Unwritten (The Unspoken Series Book 1) Read online

  “Brooke, I’m working on our assignment. Come join me?”

  “Hey, Rich … sure.”

  I walked over to where he was sitting and dropped my heavy shoulder bag onto the round table. What a relief! I really needed to invest in something lighter and less cumbersome. Sure, my sorority letters attached to the side were cute, but it wasn’t worth the pain in my neck, literally. I took a seat next to Rich and was rummaging through my bag looking for my notepad when he broke my concentration.

  “I decided to write my article on the recurring injuries on the varsity football team,” he began. “I’m just researching some physical therapy books now. I already scheduled an interview with the athletic director, football coach and head trainer for first thing in the morning.”

  Of course he did. Ugh, who was this guy? He can’t possibly have any social life which is so weird considering how GORGEOUS he is.

  “Hey, are you there?”

  “Uh, yeah, sorry. It’s been a really long day and I’m beat, but I told you I’d have this done by tomorrow. … So, here I am.”

  “Right, so, Brooke, what is the subject of your article?” he asked.

  “Well, I decided to go with an opinion piece,” I replied. (Mainly because I didn’t think about scheduling interviews and I certainly didn’t have time for that now. But, I thought I would leave Rich out of that little secret). “Since the election is coming up, I thought I would write about the pros and cons of the Electoral College and how the candidate with more popular votes can sometimes lose the election.”

  I must admit, for thinking of a topic on the fly, I was pretty proud of myself. I think I’ll give myself a proverbial pat on the back. Way to go, Brooke.

  “Riiiiight. … You know, that would NEVER actually happen?”

  “ACTUALLY, it’s happened three times in history. Did you know Benjamin Harrison actually received more popular votes than Grover Cleveland?”

  “Hmmph, I meant in like today’s era. That was, what, like 1884,” he said, as more of a statement than a question.

  “Whoa … Mr. Smarty Pants got one wrong. It was actually 1888,” I spat back, feeling slightly superior.

  “Whatever, it will still never happen again. Your article is going to be a waste of time. I thought you said your dream was to write for the Washington Post? They would never publish such farfetched, political propaganda.”

  “Well, I believe it could very well happen again this year. And that, Davis, is why they call it an opinion piece, and when it does happen … you can kiss my ass.”

  He paused for a moment and I could briefly see a spark in those sexy blues of his. Then – in barely a whisper – he said, “I wish, Brooke. I wish.”

  What the hell? I must be really tired or really delusional or both because I didn’t just hear him say that. You’re imaging shit now, Brooke Christine Anderson. Get a grip.

  After that, we worked in silence for what seemed like forever. I got up a few times to grab some reference books from the shelves and he prepared his interview questions. I completed a fairly good outline and decided I would wake up before class to finish my writing.

  It was approaching eleven o’clock and I wanted to be home before Jay called. We’d had a standing phone date each night at that time since he moved “Up North” to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula two years ago to attend Michigan Tech. After packing my bag and heaving it over my shoulder, I muttered goodnight over my shoulder to Rich. I swear I heard him say, “Goodnight, beautiful girl,” as I headed toward the door. Seriously, I either need to make an appointment with the school nurse to get my hearing tested, or with the counselor to get my head examined.

  Jason James or Jay, as he was known by everyone around our town, and I were high school sweethearts. I met him my first day of my freshman year. He was the stud sophomore, baseball player and I was the new girl who transferred to the public school after spending nine years becoming educated by the nuns at St. Mary’s Catholic School.

  If there was such a thing as “love at first sight,” I think that’s what Jay and I had. We had that instantaneous spark of chemistry people often talk about. He asked me to have lunch with him that day and we were inseparable for three years.

  All of my high school memories involved Jay. We swayed as one at both of our proms. I watched as he was crowned prom king his senior year and he returned the favor the following year by watching as I was named homecoming queen.

  I was his personal cheerleader during every baseball game and he held my hand in the emergency room after I slipped on some ice a few winters back and broke my wrist. (Remember, I said I was known as Brooke the Klutz).

  It was one of the hardest days of my life watching my Jay-Jay Bear pack up his Chevy Blazer before making the four hundred mile, seven-hour drive to his new home and away from my everyday existence.

  But, even with the distance, we had already made it work for two years. He called me every night at eleven o’clock. I think in those two years we have only missed a handful of telephone dates. Really, those twenty to thirty minutes were the highlight of my day. I couldn’t wait to hear his voice each night before falling asleep.

  I was relieved when I got back to the room and Cassidy told me I hadn’t missed my call from Jay. I figured I still had a few minutes to take care of my nightly routine before he called, so I padded off to the bathroom. I was in the middle of applying my face scrub when I heard the phone ring.

  “Hey Jay-Jay Bear,” I heard Cassidy say as she answered the phone from the other room. “Hang on a sec. She’s getting herself all pretty for your nightly phone sex … I mean date.”

  “CASSIDY! Shut up and hand me the phone. You ARE crazy!” I screamed at her as I grabbed the phone and plopped down onto my plush comforter.

  Jay and I talked for about half an hour before he had to end our conversation to finish some mechanical engineering homework. I told him about my day, the sorority mixer and studying in the library; I didn’t mention Rich at all. Not because I was trying to hide anything … after all, I did loathe the guy, but I just didn’t see any reason to get Jay jealous about me talking, or studying with other guys.

  He talked for at least ten minutes about the Yankees game. Evidently one of the players, a Derek Jeter or something like that, hit a grand slam against the Texas Rangers to clinch a playoff spot for his beloved team. I really couldn’t have cared less. I never understood why he loved the damn Yankees so much anyways. We both grew up just an hour or so from Detroit and I had always rooted for the Tigers. Well, honestly, I didn’t really care all that much for baseball in general, but if someone asked I would cheer for the “Old English D.” I guess Jay just liked to be different and since he had a number of relatives living in the Bronx, he had adored the Yankees since he was pretty much still in Pampers.

  After hanging up, I decided to grab the latest issue of US Weekly before calling it a night. (Don’t judge me. … I enjoy my latest celebrity gossip). Cassidy was still over at her desk bopping her head to the beat of whatever bubblegum, boy band she was listening to and giggling at everything Sean Thompson tossed her way. I swear she was worse than a puppy about to get a Milk-Bone. If I listened closely enough I could probably hear her panting.

  I think I fell asleep somewhere between reading about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt’s honeymoon and the recent star athletes of the Sydney Olympics. I woke up the next morning with the crinkly magazine pages off to the side and my glasses still fixed on my face. Fuck what time is it? I looked at my clock and the red digits glared back that it was nine-fifty in the morning. NO! NO! NO! Class starts in ten minutes and I didn’t finish writing my article.

  I quickly ran to the bathroom: brushed my teeth, washed my face and tried to run a comb through my thick brown, tangled tresses. Since that didn’t seem to be working too well, I grabbed a scrunchie off the counter and twisted my hair into a half-knot on top of my head. Once I was finished in the bathroom, I ran to my wardrobe, grabbed a sports bra and cotton panties, threw on a
faded pair of jeans and one of Jay’s baseball T-shirts, and slipped on the same flip-flops as the previous night, before rushing out the door.

  I got to class right as Markley was taking roll call for the day. Good thing our classes all start at ten past the hour. It never really made any sense to me until today. I slipped into the empty seat next to Rich right before I heard Markley say, “Miss Anderson?”

  “Present,” I called out. Phew.

  “Here’s my article. Want to read it? We can trade,” Rich said, as he shoved some papers in my face.

  Fuck, I was so busy worrying about making it to class on time I forgot about the damn article. Think … you need an excuse Brooke. …

  “Sorry, Rich, I need until tomorrow. I want to head back to the library to do some more research before I let you see my draft. I want to make sure this is such a brilliant opinion that I even have you bowing down before me.” Ha! Eat that, jackass.

  “So, you flaked out and didn’t finish, huh? It’s OK, I figured you for the slacker-type anyways,” he harrumphed.

  “Whatever, don’t be an ass, it’s not due until tomorrow, anyways,” I shot back. “Take a chill pill, will ya? Where do you get off anyways? … What the fuck is your problem?” I couldn’t help spewing off a series of insults … He really did know how to get under my skin.

  “My problem is that I don’t have time for people who don’t take their work seriously, always so wrapped up in college drama. I came here to study and earn my degree so I can get a good job. People like you just waste my time.”

  “Talk to the hand,” I said in my best Alicia Silverstone impression. I know it was stupid and immature, but I was so exasperated with this guy that I didn’t have any snappy comeback for him. “I’ll have my assignment when it’s due – tomorrow.”

  I didn’t talk to him for the rest of the period; I just sat in the chair and stewed. I probably could have used the hour to write my damn opinion piece but this cocksucker really pissed me off. I wanted to smack him upside the head, but what I really didn’t want was for him to see the tears beginning to pool in my eyes. This guy would not get the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Finally, the clock above the door read eleven o’clock and I couldn’t get myself out of there fast enough.

  October 2001

  The following year, Rich and I began seeing eye-to-eye a bit more frequently. After that disastrous first writing assignment, we started working together more often on articles and even had some joint bylines run in our campus newspaper, the Eagle, during the spring semester. I still thought he could be a brownnosing cocksucker and he still thought I was a high-maintenance bitch, but our writing style suited each other’s so well. In fact, he even had to eat crow when my electoral vote theory did, in fact, hold true in the November 2000 presidential election.

  I think it might have been that incident that really changed the course of our friendship, or at the very least, our working relationship. Indeed, he even admitted that I had a knack for governmental reporting and that he could see me making it at the Washington Post – someday.

  I also realized, through my time spent with Rich, that he wasn’t necessarily trying to be an arrogant asshole. He was just intense and when he wanted something, he wanted it done right and he gave it 110 percent. I learned to embrace that quality in Rich instead of loathing it.

  I was still with Jay and still very much in love. But, let’s face it. He was four hundred and fifty miles away with no firm timetable for us being together in the same zip code. Rich was fun and I enjoyed spending time with him – most of the time anyways. You might actually say, we even often flirted back and forth. He knew my relationship status though, and never tried to cross over that line.

  We were both taking Professor Markley’s advanced journalism course that fall and had both been hired to work for the Eagle. He was in charge of the sports’ desk and I had taken over the duties as editor-in-chief. Each Monday and Tuesday night, after our classes and other obligations had ended for the evening, we would head over to the Eagle’s office, which was located on the top floor of the student union, and crank out that week’s edition.

  I remember one night, in particular, the office was buzzing with all the editors and reporters trying to get their final assignments completed before deadline. Rich kept eyeing me from his station, as I was talking with each editor about their pages. The radio was tuned to a pop rock station and Puddle of Mudd’s “Blurry” began playing over the speakers.

  “Hey Brooke, could you turn the radio up a notch? I really like this song,” Rich asked. “And, it’s message,” he added in an undertone, just loud enough for me to hear.

  It’s message. What is he talking about? I guess I had never really paid much attention to the lyrics before. It was then that I started to listen and I felt my entire world shift. Does Rich have feelings for me? Do I have feelings for Rich? Not possible, I love Jay. Focus Brooke, you have a paper to produce and it’s a deadline night.

  As hard as I tried to focus, it just didn’t seem possible. Rich kept sending me messages with those ocean-blue eyes of his. Damn those eyes. I just needed to get out of there and call Jay. Once I heard his sweet voice, I would forget all about Mr. Blue Eyes. Yep, keep telling yourself that, Brooke.

  “Earth to Brooke,” Rich said as he waved his hands in my face. “I need to snap a quick photo of the intramural basketball game before we send this puppy off to press. Want to walk down to the rec center with me?”

  “Uh, um, sure, yeah,” I stuttered out. “Sorry, I was focusing on this article. You surprised me.”

  Ugh, I really hope he buys that. Shit, Brooke, what the eff is your problem all of a sudden?

  Since it was a cool October evening, we both grabbed our sweatshirts (he sporting the University of Michigan and I wearing Michigan State University) and headed down to the lobby of the student union.

  “Spartan fan, huh? I always knew you seemed a bit off, Brooke.”

  “Whatever, you’re just worried that we’re gonna kick your Wolverine bootie next week!”

  “Hah, don’t count on it, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart, did he just call me sweetheart?

  I remember riding down in the elevator at what seemed like a snail’s pace. “Seriously, could this thing move any slower? It must know we are on a deadline, or something,” I snickered, trying to break the tension that had quickly formed between us.

  We finally made it to ground level and began our walk down to the basketball game. We were both quiet for awhile just enjoying each other’s company.

  “Nice night, isn’t it?” Rich said, breaking the silence first.

  “Mmmhmmm,” I whispered.

  I swear he moved closer to me and brushed his arm against mine. I felt a chill rush up and down my spine. How did this guy do this to me? It was only a year ago that I wanted him to fall and drown in a sewer somewhere.

  “Do you want to play a game?” he asked.

  “A game?” I questioned. “Sure, what do you have in mind, Rich?”

  “Truth, Dare, Double-Dare, Promise, or Repeat.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said between giggles. “Are we at a fourth-grade, slumber party now? How do you even know about that game?” I asked curiously.

  “My sister, Jennifer … she’s a few years older than I and her friends always wanted me to play with them at her sleepovers. I was like their little mascot, or something,” he said, smiling at the memory.

  In that moment, my heart softened a bit more where Rich Davis was concerned.

  “Sure, let’s play. I’ll start with a truth. Give it to me,” I dared.

  “Do you love your boyfriend?”

  Whoa, that is not what I was expecting. I was expecting something more like – Is your favorite color purple? These questions were a lot less serious when my girlfriends asked them nearly a decade ago. Why did he care if I loved Jay? Most importantly, why was I hesitating?

  “Did you hear me, Brooke?” he asked in a louder voice.
/>   “Yes, I heard you … and, yes, I love Jay.”

  “OK, repeat,” he said, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice.

  “Ooooh, OK, let me think. I need to make this a good one. … How about … Brooke Anderson is the most beautiful, brilliant and bodacious girl I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.”

  His Hollywood smile appearing, Rich erupted in a hysterical fit of laughter. “Bodacious?”

  “What? I was going for alliteration,” I shrugged. “Now repeat!”

  “That’s the best B-word you could come up with. How about bad ass, or babbling … because we all know that you sure do babble a lot,” he teased.

  “Whatever, just say it already, would you! Unless you’re giving up already,” I insisted.

  “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Brooke Anderson is the most beautiful, brilliant and bodacious girl I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing,” he repeated, stifling his laughter.

  “Damn straight! Now hit me with a dare.”

  “Kiss me,” he challenged.

  “Wh—What?”

  “You heard me. Kiss me,” he repeated.

  I couldn’t let Rich win. We were only in the second round. What kind of loser goes out in the second round of Truth, Dare, Double-Dare, Promise, or Repeat? I needed to think and think quickly – got it!

  I leaned over and gave Rich a quick, chaste peck on the cheek. After all, he didn’t specify where he wanted that kiss.

  “Nice one, you got me there. Now hit me with a dare,” he shot back.

  “Hmmm, OK. You know my feet are killing me. I think you should carry me the rest of the way to the rec center.”

  Before I knew it, Rich scooped me up in his arms and began carrying me down the steep hill that led to the college’s gymnasium.

  “That’s all you got, Beautiful? You’re making this way too easy on me.”

  “Whatever, I choose truth again,” I said, without missing a beat.

  “What’s your idea of a perfect date?” he asked.