Disclaimers: Not mine, not mine, not mine!

A/N: I just cannot seem to stop writing, lucky for you people because I have two tests next week and don't know when I'll be able to update again. Please, please review. Those of you who are familiar with my work know I'm a feedback whore, and I need some lovin'. Flame it even, just let me know your thoughts. Oh, and by the way the fic is only going to span a coupe days, but in several chapters so bear with me if it seems a little slow.

Brooke

She has a kid, she has a freaking kid? How the hell did that happen! Well, I know how it happened, obviously, but I can't get my head around this. Peyton is a mom. And how is it nobody told me this? I'm gonna kill Lucas the next time I see him, I'm sure everyone knows. I'm supposed to be the first to know everyting, not the last. I'm Brooke Davis for Christ sake! What has happened to the world?

I turn to look at Peyton. God, she's gorgeous. She's not all thin and lanky anymore, she's soft and curvy. Her hair is darker, the exact color of straw. It smells like coconuts and summer. She still does that squinty thing when she drives, and she still drives like a maniac. There are faint lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth, she's getting older but aging beautifully. I can't believe how much I missed her.

That kid keeps kicking the back of my seat. How old is she? She's like three feet tall. I would've thought she was a four year old or something. But she looks just like Peyton, she's like her mini-me. I forgot Peyton used to have red hair. When the kid's not getting feet-happy with my chair, she's reaching between the seats to fiddle with the radio. And Peyton lets her. They have the same weird taste in music it would seem. And by weird I mean bad. Like mother like daughter, right?

This car ride is so incredibly awkward. I have no idea what to say and Peyton has no idea what to say, so the kid just fills the silence. She's going on about some boy named Brett who was calling her names and chasing her at recess. Get over it already, so they call you shorty? Big deal. I've been called a lot worse. She won't stop kicking my seat! She's totally doing it on purpose, she's trying to piss me off and I don't even know her.

"--chinese or pizza maybe, what do you think, Brooke?" Huh? I think.

"Huh?" I say.

"For dinner," the kid says. "We're getting take-out and Mom has oh-so-graciously invited you."

"You're the deciding vote, do you want pizza or chinese food? I mean, you know, if you wanna stay for dinner..." Peyton elaborates. Dinner? Sure, because that won't be weird.

"Uh, yeah, I can do that," I say but I'm not sure it's the best idea. I wanted to talk to Peyton, I wanted to work things out with Peyton, I wanted to figure out what the hell is going on with me or if it's just some not-so-temporary insanity that's making me think I love Peyton. But somehow I don't see all of this happening with little Peyton jr. running around. "Pizza's good."

I hear the kid gloat triumphantly behind me. Oh, crap, what was her name? It was like Kelly or Cassie or something. When the car comes to a stop, we're back in front of Tric. I hope Peyton didn't go out of the way to take me back to my car, because I kind of took a cab. I tell her as much and she gives me that look again and says that this is where they live.

They live in the club? No, not in it, over it. Duh. I didn't know there was an apartment over Tric. That must be nice, like a loft. I ask Peyton what happened to her house and she says that they sold it. When Larry remarried, no less. Huh, go Papa Sawyer. We don't even go upstairs, just back to the bar. The kid goes behind the counter and produces a can of grape soda from what I assume must be a shelf or something underneath.

"Damn. Sweetie, did you see where I put the mail? I need to send out the water bill." Peyton asks the kid. It's so weird, hearing pet names coming from Peyton of all people.

"Probably in the office with all the other crap you never sort through," the kid answers, not looking up from the can of soda she can't pry open with her impossibly small fingers. Peyton tells the kid to watch her mouth and reaches over to open the drink at the same time.

"I'll be right back," she says to both of us. She's not leaving me with the kid, is she?

"Don't break anything," she says to the kid. She sticks a purple tongue out at Peyton. Peyton looks at me breifly as she walks by. She turns to say something more and I almost think shes going to talk to me, but no. "Just don't touch anything. That thing you're doing right now, the not moving? That's great."

"Bye Mom," the kid says and watches Peyton dissapear into a back room. As soon as Peyton's gone, the kid hops of the bar stool, no small feat, and vanishes behind the bar. She pulls what looks like an old high chair out from under the counter and drags it towards the fridge.

"Aren't you a little big for a booster seat?" I ask her.

"Aren't you a little big for that t-shirt?" she rotorts. "Stepping stool." She climbs the thing to illustrate her point. I underestimated her. I glance down quickly at the top I'm wearing and there's nothing wrong with it. She opens the freezer and starts rummaging through it just as Peyton returns with a fat envelope.

"Kessie!" And the kid shuts the freezer but stays planted on the high chair, trying to look as innocent as possible. Peyton paces over to her looking all kinds of angry and plucks her off the chair.

"I told you to stay put," Peyton tells her daughter, still holding her in the air.

"I needed ice!" and she struggles until Peyton puts her down.

"You know I don't like you climbing things. You couldn't have waited two seconds for me to come back and get it for you?"

"Obviously not or I wouldn't have been helping myself!" Peyton narrows her eyes and I raise and eyebrow.

"Are you taking a tone with me?" she asks. The kid suddenly finds her shoes very interesting.

"No ma'am," she mutters quietly.

"You know what, go upstairs and do your homework," Peyton commands. The kid doesn't move. "That means now."

Taking her backpack and her soda, the kid stomps noisily down a hall and up the stairs to what I assume is the apartment. Damn, go Peyton. She apologizes for that and says something about the kid never doing what she's supposed to.

"Yeah, she's got quite a mouth on her." And apparently, so do I.

"Ah, did she say something to you?" Peyton asks and wrinkles her nose. It's beyond adorable.

"No, not really. It was nothing. How--how old is she by the way?"

"Almost nine." I do the math real quick. Wow, that would've made Peyton about eighteen or nineteen when she had her, no wonder I didn't hear about it. I think I was in London then.

"Really? She's very... very--"

"Small?"

"Well, I was gonna say articulate, but yeah. That too." I didn't realize until just now how closely we're standing together.

"She was underweight when she was born. She's always been small, she'll probably always be small," Peyton breaks out into this huge grin. "But she is so smart. She's in the GATE thing at school--"

"GATE?"

"Gifted and talented education. She's reading at almost eighth grade level she can do pre-Algebra on her own. She's like a genius." Peyton is absolutely beaming. I've never seen her so proud. When she smiles now, her eyes smile too.

"You really love her, huh?" Peyton's smile drops and so do her eyes.

"My daughter is my world. And this place is my life," she brings her eyes back up to mine. Then she states rather pointedly, "I don't have room for anything else."