Author's Note: Yeah, so I said this was only supposed to be a three-parter. I lied. Fourth part to come, maybe a fifth…oh boy. There's a fair amount of time jumps in this chapter - watch out for that. And, lastly, I just wanted to say that the response to this former one-shot and it's continuation has been unprecedented. Thanks so much for all the feedback. You guys make my day.
There's a section cut out from Lucas's first book that nobody has ever read, save for two people other than himself.
He keeps a copy of it in a file on his computer. Sometimes, when he's feeling nostalgic, he pulls it up, gives it a read-through and tries to ignore the ache that accompanies the warm glow of the memory.
It's a double-edged sword, you see.
He hasn't seen the first person who read it since high school. In fact, the last time he even heard from Glenda was a few weeks after his book came out. She sent him a short email, congratulating him, telling him she knew the book was special, and that he would make it big.
She went on to say, though, that she was a little confused.
Why did you delete that one part in chapter eight? It was beautiful.
Lucas had known right away which part she was talking about. He sat there in front of his computer, Glenda's email still open in its window, and went to his documents and opened up that file for the first time in ages. Just for old time's sake, he gave it a read-through.
There was a beautiful girl standing a few feet away from me, beckoning me forward.
She was barefoot and blurred – probably thanks to the beers she had snuck us out of the refrigerator in her garage. She may have been student council president, founder of Tree Hill's chapter of DWnotI, and best friend of Tutor Girl, but Brooke Davis still knew how to be deliciously irresponsible.
She reached the murky lake water and laughed as it lapped up against her feet, chillier than she expected it to be. She was still laughing as she turned around and kicked it at me, but somehow ended up getting more on herself.
"Crazy girl," I said fondly, "you're staining your pretty dress."
Brooke frowned and looked down at the white folds of cotton fanning out around her legs. She squealed in dismay and snatched up a handful of skirt, examining one of the tiny brown splotches of water she had splashed on herself.
"Damn red clay," she said, scowling.
"I can have my mom take a look at it for you. She's real good with stains," I said, reaching a hand out. "Here, why don't you get out of that muddy water?"
She dropped the piece of skirt she was holding and the hem of the dress fell back around her milky calves, swaying back and forth against them as it settled into place. She cocked her head and squinted up at me, like she didn't understand.
"Come on, Brooke," I said. "We can get some lunch or something. I think I had one beer too many."
"But Lucas," she whined, "it's the first pretty day all year. I wanna be here. Come swim with me."
I laughed. "Babe, the water's probably freezing."
"It's not that bad," she said, pouting and kicking another spray in my direction.
"Brooke," I protested.
"Fine," she said innocently and turned away, only to look back at me over her shoulder. "You can watch." Her hair fell across her back in tangled, wind-tousled strands, something I knew she would fret over later until I proposed taking a shower together and helping her comb all the knots out. I smiled at the thought. She winked at me as she started walking deeper into the water.
"Brooke," I called out belatedly. "What about your dress?"
She paused and looked down. She was about knee-deep now, and a good four inches of her dress was already soaked through, floating lazily in the water around her. She twirled back around to face me, and the fabric twisted across her body, slow and heavy.
"I'm rich," she said, after a moment's thought. "I'll just buy another one."
Anyone else, and that would have sounded horrifically shallow and negligent. Maybe it still was. But it was all I could do to shake my head to hide a smile. Brooke Davis had grown more than anyone else I knew in the past year and a half. She was allowed this – a small relapse, a brief reemergence of the spoiled, pampered princess she used to be. I thought it was kinda cute, myself.
"Brooke," I said sternly, still struggling to mask a smile. "I'm coming in to get you now."
"No!" she yelled in a way that really meant yes. I started rolling up my jeans and she waded in deeper. By the time I caught up with her, she was a little past waist-deep. Her cheeks were flushed and she was laughing as I pulled her in against me, ruffling her hair and dropping kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her jawline.
"PDA, Lucas," she said, but she was giggling. "You're going to get us kicked out of the park."
"Seems like we're the only ones who had the bright idea to come down to the lake," I pointed out.
"Lucas!"
I pulled away and lifted up my hands in gesture of peace. "Fine," I said. "I'll stop."
She growled and launched herself at me. I snatched her up and lifted her high in the air.
"Don't drop me!" she squealed, kicking her legs.
"Don't kick me, and I won't!" I laughed.
Obediently, she went still. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, basking in the warm sun. Water dripped off her dress and into my eyes, but I didn't look away. She was glowing.
She opened her eyes and looked down, first at my hands, firm on both sides of her waist, and then at me, right into my eyes, unwavering. Her hair spilled down around her face, streaks of red and brown and black. It was getting long, I noticed, falling past her breasts against her ribs.
"Bring me back down," she said.
I lowered her slowly, gently. When we were at about the same height, she wrapped her legs around my stomach and her arms around my neck. I adjusted my grip on her.
"Careful, don't drop me," she whispered.
"Never," I whispered back. "Trust me."
She shivered and ran her hands through my hair, carefully avoiding my eyes. "Will you miss me tomorrow, when you go?"
"Every day, Brooke," I said.
It was the truth. There wasn't a moment that went by when I didn't ache for Brooke Davis.
She took her hands out of my hair and trailed a finger over my face, tracing the bumps and contours, as if she was committing them to memory. Then, she leaned in and kissed me, tasting like alcohol and oranges and summer and forever.
It took Lucas two weeks to email Glenda back. He hadn't known what to say.
Long ago, when he had written that part, he had been sure that Brooke would be his book's ending. He had no idea that he was days away from being dealt the first big heartbreak of his life.
A few months later, he handed off his compilation of scribbles and memories off to Glenda, who had turned out to be surprisingly helpful. The draft was messy then, a little unfocused. He had undergone the great upheaval from Brooke to Peyton all within a very short time period. He knew, even back then, that the chaos in his life was reflected in his book.
And Glenda had been honest with him. Her notes were objective, critical where they needed to be. She told him to expand on the upheaval because, frankly, even she was dizzy from the sudden turnaround in his life.
And he had. He had edited, tightened, added details and omitted others until everything was seamless, as flawless as he could make it. "It's gorgeous," Glenda told him one day, handing him a handful of loosely-bound pages. "This is the real deal, Lucas Scott. This is what the world's been waiting for."
"You think?" he had asked, squinting down at the papers critically. "You really think it's ready?"
"Start shopping it around," she said, nodding. "And remember me, yeah? When it becomes a best-seller and you get all famous."
He had felt it then, that old thrill of excitement usually reserved for big games or the promise of seeing Peyton soon.
Of course, that thrill had dulled considerably after a year-and-a-half and an impossible number of "no's" from assorted publishers.
And then Lindsey had called and told him that his book had made her feel something.
He felt like he was eighteen and standing in the school parking lot with Glenda all over again. It's gorgeous.
Of course, the next few months of editing were enough to dull that too.
Lucas and Lindsey fought constantly, over everything. The little things, the big things, the quirks that made his writing his. "I love it, Lucas," Lindsey would always say, "but it's too raw for the general public. Every now and then, you have to get on their level."
"But that's not me!" he would say, pointing down at a paragraph she had reworked in her own neat script.
"This is what sells!" she would retort. "Lucas, your book has so much potential. I want everyone to want to read this. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever read. But it needs work."
Sometimes she won. Sometimes he did.
When it came to that part, though, that part with Brooke and the lake and the dress and the forever, Lindsey hadn't even bothered to rework it. She just shook her head and drew thick, black X's across those pages with a marker, sighing in anticipation of the battle that was sure to come.
"Why?" Lucas had asked, quietly.
It was always a slow build-up.
"They aren't going to work," Lindsey said, matter-of-factly, not meeting his eyes.
"Why not?"
"It's a gorgeous scene, Lucas," Lindsey began, "Don't get me wrong…"
"Then why are you marking those pages out?"
"They're…"
"No, Lindsey," Lucas said, shaking his head. "I won't compromise on this. If you had been there, that day…"
"It feels like I was," Lindsey said, smiling gently. "Lucas…it's just, the girl in this story is Peyton, not Brooke. This muddles that. It's – god, I don't know how to put this – it's gorgeous, Luke, like I said, but it's unnecessary clutter."
"Unnecessary clutter," Lucas repeated blankly.
Lindsey shook her head. "I didn't mean it like that. Let me try again." She paused for a second or two, then refocused her eyes and looked back at him. "It just confuses things, Lucas. You want people to believe in you and Peyton. This detracts from your goal. It's out of place."
Lucas leaned back and knocked against his armrest with his closed fist a few times, a steady rhythm. "Yeah, okay," he said finally, looking away. "I get what you mean."
"So it's okay for me to take it out?" Lindsey asked.
"Yeah," Lucas muttered. "It's okay."
She sat there, still for a moment, marker hovering as she considered the page in front of her.
"It's a shame," she murmured. "It really is one of my favorite scenes." She twirled the marker slowly in her fingers and then looked at him. "Maybe we could keep it."
Lucas looked up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Lindsey nodded. "We should keep it. We just need to change the name of the girl to Peyton."
Lucas's fist re-clenched.
"Absolutely not," he had said, and this time he would not budge. "Absolutely not."
Lucas wonders now if Brooke ever remembers that day, and if so, if it's a clear a picture in her mind as it is in his. He supposes that he probably remembers it a lot better since he's got the whole thing written down.
He's been opening up that file and reading it a lot lately, ever since Brooke told him she was coming to New York two weeks ago. He feels kind of guilty every time, but he pushes that particular emotion aside and reads it anyway.
He's lived enough of his life ruled by guilt already. He should be allowed this, at least.
So yeah, it's been two weeks since Brooke told him she was coming. She never specified exactly when she would get here, and she hasn't answered the multiple letters he's sent, all based around different variations of the question: when can I expect you?
He gave in once, three days ago, thanks to a churning mix of worry and exasperation, and called his mother to pepper her with questions about Brooke's whereabouts.
"I don't know, Lucas," she had said, over and over. "I haven't been in touch with her lately. I'll call you if I see her, okay? I'm sure she's just busy getting ready for New York."
Right, he had thought, of course. But why wasn't she responding to his letters?
He pushes himself away from his computer, having successfully converted his nostalgia into aggravation going over all this again, and figures he might as well drag himself to the gym for lack of anything better to do. Lindsey has taken Marie to see her grandparents for the weekend, and Lucas is still trying to pretend like the silence doesn't bother him. This is the first weekend ever he'll spend apart from his baby.
The gym it is, then.
But by the time he's re-emerged from his room and walked out the door, he's already pretty much convinced himself he doesn't want to go to the gym tonight. It's a pretty summer evening, and temperatures lately have been lower than usual. He appreciates that because it means he doesn't melt into a puddle every time he steps outside.
So anyway, he would be a fool to waste a night like this in a gym. He should go over to Central Park for a jog, or maybe Hudson River. But he hasn't even touched the sidewalk before somebody tackles him on the doorstep outside his house.
Lucas thinks he's getting mugged at first, honest-to-god. But his mugger is giggling too much, and the long brown strands of hair falling across Lucas's face smell like a very familiar brand of lavender shampoo. It awakens a long buried memory inside him, unfurls it like a flower. He takes in one last breath, opens his eyes, and sees her.
"Brooke."
"Lucas Scott," she says back, cheekily tilting her head. "Feels like it's been five years since I've seen you."
"It has," he says, finding himself short on breath. "It has." He takes a step forward, envelops her in his arms, holds her tight against his chest.
He can hear both their hearts beating, wild, and almost believes they're the only two people in the world.
Brooke's the first to pull away, laughing again, eyes bright with giddy cheer. "Let me see you," she says, somewhat breathless herself, and takes a step back. Her eyes start at his shoes and make their way up. She pauses when she gets to his head, squints, and takes a step forward. Lucas isn't quite sure what to expect out of her.
"Is that a gray hair?"
"What!" he yelps, hands flying to his head. "No!"
She grins evilly. "Gotcha."
"Not funny," he growls.
"Don't be such an old man, Luke," she says, waving him off.
He squints at her in distaste. "Fine then. Let me have a look at you."
At first, he's just half-heartedly scanning – trying to think up something that would rile her up – but as always, it isn't long before the girl standing in front of him pulls his attention in, forces him to notice all those little things that used to make him fall in love and break his heart all at the same time.
She looks…younger, weirdly. Her hair's a little longer, falling down her back instead of the sharp shoulder length she used to keep it at, and her make up's a little lighter. Twenty-seven year old Brooke looks a lot more relaxed than twenty-two year-old Brooke ever did.
"You look…really good," Lucas says at length.
"Well, gee, thanks. Don't sound so sure of yourself," Brooke says, rolling her eyes.
"No," Lucas protests, "I really…"
Brooke starts laughing and punches his shoulder. "Don't worry about it," she says. "I'm kidding."
"Right," Lucas says sheepishly. "Well, you do look good."
"Thanks," Brooke grins. "You don't look so bad yourself."
Lucas smiles back, suddenly thankful that he was able to pick up himself and his life and clean it all up and put everything back together before her arrival. He gestures back up to the door he just stepped out of. "So do you want to go inside?"
"Okay," Brooke says. "But only for a bit."
"Oh," he says, a little surprised. "Did you have somewhere to be or…"
"No," Brooke says slyly. "We have somewhere to be. But first, you have to change out of those unfortunate basketball shorts. I thought we agreed to retire those in high school?"
"I was going for a jog," Lucas defends himself as they make their way up the stairs.
"Right," Brooke says as she steps past Lucas through the door he's holding open for her. "I hope so. That's the only excuse those things have for seeing the light of day again."
Lucas is about to protest as he follows after her, but stops at the sight of her up on her toes, twirling slowly around in the middle of his foyer. "Wooow, Lucas," she says appreciatively. "Nice digs."
He rolls his eyes. "Digs? Who says that anymore?"
She stops twirling and smirks at him, then raises an eyebrow pointedly at his shorts again. "High school basketball shorts, circa ten years ago? Who holds onto their glory days for that long?"
Lucas laughs and shakes his head. "Ouch," he says. "I thought you used to like these."
"I used to like the whole package," she corrects. "You know, star player, all that jazz. Not the shorts by themselves."
"They're not even the same shorts," Lucas grumbles.
She eyes them critically and then shrugs. "Close enough. I swear, Lucas, you'd think you could afford some nicer gym clothes. I mean, you've got the whole brownstone on the Upper West Side thing going on and all. Then again, it is the west side…"
"Oh, wait a minute now," Lucas says. "You got something against the Upper West Side?"
Brooke grins wickedly. "It's just not on the east side, that's all."
Of course, Lucas thinks, amused, he should have expected that. "This place has its charms, Brooke," he says. "Cafés and museums…and the people here are a lot more real. I actually like it a lot better than the Upper East Side."
Brooke rolls her eyes. "You would," she says. "Anyway, hurry up and go get changed. I'll try and make you see the light later."
Lucas shakes his head but obediently heads towards his bedroom. "How do I need to dress? Where are we going?" he calls over his shoulder.
She hesitates for a second. "I don't know," she finally answers. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Humor me and dress up kinda nice. It's my first time in the city in ages. I wanna fit in as much as possible."
That last part gives Lucas some pause as he's tugging on a nice pair of jeans that he knows Brooke will approve of – she gave them to him – is she not staying in the city for very long then? He wants to ask, but at the same time, he's not sure that he wants to know the answer. He decides to put it off, for now.
"Well," he says, stepping out from his room not long after, in those jeans and a dark blue button down.
Brooke looks over, eyes lighting up. "Oooh," she says approvingly, fingering his shirt. "I like that. Did I send that to you?"
He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Um, no. Lindsey did."
She pauses, thoughtful. "Lindsey always had good taste."
"I suppose so," Lucas says quietly.
Brooke looks up at him and smiles. He can't tell whether it's forced or not, but it looks pretty sincere. "So you ready for a night of New York, Brooke Davis-style?"
He grins back. "I think I can handle that. One condition."
"What?" Brooke asks, furrowing her brows.
"We stay on the west side."
She sighs dramatically but nods. "Fiiiiine, but you better show me a good time."
"Something tells me you know more about the New York party scene than I do," Lucas points out.
"Probably," she agrees. "But there's more I want to do than just party. Come on, let's go before it gets too late." She grabs his hand as she scampers off towards the door, and Lucas is happy to follow. Her hand is warm in his and it fits just the same way he remembers. For a second, he closes his eyes, and he can imagine that they're back in high school again. He opens them again, sees her hair swinging loose down her back, hears her laughing, and he wonders when his imagination blurred with reality.
He decides that he has sorely missed bouncy, bubbly Brooke Davis – a side of her he hasn't seen in much longer than five years. He's glad she's back.
