Spoiled (23 page)

Brie came around and stared over Brooke’s shoulder.

“Wow,” she said. “I bet her boyfriend would be really upset if he saw this.”

Brooke leaned forward and stared at the pile of shoes on the floor, tapping the phone against her forehead. She raised her
head and met Ari’s gaze.

“He would, Brie,” Brooke said slowly. “He
would
.”

IN THE TWO WEEKS
since the event Brooke heard the cast referring to as Bonnetpocalypse, the drive home from rehearsals had been a silent affair.
Brooke preferred this: Verbal sparring took a lot out of her when she’d already spent the day bellowing in the theater, and
since Molly insisted on turning on NPR—which was so ancient and menopausal to Brooke that she started feeling actual hot flashes—Brooke
needed no further prompting to jam in her earbuds and disappear into an eighties dance megamix. The only thing that kept her
from fully enjoying the lack of conversation is that she suspected Molly preferred it, too, and the idea of them having anything
but genetics in common was too much for Brooke to stand right now.

As Brooke bent down to fish a PowerBar out of her purse,
Molly took the right turn into their driveway with enough gusto that Brooke cracked her head on the glove compartment. Clapping
a hand to her head, Brooke unfolded herself and opened her mouth to scold Molly for being the worst driver in Los Angeles,
then noticed that they’d pulled up behind a large truck. Workmen were lugging large slate-gray slabs with odd-shaped, multicolored
knobs on them around to the side yard. It was either freaky gym equipment or bad modern art; either way, it meant Brick was
back.

Brooke barely waited for Molly to apply the brakes before bolting out of the car, crossing over to the driver’s side door,
and opening it chivalrously.

“Come on, Sis, Dad’s home!” she shouted, grabbing Molly’s arm.

“What is wrong with you? Are you possessed?” Molly asked, shaking free her limb. “Although, actually, that might be an improvement.”

“Shut up and follow my lead,” Brooke hissed. “Brick made us move in together so that we’d bond, right? And if he thinks it
worked, he might relent, right?”

Molly blinked.

“Oh, my God, what do you need? Shorter words? Hand signals? Finger puppets?” Brooke huffed.

“No,” Molly said. “I was just surprised to hear you make sense.”

Brooke shook off the insult. The prospect of freedom was more important. She hauled Molly up the stone steps and inside the
house.

“Daddy?” she yelled. “Are you home?”

“Girls!” Brick said, bouncing around the corner with a harness in his hand. “Come give your old dad a hug.”

He opened both arms and swept them into a three-person embrace. Brooke let herself enjoy the affection for a moment before
cold reality intruded.
Where was all this love when it was just the two of us?

Brick released them and held them each at arm’s length.

“You both look marvelous!” Brick said. “You must have read that article I e-mailed you about the cardiovascular benefits of
jumping rope! I’m so proud.”

Brooke looped her arm around Molly.

“Of course!” she said. “We’ve been doing double Dutch every morning on the patio before school. It’s our new favorite ritual!”

“See? Didn’t I tell you that a little togetherness was just the ticket?” Brick beamed, rubbing his hands together. “I wonder
if
Hey!
could use that story. But maybe I should wait until I’ve sold
Kamikaze Dad
. Don’t want anyone stealing the idea!”

“So how was Key West, um, Dad?” Molly asked, trying to wiggle out from Brooke’s grasp.

Brooke pinched her.
We have to sell it, you moron
, she thought, praying telepathy was real.

“It was brilliant!” Brick boomed. “We’re going to make the mountain scenes work with green screen and a climbing wall. Did
you see them installing our new one outside?
Turns out climbing is excellent for your inner thighs. I’m thinking of selling my own version and calling it the Berlin Wall.”

“That’s great, Daddy,” Brooke said dismissively. “I’m so glad you’re home. My Eliza Doolittle accent is coming along really
well, but I need you—”

“Sure, Sunshine. Soon,” Brick said. “Tonight we have reservations at Campanile.”

Brooke brightened. Brick never got them dinner reservations; he always said he preferred eating at home, where he could control
his butter intake.

“That sounds so fun!” she said. “I can try to pass myself off as British to the waiter, and you can critique me! It’ll be
like an improv exercise!”

Brooke was already imagining the server filling her water glass and begging to know if she was royalty. But before she got
to the part where she invented a connection that put her eighteenth in line for the throne, Brick drew in one sharp breath.

“Ooh. Actually, honey, I meant just me and Molly,” he said, grimacing slightly.

Brooke dropped Molly’s arm.

“You and Molly?” she parroted.

“You and me?” Molly asked, her voice the exact opposite of how Brooke felt.

“We need some father-daughter bonding time!” Brick told Molly. “We can work on your accent all day tomorrow, Brookie, I promise.
No, wait, actually, tomorrow I’m
auditioning actresses to play Lark Rodkin’s comely Sherpa, so maybe the next—wait, no, that day is—”

It was at times like these that Brooke desperately wished she didn’t love her father.

“Don’t worry, Daddy. I know you’re busy,” she said, her heart thumping loud, repeated objections to her magnanimity. “I’m
really close to getting it perfect, anyway.”

“Wonderful!” Brick said. “You can surprise me on opening night! Now, Molly, you don’t have to be too formal for tonight. But
just so you know, there will be a photographer there. So if I were you, I…”

Deflated, Brooke backed away unnoticed from the family powwow. For the first time in recent memory, she didn’t even have the
energy for a tantrum.

“Brooke? How are you doing in there?”

“Go away,” Brooke mumbled. She had about ten more seconds of privacy; Stan knew her too well to take “go away” for an answer
unless it was followed by, “I’m naked.”

“Here, I thought this might help,” Stan said, walking in and tossing her a Three Musketeers bar.

Brooke let out a pathetic moan as the chocolate hit her pillow, just to remind both Stan and herself that she was in intense
psychic pain. The heat from which would probably burn off the candy bar…

“He called her ‘Sunshine,’ ” she said, tearing off the wrap
per as if punishing it for a betrayal. “I always thought that was his special name for me, but apparently, it’s just some
dumb thing he says to anyone.”

“I know this has been challenging, Brookie,” Stan said, perching on the edge of the bed. “But you’ve got accept that Molly
isn’t just
anyone
to him.”

Brooke felt tears starting in the back of her throat. Real ones, not just fodder for another crocodile sob fest. She hated
feeling this out of control.

“It’s like he doesn’t even see me anymore,” she said wetly. “I know I’m supposed to be all sympathetic or whatever, because
her mom is dead. I
know
that. I just don’t get why Daddy can’t pay attention to her
and
me at the same time. He used to tell the paparazzi he’d beat them up if they so much as asked me the time, and now he’s practically
paying them to photograph her. I don’t get it. She doesn’t even
want
that kind of attention.”

“Nobody expects it not to sting a bit, sweetie,” Stan said kindly. “But Brick’s just trying to make her feel comfortable here.”

Brooke snorted. “So you’re siding with her, too. Great.”

“Come on, honey. You know I’ve got your back. I’ve been your buddy since you were born,” Stan said. “I just don’t think Molly
is the one to blame here.
Brick
is the person whose behavior is making you unhappy, right? So maybe give Molly a chance. With your dad gone so much, you
might enjoy having someone to hang out with that you actually like, and who doesn’t beat you at chess all the time.”

“We don’t play chess,” Brooke pointed out, through a mouthful of nougat.

“Exactly. You’re too afraid of my intellectual heft.”

Brooke hurled a throw pillow at his head, but missed. On purpose. Of course.

“Your sense of humor is as stale as her face,” she grumped, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Don’t you have a screenplay to go
finish?”

Stan chuckled. “More like twenty,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to slam the door on my way out. But think about what
I said, okay?”

“Sure,” Brooke lied, shoving the heel of the candy bar into her mouth.

All her life, Brooke had told herself that Brick’s inattentiveness was an innate part of his personality—like a form of extreme
absentmindedness—rather than a reflection of his feelings about her. But the way he was jumping through hoops for Molly made
Brooke wonder if, this whole time, he’d just been waiting for a better daughter to come along.

That the better daughter had everyone hoodwinked into thinking she was an angel made Brooke feel even worse. Yes, Molly had
a dead mother, but Brooke had photographic proof she was, at the very least, a cruddy girlfriend, and that was probably just
the tip of the iceberg. The girl was a fraud.

Brooke dropped the empty candy wrapper in the trash and flounced over to her laptop. She opened her in-box and found thirty-one
unread e-mails: three from various
Colby-Randall acquaintances, sucking up; a bunch of spam;
Passport to Parker
, Jennifer’s fan newsletter; and some random notes from various reality TV producers who’d decided her feud with Molly would
make great basic cable programming. Like Brooke needed to stoop to Kendra Baskett’s level.

Bypassing them all, Brooke double-clicked on the message containing the photo of Molly and Teddy’s close encounter. She’d
had Ari send it to her in case of emergency. This certainly felt like one.

Molly took the stairs to her room two at a time. Brick had just spent half an hour explaining that there would be a photographer
from
Us Weekly
at the restaurant, snapping a “candid” of them clinking glasses for an online blurb about their father-daughter bonding.
It sounded quick and uncomplicated, even to Molly. Plus, posing for photos for five minutes was worth it in exchange for some
precious face time with her father.

When she reached the bedroom, Molly paused. It hadn’t escaped her that, when Brick revealed dinner plans that did not include
her, Brooke had crept away in total silence. This whole mansion was usually one giant china shop in which Brooke acted like
the Taurus she was. But Molly hadn’t heard a puff of indignation, a footstep, or even a slammed door.

But why should she care?
It’s not like Brooke’s ever shown
me
any consideration. I’ve already got three calluses from all the sewing I’m doing for her play.
So Molly pushed through the door, letting all her excitement show on her face. Brooke was punching away at her computer keyboard,
mouth pulled tight around a pen with a giant pink feather plume exploding from the top.

“Off your diet already?”

Brooke removed the pen and tossed it into her
Diaper Andy
pencil cup.

“Don’t order the short rib,” she said. “It’ll go straight to your hips, and you’re full up.”

Molly was too excited about dinner with Brick to stoke a squabble. She riffled through the dresses in her wardrobe. Too casual.
Too short. Too boring. Molly wanted to wear something just right. Smiling, she thought back to how freaked out she’d been
not so long ago at the prospect of being photographed in public, and how much more comfortable she was now. Molly almost felt
like Brooke got some credit for that—Brooke
and
Shelby, in fact, as much as they would have hated being lumped together in anything. But the events of the last several weeks
had gotten Molly accustomed to judgmental eyeballs boring into her back. Dinner wouldn’t throw anything at her that she hadn’t
fielded before.

Molly pulled out a cute, high-necked, sleeveless black dress with intricate straps artfully woven across its open back—perfect
for L.A. in mid-September, which was still
comfortably warm and summery. She and Laurel had made the dress together for one of Molly’s awards banquets, which was one
of the happy memories she’d bottled up when Laurel got sick, so that she could uncork it when she needed it most. Laurel had
looked beautiful and proud when Molly accepted the Most Valuable Athlete award; Danny had beamed like she was the only person
in the room, and even rejected tequila shots at the after party in favor of making Molly feel like it was her night. It was
one of her favorite nights of the last few years, and wearing that dress always made Molly happy.