Naked and Unafraid: Part 1.
This is not Gilligan's Island.
Based on a post by inestimable. Listen to the ►Podcast at Steamy Stories.
Senior Year.
The thing about Brooke Hartley was that she knew exactly how pretty she was.
Not in the fake way, either, where girls pretended to hate mirrors but always looked picture-perfect. Brooke knew. It was her primary high school characteristic; blonde hair, blue eyes, long legs, and a smile that endeared her to teachers and kept guys on leashes.
I hated her. But I was also obsessed with her. That was a defining problem of my existence during those four years of awkwardness that finished my primary school career. It seemed that every time I stumbled, which was distressingly often, she was there with that smile and a knife. And when she stuck it in, she always twisted. Guys who bullied were straightforward about it. Not so with girls; their approach was more subtle and hurtful.
By senior year, I had finally grown into myself, or at least that's what my mom said. I'd been small and bony for most of elementary school and junior high, with little to note beyond my academic excellence and propensity to be picked last for team games in gym class. Then, sometime between junior and senior year, my growth hormones kicked in and I got taller. My chest and shoulders gained definition. My jaw squared up and sprouted the beginnings of whiskers. I started running in the mornings because that was the one form of exercise that I didn't find tedious. Although I still fell far from the "jock" categorization, I no longer looked like the stereotypical "nerd."
By October, girls who'd never looked at me twice started smiling in the hallway, but that didn't include Brooke. She still insisted on calling me "Bennie the Brain." And because Brooke was the Senior Prom Queen-In-Waiting, most of the girls took their cues from her.
"Morning, Bennie," she'd say, leaning against her locker as I walked past. The girls around her would laugh like trained seals. I tried to ignore it, to pretend that it didn't bother me. And it might not have except I secretly wanted to hear something nice from her. And every time she talked to me, even if it was to issue a put-down, it would still make my day. Because the only thing worse than being spat upon by Brooke was being ignored by Brooke. Pathetic? Yeah. I know.
Bridget, one of the few girls who did the exact opposite of what Brooke wanted from the female half of the school's student body, called me on it immediately.
"You're doing the thing," she said at lunch.
"What thing?"
We were sitting outside behind the gym, where hardly anyone went because the aluminum benches were old and rusted and the lawn was more weeds than grass. Bridget had one foot up on a bench, arm hugging a knee, red-haired ponytail catching the early autumn sunlight. She had a protein bar in one hand and an apple in the other, because she didn't believe in doing any serious eating during the day, especially not this close to cross-country practice.
"The Brooke thing," she said.
"I don't have a Brooke thing."
"You absolutely have a Brooke thing. You never push back on her. You just keep taking her shit. It's depressing."
I looked away, mostly because she was right.
Bridget and I had been friends since Garfield Elementary School, which meant she had seen all the different iterations through the years. She remembered the time the barber cut my hair too short. She remembered when I got a concussion in gym during dodge ball She remembered when I threw up on the bus during the fourth-grade field trip. And she never used any of those things as ammunition. They were shared experiences that formed the skeleton of our friendship.
"She's not that bad," I said.
Bridget stared at me, eyes bugging out. "What? You can't be serious."
"She's just;"
"A monster?"
"She's popular."
"Those aren't synonyms, Ben."
"She's not mean all the time."
"Name one time when she hasn't shit all over you or me. Just one!"
That was another thing about Bridget. She stood up to herself, regardless of who the adversary was. She never let Brooke get away with even the tiniest slight, especially if it involved me. She defended me against Brooke because I was seemingly unable to do so myself.
I didn't understand it then, but there was something else going on under the surface. Brooke teased everyone, sure, but she saved her nastiest barbs for Bridget. It wasn't just Brooke being Brooke. There was an intensity in the way her eyes would become riveted onto Bridget when she walked into a room or the way she'd say her name: "Bridg, et."
Bridget, who was usually good-natured and funny, hated Brooke even more than I did, but was unhampered by the crush that kept me neutered.
It was late November, raining hard enough to dot the school parking lot with puddles. I had stayed after school to help Mr. Larkin set up some projectors for the Academic Awards Assembly, because I was always looking for extracurricular activities to boost my high school resume. By the time I finished, most of the school had emptied, walkers having walked and busers having taken their buses. The hallways had that weird after-hours feeling, where sounds echoed unnaturally loud. I was cutting through the arts wing when I heard voices from the girls' locker room corridor.
I shouldn't have stopped, but I did.
"Move," Bridget said. Her voice was low and controlled, a warning sign. Most of the time, she pushed back verbally but she wasn't above getting physical, especially with no teachers around. I'd once seen her beat the living crap out of a girl who was twice her size.
Brooke laughed. "Relax. I'm not touching you. Wouldn't want to dirty my hands."
"You're blocking the hallway."
"It's a hallway. There's plenty of room."
"Then move."
I stepped closer, just enough to see around the trophy case.
Brooke stood with two of her friends, Madison and Kelsey, who hovered just behind her, smirks plastered across their faces. Brooke had showered and changed after cheer practice, her hair still damp at the temples. Bridget was in her running gear, sweatshirt unzipped, one hand gripping the strap of her gym bag.
They were maybe two feet apart. Brooke was taller by maybe six inches but that didn't intimidate Bridget.
Brooke smiled that oily smile she reserved only for Bridget and me. "You always this aggressive after practice?"
"Only around people I don't like."
Brooke's eyes glanced down, quick as lightning, taking in Bridget's bare legs. It was so fast I almost missed it. But I didn't and neither did Bridget.
"Don't look at me like that," she said.
Brooke's smile faltered by just a fraction. "Like what?"
"You know like what."
"God, you're so full of yourself," she said. "Not everyone is obsessed with you, Ginger Spice."
"Funny," she said. "That's not what your eyes say."
Madison and Kelsey both goggled because no one talked to Brooke like that.
But Brooke's comeback was weak. "You wish," she said.
"No. I really don't."
There was no telling where things might have gone from there if fate hadn't intervened. At that moment, Brooke noticed me watching the interaction. "Wow," she said. "We have an audience. Your 'boyfriend.'"
Bridget turned. "Ben?"
"Hey," I said, stuck for words as was typically the case when Brooke was around.
Brooke's smile came back, bigger and meaner. "Were you spying on us, Bennie? Get off on watching your little girlfriend get cut down to size?"
"No. I was just;"
"Creeping?"
"I was walking."
"In a hallway outside the girls' locker room?"
"It's also the arts wing."
And here's the part I hated about myself: even then, with her in the midst of a merciless round of humiliation, I reacted to her attention like it was sunlight. Because she was noticing me, even if the level of her regard was like something nasty she had stepped in.
"You know," she said, pretending to study me. "You're almost cute now. Did your cock grow as much as the rest of you?"
My face burned. Bridget moved to my side.
Brooke sensed vulnerability. "Oh," she said softly. "That bothers you."
"Leave him alone," Bridget said.
"Why? He's a big boy." Her gaze returned to me. "Aren't you, Ben?" She emphasized my name: Ben, not Bennie.
I swallowed. "I'm not interested in whatever this is."
"Sure."
"You're bored," Bridget said to Brooke. "Go ruin somebody else's day."
Brooke's gaze shifted to Bridget. "You always defend him."
"Somebody has to."
"Maybe he doesn't want you to."
I should've said something then, something to validate her position. But all I came up with was "It's fine."
She flinched at that, her eyes darting from Brooke to me. She had been expecting me to back her up, and when I didn't, the disappointment was impossible to miss.
Brooke let out a tiny laugh. "Guess I was wrong, then," she said. "It's fine."
Then she walked away with Madison and Kelsey trailing after her. For a few seconds, Bridget and I stood there listening to the rain.
"I didn't mean;" I started.
"It's fine," she said.
I deserved that. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and walked past me.
"Bridget." She stopped but didn't turn. "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for liking her," she said.
I stared at the back of her head. "I don't like her."
"Okay."
"I don't."
"Okay, Ben."
She left, disappearing down the hall. That was the first time I wondered if Bridget liked me as more than a friend.
Winter turned the school ugly. Gray snow piled in the corners of the parking lot where the plows deposited it. The football team lost in regionals, which ended pep rallies and killed school spirit. College acceptance letters started showing up, and people started looking ahead to their futures and stepping past the present. I got into Westbridge University with a scholarship. Bridget got in too.
We found out the same afternoon. She caught up to me in my driveway and wrapped me in a bear hug. I lost my balance and tumbled onto the lawn, pulling her along with me.
"We're going together," Bridget said, breathless, lying next to me. "Four more years!"
"I can't think of anything better."
She rolled onto her side and smiled at me, her cheeks pink from the cold. I studied the freckles across her nose and the red hair in disarray around her face. She was beautiful. I just hadn't seen it before because, to me, she was "just Bridget." Now, belatedly, I was seeing her the way others saw her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"No, you're staring."
"I'm not."
"You are."
If there was ever a time to kiss her, that was it. But, instead, I simply rose and offered her my hand. She took it and, laughing, yelled that she was going to tell her mom the good news. Then she was off like a shot, sprinting toward her house.
Brooke didn't get into Westbridge. In all likelihood, she didn't apply. That level of academic rigor would have been foreign to her. Instead, she was headed out of state to a notorious party school. She bragged about it like it was a big deal but everyone knew that people with good grades didn't go there. And, with the focus shifting away from high school, the aura surrounding Brooke had begun to dissipate. The queen of our high school was about to find herself in a much larger pond with many other queens of their high schools.
Brooke had sufficient self-awareness to recognize it and her mood became less sunny toward her hangers-on. She started actively avoiding Bridget and me, failing to pursue opportunities to tease and ridicule.
In April, three weeks before prom, I found a note in my locker.
Ben,
Can you meet me behind the auditorium after school? I want to talk.
; Brooke
I read it. Then read it again. Then read it several more times, searching for hidden meanings. At lunch, I showed it to Bridget.
"Ignore it," she said.
"You don't even know what she wants."
"Whatever it is, it's guaranteed to humiliate you. Or worse."
"It seems innocent."
"That's how traps work. They use bait. I mean, 'meet me behind the auditorium after school.' Really? She's daring you to fall for it. She'll get you to pull out your cock and someone will snap a picture. Or something like that."
I folded the note and stuck it in my pocket. The thing was, I so wanted this to be sincere. And I knew that if I didn't go, I'd wonder for the rest of my life if I had avoided more trickery or missed an opportunity. "I'm just going to see what she wants."
Bridget exhaled a sigh of resignation. "Of course you are." She knew Brooke's note was catnip to me.
The back of the school wasn't much to look at: just cracked pavement, a few emergency exits, and a shit-ton of air-conditioning units. It wasn't strictly off-limits to students but practically no one ever went there. There was no real privacy due to all the cameras and the noise from the compressors made conversation challenging.
When I rounded the corner, Brooke was already there, sitting on the concrete ledge beside one of the exits. As best I could tell, she was alone. That in and of itself surprised me. I had half-expected the entourage. And there wasn't really anywhere anyone could hide with a camera for a "gotcha!" moment.
She looked up when she noticed me coming. Much to my astonishment, she seemed uncertain. Never in my life could I remember Brooke looking uncertain about anything.
"Hey," she said. "Come over here and sit. I'm not going to bite you." Her smile was more half-hearted than predatory.
"I didn't think you would."
"Liar."
Unslinging my backpack, I sat next to her, although I kept a respectable distance. Even from a couple feet away, I could smell the commingled scents of her vanilla body wash and strawberry shampoo. They mixed nicely; she was like a parfait.
For a minute, neither of us said anything. Finally, Brooke broke the silence. "I know you probably think this is some kind of scam or trick. If I was in your position, I would have blown this off, so I'm glad you didn't. I just wanted to say;" She paused, as if trying to figure out how to continue. "I've been awful to you," she finally finished.
Her words didn't reassure me. "What is this really about? Look, Brooke, I know I've let you walk all over me for years now but high school is almost over and, after graduation, you and I will probably never see each other again. So whatever it is that you have to say, say it."
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, as if my sudden display of backbone had been the last thing she had expected. "Okay, look. I'm trying to apologize." She suddenly looked tired, deflated. Then I recognized what she was: a deposed queen, abandoned by her court and reckoning with the damage she had done during her reign.
"Why now?" I asked.
She leaned back against the brick wall. For the first time in all our interactions, she let her facade slip. That's when I got a glimpse beneath the mask: loneliness, sadness, maybe even a little fear. She knew I was looking and allowed me to see. "Because we're graduating and life is changing. I've been realizing how small our world was and how big it's about to get. You said it; we'll probably never see each other again and I knew; well, I didn't want you to spend the rest of your life hating me. Back in freshman year, Bridget said that one day there would be a reckoning. I guess this is it."
"That's it?" I didn't really know how to feel about this. Incredulous, mostly.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe. Maybe not. I haven't felt like myself lately."
"I'm sorry," I said, although I had no idea what I was apologizing for. Force of habit with Brooke.
Her eyebrows drew together. "For what?"
"Uh."
"Stop apologizing during my apology."
"Sorry."
She looked at me and we both laughed. Real laughter, not forced or awkward. It was the first time I'd ever laughed with Brooke.
Brooke leaned a little closer, closing part of that two-foot gap. The fruity scent was nearly overpowering. "You still scared of me, Ben?"
"Yes," I said.
"You don't have to be."
Then the emergency door opened and out stepped Bridget. My knight in shining armor. Her eyes took in everything in a glance: me, Brooke, the tiny space between our shoulders.
Brooke straightened, acting like the kid who had been caught stealing from the cookie jar.
"Wow," she said. Then, to Bridget: "He is old enough to take care of himself."
Bridget ignored her, instead focusing on me. "You okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah." I couldn't shake the feeling that if Bridget hadn't appeared, Brooke might have kissed me. I couldn't help but be a little annoyed by the interruption.
"He's fine, Bridget. We were just talking. No nefarious agendas."
"That's new."
"I was apologizing."
Bridget didn't say anything. She just stood there, glaring.
Brooke lifted both hands. "What? You want one too?"
No response.
Brooke stood. "You know what, Bridget? Your whole loyal-dog thing is exhausting." Then, to me, "What is it they say? No good deed goes unpunished." She grabbed her bag and walked past us, not even glancing back over her shoulder as she exited.
"I'm not your guard dog," Bridget said when Brooke was out of hearing range. "I don't defend you because I think you're weak. I do it because I care about you and because you're too kind to fight back."
"I know."
"I'm glad she apologized." Her tone indicated the exact opposite. She then added, "She's messing with your head and you're letting her because you want to believe whatever shit she's dishing out."
I wanted to deny it because what I had seen in Brooke's face told me Bridget was wrong this time. But if Brooke really had been trying to build a bridge, my best friend's untimely arrival had trashed that effort.
Bridget sighed. "Some people can be sorry and still selfish."
Prom came and went. I didn't ask Brooke or Bridget, preferring the safety offered by my small cadre of equally dateless male friends. Bridget went with a group from track. Brooke went with Caleb Morrison, whose high school celebrity status reaffirmed her own position on the student hierarchy.
I spent most of the night trying not to look at either Bridget or Brooke, but my eyes were drawn to them regardless. Brooke was stunning in a pale blue dress. It complemented her eyes, made her blonde hair dazzle, and hugged her tits so tightly it was almost indecent. Bridget wore something soft, simple, and green, with her hair down instead of in its customary ponytail.
At some point, late in the night, I stepped outside to get some air. Bridget was already there, almost as if she had been waiting for me, although I knew she hadn't been. She stood near the edge of the parking lot, arms crossed, looking up at the sky. The music thumped through the gym walls behind us.
"You hiding too?" I asked.
"There's only so much 'dancing' I can take."
Chuckling, I stood beside her. For a while we didn't talk.
Then she said, "Last high school event before graduation. We're really almost done. It's hard to take in."
"Yeah."
"You excited?"
"Yes. No. Actually, I'm terrified."
"Same."
"But we'll still have each other," I said.
She smiled, but there was something sad and wistful in the expression. She was about to say something when the gym doors opened behind us.
Brooke stepped out alone, heels in one hand, feet bare. Her blue dress moved around her legs. She stopped when she saw us. "Oh," she said. "Sorry." But she didn't sound sorry.
Bridget sighed, abandoning whatever she had planned to say. "I'm going back in." Then she walked past Brooke without looking at her.
Brooke watched her go. Looking at her face as her eyes followed Bridget, I was surprised by what I saw. Not vindictiveness or smugness, but something that looked surprisingly like longing.
Then she turned to me. "Did I interrupt something?"
"Yes," I said.
"Oh." And I knew immediately that this was still the Brooke from behind the school, the one who had apologized. The nasty one had been retired, at least when the two of us were alone. "She loves you, you know," Brooke said. "And I don't mean 'like a friend.'"
I stared at her. "What?"
Brooke rolled her eyes. "Come on, Ben. You can't possibly be that naive. Everyone knows it."
I looked toward the door through which Bridget had just vanished. "She doesn't," I said but without conviction. Truth is, I had suspected as much for a while now. What I hadn't confronted, and wasn't about to now, was how I felt about the situation.
Brooke shook her head. "You really are smart about everything except people."
Graduation arrived on a hot Friday evening in June. The football field was packed with parents and younger siblings waving programs. Sweat left unsightly wet patches that were only partially hidden by the darkness of the robes. The speeches took forever but the roll call of 200 names took even longer. The school's band played "Pomp and Circumstance" so many times that I knew I would dread it for the rest of my life. Finally, hats flew, students cheered, and high school was fucking finished.
After the ceremony, chaos reigned. Families gathered for pictures, teachers found and hugged favorite students, and newly minted graduates shouted party plans. I found Bridget near the bleachers with her parents. She smiled when she saw me, and I grinned back. We took pictures standing back-to-back, holding up our diplomas with mock delight. Suddenly, everything was back to how it had been, how it was supposed to be. Then Brooke appeared.
She had her gown unzipped, showing off the elegant summer dress underneath. Everyone greeted her and she looked more like the confident Brooke of the last four years than the vulnerable one who had shown up recently.
"Ben," she said, changing direction to greet me.
Bridget's smile faded. Brooke noticed, but she didn't react.
"Can I talk to you for a second?"
I looked at Bridget and she looked back at me. There was a challenge in her eyes.
"Actually," I said, "can it wait?"
Brooke's lips parted, equal parts stunned and stung by the rejection. Bridget blinked. Then, as the smile slipped from Brooke's features, one blossomed on Bridget's.
Still, that wasn't the beginning of some new era. That summer, Bridget and I barely saw each other. We texted and sent memes. The get-together plans we made always seemed to fall through. Despite getting ready to attend the same college in September, it felt like we had never been farther apart.
Brooke sent me one message in July; the first and only time she had done that: "I meant what I said. Sorry for everything. Good luck at Westbridge, Ben."
I sent: "Thanks. You too."
And that, I assumed, was that: my last-ever interaction with Brooke unless we at some future point stumbled into one another in a store somewhere.
College started with all the freshness and promise that it held. Bridget and I found our rhythm again, mostly, but some of the depth of the old friendship was gone.
Nautical Dawn.
Two years is a strange amount of time. It's long enough to change your haircut, your major, your body, your taste in music, and which episode of Star Trek you think is the best. But it's not long enough to forget all the old hurts, especially the ones most carefully hidden.
That summer, I was twenty, officially between my second and third year at Westbridge, but unofficially still trying to navigate the road between "moocher in my parents' house" and "independent adult male."
I'd declared psychology as my major, although I sometimes wondered if that was a placeholder. The idea of working with other people on their hang-ups when I had so many of my own felt vaguely fraudulent. I worked part-time at the campus library during the year and part-time at a coffee shop during the summer, although I preferred the former because it required less eye contact.
Overall, I was doing okay. People, especially my mother, hated when I gave her that line. They wanted more, but what more was there to say, really?
Bridget and I had survived the weirdness after graduation. We were still best friends. We ate lunch together on campus and often studied together. She felt brave enough to go barefoot in my dorm room, which showed more courage than even I had. I went to her track meets, though she'd recently switched from cross-country to climbing because the coach thought it was a better fit.
As a "college woman," she somehow looked different, even though the only tangible physical change was that she had cut her hair to just below her shoulders. But she was now poised and even more self-assured. And unquestionably hot. I would have had to be blind to miss that. Other guys, and more than a few girls, recognized it. She dated a little. Nothing serious, or at least nothing too serious. She told me plenty about her sexual exploits, such as they were; sometimes more than I wanted to know, including the details of losing her virginity freshman year and a sloppy spring-break threesome. I shared less about my own sex life, partly because it felt gauche and partly because I feared it might hurt her. I didn't know if she had recovered from her high school crush on me.
Then the reunion trip happened.
Calling it a reunion was generous. After all, it was only two years. We were still in touch with people who mattered, and not enough time had passed for us to wonder about any of the rest. It actually started as a joke in a group chat but became a real thing because Madison Vale's parents were part-owners in some New Zealand resort and offered to rent us half the hotel at a ridiculously discounted rate. Air transportation was unaffordable, however, for someone on a typical college student's budget. So I decided not to go on this "class reunion getaway."
Bridget shared my misgivings, sending me this text late one night: "Please tell me we're not doing this."
"We're definitely not doing this," I wrote.
Two minutes later, she had apparently experienced a change of heart: "Okay but it's New Zealand. I've always wanted to see New Zealand. It's on my bucket list."
I stood firm. "Can't afford it. I'd have to double my hours at Chez Caffeine." And drink more of their signature product to stay awake during those extra hours.
Those little three dots danced for an awful long time before Bridget sent a message that might have cost her something. "Brooke is going."
I hadn't seen Brooke in person since graduation, but social media had kept me abreast of a curated version of her life. Brooke at her college, smiling on a brick walkway with two girls I didn't know. Brooke in a black dress at some formal. Brooke on a beach, wearing a stunning bikini, blonde hair wind-tangled.
Recently, though, the pictures had been fewer and less artificial. She posted less often. Sometimes she looked happy, but sometimes there was something almost haunted in her expression. It was a more pronounced version of what I had seen during her apology and on prom night. But she was still heartbreakingly beautiful.
But it didn't tip the scales. Finances were finances.
When I didn't immediately respond, Bridget added, "Just thought you'd want to know."
Then my mom found out about it from another parent and phoned me to say, "You should go. You never do anything. Your dad and I will pay for the plane fare."
That settled things. Bridget was ecstatic. But somehow all I could think about was seeing Brooke again after having been sure we would never meet again after that awkward graduation exchange.
The morning of the flight, I woke up at 4:12AM. with my heart already beating a staccato rhythm in my chest. My dad drove me to the airport before sunrise. He was quiet in the car, drinking overpriced doughnut-store coffee (although cheap compared to what we charged at Chez Caffeine), one hand on the wheel.
The terminal was already busy when we got there, full of rolling suitcases, crying babies, business travelers who hadn't had enough sleep, and families wearing matching vacation shirts. My dad gave me a "dad hug" before telling me to have fun, be safe, and text my mother regularly.
I found the small group of reunion participants on this flight near the international check-in counters. I mostly recognized them because who really changed that much in two years? Caleb Morrison was there, taller and somehow even more tan, making me wonder if he was working construction. Madison Vale had sunglasses on indoors. She had dyed her hair a platinum blonde. Kelsey, Brooke's old friend, stood around looking lost. And Bridget was sitting on her suitcase, tying one sneaker.
She wore black leggings, a gray tank top, and an open flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair hung loose, the style she had adopted since starting college and cutting it shorter. I missed the old ponytail (which I had enjoyed pulling when we were both eight years old).
She looked up and flashed a smile when she saw me. "You're late," she said.
"Being twelve minutes later than you does not make me 'late.' It makes you 'early.'"
She stood and hugged me. Hugs from Bridget had become more frequent since we started college. In high school, they had been big events. Nowadays, they were regular occurrences.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah." She pulled back. "Just tired."
"Ready to cross something off your bucket list?"
"Absolutely. What about you?"
I smirked. "Are you saying I have a shot at a threesome?"
She elbowed me. "In your dreams. Been there, done that, anyway. Trust me, it's overrated."
Someone shouted Bridget's name. She glanced over as Madison waved both arms.
"We should check in," Bridget said.
I grabbed my suitcase handle and that's when I saw Brooke.
She came through the sliding doors with a silver suitcase rolling behind her. She wore pale jeans, a white sleeveless top, and a light jacket tucked under one arm. Her blonde hair was shorter than it had been in high school, just past her shoulders now, and without all the curls. She had sunglasses pushed up on her head. She looked gorgeous.
She saw me a few seconds after I saw her. My biggest fear; that she wouldn't know who the fuck I was; proved to be unfounded. She smiled; a real, honest smile; and hurried over in my direction. That was when I remembered I wasn't alone. Bridget did not look at all pleased.
"Ben," she said when she reached us.
"Brooke."
Her eyes moved over my face before scanning my body from head to toe. "You look;" She stopped herself when she noticed Bridget, apparently for the first time. "Sorry. Hi."
"Brooke." There was a lot of bile in that single syllable.
Brooke's smile slipped, and before it returned, I glimpsed something that might have been sadness or regret. Then she said to Bridget, "You look good." The words, the tone, her expression when she said them; all genuine.
Bridget blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. After a moment, she found her voice. "Thanks. You too."
"Brooke!" Madison squealed, rushing across the floor at what I judged to be a dangerously high speed in heels. There was a lot of hugging and Brooke got pulled into the remnants of her old group of friends and hangers-on.
Bridget looked perplexed.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"That was not 'nothing.'"
"She complimented me. And I didn't detect any snark."
"You noticed."
"Hard not to."
Check-in took forever because group travel is painful. Someone didn't have the right documents. A bag was overweight. Caleb argued with an airline employee about carry-on size. Brooke ended up behind me in line. Bridget was ahead, talking to Kelsey about hiking trails.
For several minutes, Brooke and I said nothing. Finally she said, "I wasn't sure you'd come. Reunions don't seem like your style."
I looked back at her. "I almost didn't." I didn't add that she had been part of the draw.
"Bridget convinced you?"
"Something like that."
"You two still close?"
"Yeah."
By the time we got through security, everyone was hungry and vaguely irritated. Our flight had two legs: first to Los Angeles, then the long haul across the Pacific to Auckland. Not counting the layover in LAX, that meant we'd be in airplane-induced limbo for the next 30 hours.
At the gate, we scattered across the seats.
Bridget plopped into the chair beside me and handed me a breakfast sandwich wrapped in paper. She slipped off her shoes and arranged herself cross-legged, her preferred method of sitting regardless of its appropriateness for the setting.
"When did you get this?"
"When you were pretending not to flirt with Brooke."
"I wasn't flirting."
"Okay."
"We were just talking."
"Oh, I see. 'Talking.'"
"Stop. Bridget. Just stop." I felt bad reprimanding her and I knew why it was hard for her to give Brooke the benefit of the doubt but she didn't seem willing to even make an effort.
She stopped. Her shoulders sagged a little.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I just; seeing her again is weird."
"Yeah."
"And seeing you see her is weird."
"I don't know what I feel," I said.
"That might be the most honest thing you've ever said."
We ate in silence for a while, the airport buzzing around us. Flights departing. Other flights arriving. People rushing to and fro. Others taking naps in uncomfortable positions. The place was a world unto itself.
Then Bridget said, "She looked at me differently. You saw it too, right?"
"Yeah."
That gave Bridget something to chew over along with her breakfast sandwich.
The flight to LA was normal with all the annoyances that came with economy. I couldn't help but envy those who were toward the front of the plane, hidden from me by a curtain. Bridget fell asleep against the window twenty minutes after takeoff with her hoodie bunched under her chin. I read a few chapters of a book and tried unsuccessfully not to think about Brooke three rows back.
In Los Angeles, the group reassembled, more tired and messier now. The long-haul gate had a different mood. People sprawled on the floor. Chargers were plugged into outlets wherever they could be found. The big windows looked out onto planes lined up waiting to become cramped airborne hotels for disgruntled guests.
We had four hours before boarding. I was already bored out of my mind and wondering how I was going to survive the long leg of the flight.
Madison and Kelsey went shopping at duty-free stores. Caleb found a bar. A few others disappeared for food. Bridget said she needed to walk and invited me with a nod, but before I could answer, her phone rang. Her mom. She grimaced and stepped away.
I ended up alone near the windows with overpriced coffee, which is where Brooke found me ten minutes later. She sat beside me but left an empty chair between us. An intentional distance that made no presumptions and didn't infringe on my personal space.
"How's college?" I asked.
"It's;" She pursed her lips. "Humbling."
I wasn't surprised. Big fish, little pond; now little fish, big pond.
"At first I hated it," she said. "Turns out being the prettiest girl in a high school of eight hundred people doesn't transfer. I had to start from scratch. Socially, I mean. I made friends. Tried joining a sorority until I decided there were too many rules. I had one terrible boyfriend and one worse girlfriend."
Girlfriend? I quirked an eyebrow. Brooke noticed.
"Yeah," she said. "That was new information for me too."
"You didn't know?"
"I knew things, but I didn't want to face them. Not with a reputation to uphold. But when the reputation no longer mattered, I figured I'd give it a go. Hey, I still like cock but pussy's not bad." She laughed wickedly, like she had said something incredibly naughty.
Then her eyes slipped past me. Bridget was walking back toward us, phone in hand. She slowed when she saw us.
"Hey," she said.
Brooke said, "Hi."
Bridget looked from me to Brooke, then to the empty chair between us. "Nice buffer seat," she said.
Brooke nodded. "I'm trying not to repeat old crimes."
Bridget sat in the buffer seat. She slipped off her shoes and folded her legs under her. "Congratulations."
"On what?" Brooke asked.
"Personal growth."
And somehow, for nearly a half-hour, the three of us talked.
Boarding started just after sunset. The plane was huge, the kind that made you wonder how it could get airborne and, if it did, how it could stay in the sky. We shuffled across the jet bridge with our carry-ons and backpacks, enduring what was surely the most tedious part of the entire flying experience.
My seat was 37B: middle. Oh, joy. Bridget had 37A, window. Brooke traded with someone else to get 37C, aisle. Bridget and I were both surprised by that. I figured if she was going to switch, it would have been to sit next to Madison, who was sharing a row with Kelsey and a heavy balding man in a business suit.
We got settled. Despite the thawing that had happened earlier, I could feel the tension between the two of them. They still weren't "all right." Four years of venom couldn't be drained that quickly. Brooke was trying but the wound was deep.
Brooke settled into her seat, fidgeted for a few minutes, then she leaned across me toward Bridget.
"I apologized to Ben before," she said, "but I don't think I ever really apologized to you."
Bridget said nothing, but her posture changed. She was listening.
Brooke swallowed. "I hate the way I treated you, making jokes about your hair, your clothes, your body, your friendship with Ben. I look back at who I was in high school and cringe. Seriously. I don't want to be that person anymore, and really haven't been for a while, but I know I did a lot of damage and I can't just pretend it away."
Bridget's face remained guarded.
Brooke held her gaze. "I'm sorry."
I believed her. Maybe Bridget did too.
"Okay," Bridget said softly. "I don't forgive you yet, but; thanks."
A tiny smile touched Brooke's mouth. "Okay."
We were in a better place as the plane pulled back from the gate.
The safety video played. Nobody watched it except Bridget. Brooke, having just turned twenty-one, ordered white wine after takeoff and offered to buy Bridget one too. Bridget said no, then changed her mind ten minutes later. I, who was the baby of the bunch at twenty, had to be satisfied with a warm Coke.
Hours passed. Cabin lights dimmed. People slept as best they could in seats that reclined about three inches. Snacks were served then what the airline claimed to be meals. People queued outside the bathrooms. Somewhere over the Pacific, the plane became its own small world.
I couldn't sleep. Bridget, on the other hand, had drifted off not long after we reached cruising altitude and now slept leaning against the window, snoring lightly. Brooke dozed on the other side, head tilted back, blonde hair falling over one cheek. I sat trapped between them, my mind too active to allow my uncomfortable body to find the meager rest I craved. So I sat and stared at the seat back in front of me, assuming that at some point boredom would force my eyes closed.
At some point, Brooke woke up. She blinked, looked around, then turned her head toward me. She shifted, careful not to bump me too much. "Can't sleep?"
"Middle seat."
"Mm." She looked past me at Bridget. "She's not having any trouble."
"She can sleep through anything," I said. I knew this from experience. I remembered a night from childhood, when I slept over at her house and a tremendous thunderstorm came crashing in after midnight. I had been terrified, waking up and not being able to get back to sleep. Bridget had awakened once, briefly, after a particularly loud crack of thunder, then had promptly gone back to sleep.
Brooke's gaze lingered on Bridget's face.
"You really care about her," I whispered.
Brooke's eyes came back to mine, startled. Then she looked down at her hands and admitted something out loud for the first time: "Yeah."
Then a chime sounded overhead. It wasn't the usual soft one that regularly punctuated the background noise of air travel. This one was louder. A flight attendant moved quickly down the aisle, followed by another.
Brooke noticed too. "What's happening?" she whispered.
"I don't know."
The plane gave a sudden lurch. Turbulence? Perhaps, but I had experienced turbulence before and this felt different. My stomach dropped. A few people gasped. Bridget woke instantly, hand gripping her armrest.
"What was that?" she said, going from deep slumber to full wakefulness in a second.
The seatbelt sign blinked on as the captain's voice came over the speakers. There was a tightness in his voice that belied his trained calm. "Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. Flight attendants, take your seats."
The plane dropped again, a drop so steep and violent that it seemed it might never end. A few people yelped. Loose items lifted. The overhead bins rattled. Somewhere behind us, a child started crying.
I grabbed Bridget's hand without thinking. With my other hand, I grabbed Brooke's.
The plane tilted hard to the left. A deep metallic groan rolled through the cabin. The vibrations got worse. Oxygen masks dropped. That was when everyone started screaming for real.
Bridget snapped hers down first. "Ben!" she shouted, motioning for me to grab mine.
I pulled the mask over my face as Bridget did hers. Brooke fumbled with hers, hands shaking so badly she couldn't get the strap right. I reached across and helped her. Her eyes locked on mine and I could see the terror.
The plane shook violently. The captain's voice came again, broken by static. "Brace. Brace. Brace."
Brace for what?
Later, I would wonder how far off-course we had already been by then. In the moment, there was no time for geography.
Then Bridget leaned forward, arms over her head. I copied her. Brooke grabbed my sleeve. I held her wrist.
The world exploded into noise and chaos. Metal screamed. People wept and prayed. Someone yelled "Mom" over and over. The engine sound rose and dipped and rose again. My seatbelt cut into my hips. My forehead pressed against the seat in front of me. I felt the strong, inescapable presence of death, coming to claim us.
Then came the impact. Not one, but many.
The first hit threw me forward so hard I thought my neck would snap. The second came from the side. The cabin lights flashed out, then on, then out again. Something ripped open with a concussion so loud it swallowed every other sound. Cold air, wind, and water flooded the cabin.
The plane was breaking apart.
By then, I was almost certain we were in the ocean. My hand lost Brooke. I tried to hold Bridget tighter.
Another impact. Pain tore through my shoulder. Then water was everywhere, rushing in with a roar. I tasted salt and blood. Was I upside down? Right side up? I couldn't tell. I couldn't breathe. The mask was gone.
My fingers finally found the seatbelt latch. But when I pressed, nothing happened. I pressed again; still nothing. I was trapped. The panic that had been lurking around the edges greedily took over. I clawed at the belt, lungs burning. My shoulder protested. Something hit my head hard, and for a second my vision spun.
Then hands grabbed mine. Bridget. Her face was inches from mine in the dark water, red hair floating like a halo around her face. She shoved my hand away, found the latch, and slammed her fist into it. It released.
I shot upward, but upward was no longer a simple direction. The plane was tilted, half-submerged, and starting to tip even farther. Bridget pulled me or I pulled her, or maybe both. Then we both remembered at the same time: Brooke.
I twisted around, searching, my eyes trying to penetrate the murk. Initially, all I saw was a flashing emergency light. Then I caught a glimpse of blonde hair.
Brooke was trapped, one arm hooked through a broken seat frame, her face above water for one last gulp of air before the sinking plane dragged her under. I lunged, Bridget right beside me. Everything was slippery, uncertain, and moving. My shoes kicked something soft and I didn't dare think too hard about what it might have been. Brooke's eyes were huge, unfocused. She was trying to free her arm, but the twisted metal held her jacket pinned.
I saw the naked panic in her eyes. Together, Bridget and I grabbed the jacket and yanked, pulling at the fabric with all our combined strength. Something tore. My fingers slipped. Brooke's arm came free. Bridget caught her around the waist and we kicked for the surface, every muscle burning.
Then, suddenly, air flooded our lungs. We were being tossed around by an angry ocean amidst the shattered remains of the plane. Somewhere behind us, something was on fire, orange against the black water. Rain or spray hit my face. The ocean rose and fell around us.
Brooke clung to Bridget.
"Ben!" Bridget shouted, not seeing me.
"I'm here!"
A small section of wing floated nearby. Bridget swam toward it, dragging Brooke, who seemed only half-conscious. I grabbed the edge with my good arm and nearly screamed from the pain in my other shoulder.
We held on. Around us, there were voices, but most were weak and indistinct. The plane was no longer recognizable as such. It was a bunch of jagged, broken pieces. And there were bodies. Lots of bodies. The tail rose in the distance for a moment before sinking into the depths, never to be seen again.
"Is there a raft?" Bridget shouted to me. We were only a few feet apart, but the anger of the sea nearly swallowed her voice.
"I don't know!"
Brooke coughed against Bridget's shoulder. "I can't; I can't;"
"Yes, you can," Bridget snapped. "Hold on to the panel."
Brooke obeyed.
We clung to the wreckage as the ocean pulled us away from the fire. The water wasn't that cold by any reasonable standards but I still shivered uncontrollably. My shoulder throbbed. My head pounded where it had been struck.
"Ben, look at me." My attention snapped to Bridget as I realized she was speaking.
"I am."
"You're not. Look at me."
I forced my eyes to hers, although I wanted to close them. All I could suddenly think about was sleep.
"You bleeding?" she asked.
"Probably."
"Where?"
"Head maybe. Shoulder hurts. I can taste blood in my mouth." Or was that just salt water?
Brooke made a small sound.
Bridget turned to her. "Brooke. Hey. Stay awake."
"I'm cold."
"I know."
"I can't feel my feet."
"They're still attached. Keep kicking."
I don't know how long we floated. Hours, maybe.