up tour of sorts. They’re rehearsing in Los Angeles this week and then they’ll be opening for Maroon 5, so it’ll give them a chance to practice in front of audiences before they go on tour themselves. It’s a huge vote of confidence on their part.”
“But it means he’ll be around even less.”
“Yep. He’s staying out there the rest of this week to rehearse. Then maybe he’ll come home for a few days and then he’s off again.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“It’s pretty much the best news he could’ve gotten.”
Her mom smiled as she slid her finished feet into the salon-provided paper flip-flops. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Brooke’s phone pinged. “Saved by the bell,” she said cheerily.
It was a text from Julian. It read: “Forgot to tell u: they want me to get new clothes! They say my look doesn’t work. Total nightmare!”
Brooke laughed out loud.
“What is it?” her mom asked.
“Maybe there is justice after all. I guess the publicist or the marketing people or someone is saying that Julian’s ‘look’ doesn’t work. They want him to get new clothes.”
“What do they want him in? I can’t exactly see Julian in Michael Jackson military jackets or MC Hammer pants.” She looked proud of her pop culture references.
“Are you kidding? I have been married to him for five years and can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen him in anything besides jeans and a white T-shirt. He’s going to struggle with this. Big-time.”
“So let’s help him!” her mom said. She handed her credit card to the woman who presented her with the bill. Brooke tried to grab her own wallet, but her mother waved her away.
“Trust me, there is no way on earth Julian is going to agree to a new ‘look.’ He’d rather die than go shopping, and he’s more attached to his jeans-and-white-T-shirt uniform than some men are to their children. I don’t think Sony knows what they’re up against, but they are definitely not going to convince him to start dressing like Justin Timberlake.”
“Brooke, sweetie, this one can be fun. Since Julian’s never going to buy anything himself, let’s go shopping for him.” Brooke followed her mother out the door and directly into the subway stairs. “We’ll buy him stuff he already has, just nicer. I have a brilliant idea.”
Two trains and two stops later, the women exited at Fifty-ninth Street and entered Bloomingdale’s from the basement level. Brooke’s mother confidently led the way to the men’s department.