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Brooke Lynn is panicking. It’s a change from the usual, he notes. He adds it to the Filofax in his brain like you would add something to a shopping list, the act surprisingly casual for the situation. The air must be getting lost on the way to his lungs because they are empty as he is dry-heaving in a bathroom somewhere in a studio in California. It all seems too foreign; the location, the smell of paint on set walls - but not the anxiety. That feels oddly familiar, creeping around him like the ghost of an ex-lover. It fits him like a glove or those worn socks you only throw away when they’re more hole than cloth.
He is panicking and he is disassociating from his surroundings. His entire world feels like he’s looking at it through the bottom of a glass. It’s semi rotated, haphazardly zoomed in on if he looks for too long and in all honesty, he does not feel like he is there. When he rests his tear-stricken face on the cool porcelain, the redness of his cheeks reflected in the shiny white, he feels like he is watching himself from the outside. He thinks back to his conversation with Vanjie, tries to picture his own happiness in the moment - just like his therapist taught him. He remembers what Vanessa said to him, ‘ Bitch count to 25, if not 30. My ass had to count to 40 the other night. Don’t freak yourself out.’ If he thinks hard enough, really tries to place himself there, he can hear the candour of her voice, the way their pet names rolled of her tongue like caramel.
1. He takes a deep breath in.
2. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on her. He picks the wrong image.
3. He realises that all that is doing is increase his heart rate, he tries to think of something calmer.
4. He settles on his favourite part of the conversation.
‘Who are you gonna do’
‘I think I'm going to do Celine Dion’
‘Celine Dion’
‘Yeahhh’
‘Is that your final answer?’
5. Take a deep breath.
6. Her laugh.
7. The way she fell onto him, grounding him.
8. The weight of her head on his shoulder.
9. That stupid cap.
10. That kind of cute cap.
11. That kiss on the cheek that just made him melt.The speed of it. Like she was afraid everyone would see, which was hilarious because they were all watching in the mirror like the voyeurs they are. If he’d looked up, he knew he would have seen Nina’s big dumb face with her big dumb smile, cheering him on.
12. The quiet hum of the razor
13. The quietness of Vanessa's voice.
14. The way she is only quiet with him and it is nice and calm and pure unrefined Jose because that's what he needs in the moment so that's what she’s going to give him.
15. The honest to god good advice she gave.
16. The look of pity and fear in her eyes when they realised they might lipsync against each other.
don't cry
deep breath
try again
17. The way she looked at him when she knew he had fucked up and they hadn't even started.
deep breath
18. How she’d held him, watched him split apart at the seams and boldly held him together because god what else was she supposed to do. He fell apart in her arms and she supported him through it until he could stand without feeling like the ground was about to fall from under him, and he loved her for it. With a heart-bursting, gut-wrenching love.
19. The way she looked when they both realised he would be in the bottom. He could have all the confidence in the world in her, but they both knew what he’d done was irredeemable.
20. The way she looked when he slayed the runway. When he walked for his life as a prelude to the lipsync. When he’d tried to retroactively fix his mistakes. When Ru and Michelle had gagged, truly gagged.
21. The way she looked when she found out Brooke was going to lipsync.
22. The way she looked when she found out she wouldn't be.
23. The look of genuine, pure unadulterated joy on her face when him and Yvie were both declared safe.
deep breath
24. Lift your head from the stall door.
25. Try to remember why you're panicking in the first place.
As he reaches twenty-five, mind coming together to form a semi-coherent thought, the entrance to the bathroom opens. ‘Baby,’ calls the voice belonging to the short shadow peeking under the door. It’s a voice he would recognise anywhere and as he pushes open the stall (which he realises was never locked to begin with) he drinks in the man ahead of him. Her skin is a warm colour under the harsh lighting and it reminds him of hugs and the smell of sandalwood and apple cider. Her mouth is still outlined in a reddish nude and despite the lack of glitter in his outfit, her face glows a pleasant gold. Even in his haze, he thinks she is beautiful.
He struggles to find his footing, somewhere between a baby giraffe and a child on the ice, he grips the wall until he finds a standing position. All the grace and poise beaten into him by years of ballet appear to leave him as he stumbles on his way to the sink, cranks the faucet onto the highest pressure (cold of course) and attempts to wash the tears and sweat from his face. She just watches, waits. She knows what he needs and he is grateful for the lack of crowding. Brooke wants all of the oxygen he can get and he swears half the air is sucked out of his lungs whenever she gets too close.
Once he’s deemed himself clean of all the evidence, when his cheeks aren’t streaked with mascara and tears, when his eyes are no longer red and puffy - he slowly walks over to her. He is testing his balance, trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other, like he did before the hurricane struck. When he reaches her, he engulfs her in a hug. Her head burrows into his chest and he gingerly rests his own forehead in the crook of her neck. She smells like freshly baked cookies and a well-lit fire. Like flannel blankets and stability. The hug feels like his home, and he hopes he can keep coming back. He needs to keep coming back to her.