take
before her body forgot how to function. Once she was rendered immobile by her psychological pain, maybe Brick would see how
much harm he’d done, bringing this ruinous boozehound into their lives. The question was whether he’d realize this before
or after Brooke got an oozing bedsore.
Her phone tolled a third time. “Shut up, Madonna,” she mumbled. But this time, it was Brie.
“Good morning!” her assistant chirped. “This is your daily tabloid report. One of the
Real Housewives of Santa Fe
threw her pottery wheel at a photographer, that new Fashion Week documentary opened huge, and one of those girls from
The City
wore the ugliest orange poncho to anMTV party last night. And that’s it. Nothing else made news. At all.”
“You are a terrible liar, Brie.”
“No, it’s true, the poncho was awful. E! Online said she looked like the Great Pumpkin’s trashy girlfriend.”
“Brie.”
On the other end of the line, Brie took a deep breath.
“Okay, it’s actually not that bad. Most of what’s online from last night are just pictures of Brick and Molly smiling. But
Hey!
…” Brie trailed off. “They got a picture of you hunched over Molly and talking on your phone, while she was passed out. It
really looks like you’re laughing at her.”
“Dammit!” Brooke swore. “Why did you tell me that?”
“Because you—”
“In the future, please recognize when to tell me what I want to hear,” Brooke huffed.
There was a loud banging on her door.
“Go away,” Brooke crabbed. “I’m very busy.”
“Unless what you’re busy with involves being comatose, you will come downstairs right now,” Brick’s voice boomed.
“Um, Brie, gotta go. My trainer’s here.”
Shoving her feet into fluffy slippers, Brooke padded downstairs hoping she looked childlike and innocent. The last time Brick
yelled at her, she was six and had spilled her apple juice on his pager; he’d been so overcome with guilt that he’d bought
her a pony named Mr. Pickles. She doubted this would end as happily: From his tone, Brooke couldguess that Brick had seen exactly what Brie had, and it wasn’t sitting well.
Brooke shuffled toward her father’s study, through the hallway that contained every certificate Brick had ever received—including
one from the American Dental Association honoring his teeth as the best in showbiz—and a gallery of her school photos over
the years. When she reached fourth grade, Brooke stopped, noticing a tiny, dog-eared picture that had been tucked into the
corner of the frame. It depicted a little girl with crooked front teeth, brown-red braids, and a grin so earsplitting you
couldn’t see the color of her eyes.
Molly.
Brooke resisted the urge to rip it down, knowing that act of vandalism wouldn’t actually affect anything except possibly her
prospects of getting a car—though those already looked bleak. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to deny everything
for as long as possible. This worked well whenever celebrity couples ran into rumors of marital problems.
“Brooke? I hear your footsteps. Get in here.”
A fire blazed in the hearth in Brick’s study despite it being a steamy ninety degrees outside. Brick once read on the Internet
that being warmed by the heat of a burning log was great for the pores. Brooke often thought Brick was a perfect example of
why literacy was overrated. He believed anything holistic-sounding as long as more than two posters on a message board agreed
with it.
As she closed the door, Brooke noticed Molly already there, slumped down in a chair opposite Brick’s desk and sipping from
a steaming mug of coffee.
“Good morning!” Brooke all but yelled, enjoying watching Molly wince at the volume.
“Oh, don’t you play the James Cameron card with me, Harvey,” Brick bellowed from his wing chair, which was facing away from
them. “You want him so bad? Why don’t you just flush five hundred million down the
before her body forgot how to function. Once she was rendered immobile by her psychological pain, maybe Brick would see how
much harm he’d done, bringing this ruinous boozehound into their lives. The question was whether he’d realize this before
or after Brooke got an oozing bedsore.
Her phone tolled a third time. “Shut up, Madonna,” she mumbled. But this time, it was Brie.
“Good morning!” her assistant chirped. “This is your daily tabloid report. One of the
Real Housewives of Santa Fe
threw her pottery wheel at a photographer, that new Fashion Week documentary opened huge, and one of those girls from
The City
wore the ugliest orange poncho to anMTV party last night. And that’s it. Nothing else made news. At all.”
“You are a terrible liar, Brie.”
“No, it’s true, the poncho was awful. E! Online said she looked like the Great Pumpkin’s trashy girlfriend.”
“Brie.”
On the other end of the line, Brie took a deep breath.
“Okay, it’s actually not that bad. Most of what’s online from last night are just pictures of Brick and Molly smiling. But
Hey!
…” Brie trailed off. “They got a picture of you hunched over Molly and talking on your phone, while she was passed out. It
really looks like you’re laughing at her.”
“Dammit!” Brooke swore. “Why did you tell me that?”
“Because you—”
“In the future, please recognize when to tell me what I want to hear,” Brooke huffed.
There was a loud banging on her door.
“Go away,” Brooke crabbed. “I’m very busy.”
“Unless what you’re busy with involves being comatose, you will come downstairs right now,” Brick’s voice boomed.
“Um, Brie, gotta go. My trainer’s here.”
Shoving her feet into fluffy slippers, Brooke padded downstairs hoping she looked childlike and innocent. The last time Brick
yelled at her, she was six and had spilled her apple juice on his pager; he’d been so overcome with guilt that he’d bought
her a pony named Mr. Pickles. She doubted this would end as happily: From his tone, Brooke couldguess that Brick had seen exactly what Brie had, and it wasn’t sitting well.
Brooke shuffled toward her father’s study, through the hallway that contained every certificate Brick had ever received—including
one from the American Dental Association honoring his teeth as the best in showbiz—and a gallery of her school photos over
the years. When she reached fourth grade, Brooke stopped, noticing a tiny, dog-eared picture that had been tucked into the
corner of the frame. It depicted a little girl with crooked front teeth, brown-red braids, and a grin so earsplitting you
couldn’t see the color of her eyes.
Molly.
Brooke resisted the urge to rip it down, knowing that act of vandalism wouldn’t actually affect anything except possibly her
prospects of getting a car—though those already looked bleak. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to deny everything
for as long as possible. This worked well whenever celebrity couples ran into rumors of marital problems.
“Brooke? I hear your footsteps. Get in here.”
A fire blazed in the hearth in Brick’s study despite it being a steamy ninety degrees outside. Brick once read on the Internet
that being warmed by the heat of a burning log was great for the pores. Brooke often thought Brick was a perfect example of
why literacy was overrated. He believed anything holistic-sounding as long as more than two posters on a message board agreed
with it.
As she closed the door, Brooke noticed Molly already there, slumped down in a chair opposite Brick’s desk and sipping from
a steaming mug of coffee.
“Good morning!” Brooke all but yelled, enjoying watching Molly wince at the volume.
“Oh, don’t you play the James Cameron card with me, Harvey,” Brick bellowed from his wing chair, which was facing away from
them. “You want him so bad? Why don’t you just flush five hundred million down the
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