one tree hill fic: here is a secret nobody knows
here is a secret nobody knows. one tree hill. brooke/lucas. pg 13. Sex and the City never warned her about this. She always thought Carrie should've chosen Aidan.
written for the lovely teenage ficathon
Lucas proposes to her. Brooke says no.
This is something she is both proud of and hates.
This is progress. She is not doomed to repeat her mistakes.
Peyton doesn't visit New York once.
The city has taken on a mean sort of look at night lately, for her. The clubs are boring. The lights are too bright and harsh and everyone looks clownish, exaggerated underneath them. Smiles turn into something scary, all those glinting back at her sharp from the strong set of a handsome jaw. Brooke spends most of her free time in her room, reading books that are written by people she never fell in love with.
She dates, a little. Peyton calls her once a week and talks about LA. Brooke doesn’t love New York the way she used to, but she can’t imagine surviving LA unscathed.
The men here are all different, Brooke tells her one night. The wine glass is full in her hands. She’s sleeping in Lucas’ old shirt. That, she doesn’t tell Peyton.
I know, Peyton groans from thousand of miles away, god, I miss Luke.
Brooke takes a sip of her wine. Peyton pauses on her end of the line.
Brooke says, I think that’s normal, P.
Peyton sighs. Brooke hears her play a song in the background and imagines her, her apartment in Venice covered wall to wall in records. There’s probably a beer bottle in her hands.
New York roars outside her window. Blair wishes for Tree Hill. Haley wouldn't let her wallow like this, but there's a reason she called Peyton.
I think I still love him, Peyton admits.
Brooke’s wine is almost gone.
She says, quietly, I think that’s normal, too.
Peyton whispers good night and hangs up the phone.
Brooke smokes now, sometimes. It is three o’clock in the morning, New York bustling and awake beneath the balcony of her 21st floor suite at the Ritz Carlton. She is drunk off of their finest bottle of red wine. The weather is crisp, the leaves on the trees red and orange even in the dark.
Victoria hates that she smokes. Brook lights up a second cigarette.
Her heels, one shiny metallic stem next to the other, wait lined up next to the door.
From inside, her phone rings. Brooke exhales slowly and ambles toward the phone, plugged in on the nightstand. She stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray and leaves it outside.
Lucas Scott, warns her phone.
Brooke doesn’t think twice before answering.
“Brooke Davis,” he drawls through the speaker. Brooke lets the little Southern traces of his accent sink in. All of the words coming from New York mouths sound so harsh sometimes.
“What are you doing up this late?”
His voice is heavy, thick with booze, and even now Lucas’ drink, whiskey neat, pops into Brooke’s head without notice.
She curls into her bed wearing the terrycloth robe that was hanging from the hook. Her wine glass sits empty on the desk and she stares at it blankly.
“Lucas Scott, I think the real question is, why are you calling me so late?”
“I missed you, is all. It’s been a while.”
Lucas says that like it doesn’t mean anything to him, like it won’t matter to her. Brooke is alone in New York and Lucas is not with Peyton and this is not what she meant when she gave him up.
“You know I miss you too, Luke,” she concedes, still cautious. She doesn’t give enough of herself for him to take. Growing up has its advantages.
Tree Hill seems so far away and she wonders if that’s where he is now, tucked into his room behind the red door, shooting hoops at the River Court. No one’s home right now except maybe Mouth and Skillz. Luke probably prefers it that way.
There’s only Luke’s breathing through the receiver. He sounds tired. Brooke wonders if he is thinking about Peyton, if that’s why he called. She doesn’t think he’d ask but he’s proven her wrong every time so far.
“I should go to bed,” he mutters, “sorry I’m such a drunk mess.”
Brooke sighs lightly and aims for teasing.
“What are we going to do with you, Luke?”
He laughs.
“I don’t know, Brooke. What are you going to do with me?”
It hangs there, in between them, for five long seconds. Brooke doesn’t want to cry but she feels overwhelmed, she feels exhausted.
“Luke,” she cautions. Her fingers pick at a loose thread on the sleeve of the stupidly expensive robe.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he stutters, so quick the words blend together in a rush. She wonders what his hair looks like these days. Hers is shorter than she ever wore it in high school.
“Brooke Davis, I will talk to you later,” Luke promises before swiftly hanging up.
Brooke falls asleep shortly after.
Her mouth tastes of cigarettes in the morning.
It takes two rounds of mouthwash and flossing to get the taste out.
She promises to quit.
There's a half empty pack of Marlboros in her nightstand still, though.
She is not doomed to repeat her mistakes, or so she tells herself.
written for the lovely teenage ficathon
Lucas proposes to her. Brooke says no.
This is something she is both proud of and hates.
This is progress. She is not doomed to repeat her mistakes.
Peyton doesn't visit New York once.
The city has taken on a mean sort of look at night lately, for her. The clubs are boring. The lights are too bright and harsh and everyone looks clownish, exaggerated underneath them. Smiles turn into something scary, all those glinting back at her sharp from the strong set of a handsome jaw. Brooke spends most of her free time in her room, reading books that are written by people she never fell in love with.
She dates, a little. Peyton calls her once a week and talks about LA. Brooke doesn’t love New York the way she used to, but she can’t imagine surviving LA unscathed.
The men here are all different, Brooke tells her one night. The wine glass is full in her hands. She’s sleeping in Lucas’ old shirt. That, she doesn’t tell Peyton.
I know, Peyton groans from thousand of miles away, god, I miss Luke.
Brooke takes a sip of her wine. Peyton pauses on her end of the line.
Brooke says, I think that’s normal, P.
Peyton sighs. Brooke hears her play a song in the background and imagines her, her apartment in Venice covered wall to wall in records. There’s probably a beer bottle in her hands.
New York roars outside her window. Blair wishes for Tree Hill. Haley wouldn't let her wallow like this, but there's a reason she called Peyton.
I think I still love him, Peyton admits.
Brooke’s wine is almost gone.
She says, quietly, I think that’s normal, too.
Peyton whispers good night and hangs up the phone.
Brooke smokes now, sometimes. It is three o’clock in the morning, New York bustling and awake beneath the balcony of her 21st floor suite at the Ritz Carlton. She is drunk off of their finest bottle of red wine. The weather is crisp, the leaves on the trees red and orange even in the dark.
Victoria hates that she smokes. Brook lights up a second cigarette.
Her heels, one shiny metallic stem next to the other, wait lined up next to the door.
From inside, her phone rings. Brooke exhales slowly and ambles toward the phone, plugged in on the nightstand. She stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray and leaves it outside.
Lucas Scott, warns her phone.
Brooke doesn’t think twice before answering.
“Brooke Davis,” he drawls through the speaker. Brooke lets the little Southern traces of his accent sink in. All of the words coming from New York mouths sound so harsh sometimes.
“What are you doing up this late?”
His voice is heavy, thick with booze, and even now Lucas’ drink, whiskey neat, pops into Brooke’s head without notice.
She curls into her bed wearing the terrycloth robe that was hanging from the hook. Her wine glass sits empty on the desk and she stares at it blankly.
“Lucas Scott, I think the real question is, why are you calling me so late?”
“I missed you, is all. It’s been a while.”
Lucas says that like it doesn’t mean anything to him, like it won’t matter to her. Brooke is alone in New York and Lucas is not with Peyton and this is not what she meant when she gave him up.
“You know I miss you too, Luke,” she concedes, still cautious. She doesn’t give enough of herself for him to take. Growing up has its advantages.
Tree Hill seems so far away and she wonders if that’s where he is now, tucked into his room behind the red door, shooting hoops at the River Court. No one’s home right now except maybe Mouth and Skillz. Luke probably prefers it that way.
There’s only Luke’s breathing through the receiver. He sounds tired. Brooke wonders if he is thinking about Peyton, if that’s why he called. She doesn’t think he’d ask but he’s proven her wrong every time so far.
“I should go to bed,” he mutters, “sorry I’m such a drunk mess.”
Brooke sighs lightly and aims for teasing.
“What are we going to do with you, Luke?”
He laughs.
“I don’t know, Brooke. What are you going to do with me?”
It hangs there, in between them, for five long seconds. Brooke doesn’t want to cry but she feels overwhelmed, she feels exhausted.
“Luke,” she cautions. Her fingers pick at a loose thread on the sleeve of the stupidly expensive robe.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he stutters, so quick the words blend together in a rush. She wonders what his hair looks like these days. Hers is shorter than she ever wore it in high school.
“Brooke Davis, I will talk to you later,” Luke promises before swiftly hanging up.
Brooke falls asleep shortly after.
Her mouth tastes of cigarettes in the morning.
It takes two rounds of mouthwash and flossing to get the taste out.
She promises to quit.
There's a half empty pack of Marlboros in her nightstand still, though.
She is not doomed to repeat her mistakes, or so she tells herself.