AN: Yeah, I'm alive. I know a few people are expecting an update for the ROA, but real life and lack of inspiration have been a bitch–it'll come, though. I am working on it. This just popped up into my head and wrote itself. I guess it's an alternate season 7…kind of. It includes a fun-party Brooke, a non-pussy whipped Clay, a never-married-Dan Rachel, and some Brucas coming soon… I'm actually not sure if this will be a Lucas/Brooke or Clay/Brooke. You guys weigh in on that.

Please tell me whatcha think, dudes.

The Bonfire of the Vanities

-xx-

Damaged

Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.

—Josephine Hart

-xx-

It's a fifteen past twelve and Brooke Davis is still safely asleep in her huge platform bed.

Outside her house, worn out Chucks slide a large potted plant aside to reveal a spare key. The light-haired brunette unlocks the front door and lets himself inside easily, as if this is completely the norm, and he does it all the time.

"Brookie D.!" He calls out, kicking off his sneakers as he shrugs off his coat, "Wake up! Your favorite Boy Toy has arrived."

The brunette turns around in her bed, burrows her head under a fluffy pillow to drown out the unwanted noise. "Fuck off…" She mutters half-heartedly.

The bedroom door flies open to reveal Clayton Evans leaning cockily against the doorframe, hands tucked neatly into his pants' pockets.

He wolf-whistles at the sight: A deep crimson duvet covers the brunette goddess' voluptuous body looking like fire against her perfect porcelain skin.

"Shit," he exclaims, "Please tell me you're naked under there."

This doesn't amuse the fashionista as much as he thought it would. She kicks off the cover to reveal a pair of short-shorts and a ratty top. "No such luck, lover," she turns around to face him, still refusing to get up, "What're you doing here?"

"Had a couple of early meetings today — Nate says hi, by the way, and Hales sends her never-ending concern." He relays the messages, scooting her over and lying down next to her.

At this, Brooke opens one eye, says, "Gee, I'm touched," before resuming her attempts at recapturing her sleep.

Since her break-up with movie producer extraordinaire Julian Baker, Haley had been hounding her nonstop.

Made annoying comments such as: "He was a good one, Brooke." and "He could have been THE one."

However, the facts didn't change. They'd dated. They'd parted amicably. They still cared for each other.

But more than that: He'd loved her too much. She hadn't loved him enough. It would've never worked out. Brooke is certain of this.

Still, Haley particularly disapproves of the brunette's newfound friendship with Clay. She issues her multiple warnings:

He's a player.

He's just a charming, self-important man-child.

He likes to change women out of simple boredom.

He's not a healthy way to move on from a failed relationship.

But Brooke fails to see it that way: Clayton Evans is just a little damaged.

It's no big deal, she figures, since she's pretty damaged, too.

They can be damaged together.

Besides, there's something about him that intrigues her–and he has intrigued her from the second they met. Like the most interesting of friendships, theirs starts on a dare...

-xx-

It's about a week after she's broken up with Julian, and she's back to doing what she does best: working and drinking. Not necessarily in that order.

Brooke sits alone at the bar at TRIC. She's drunk enough that Chase's god-awful drinks are actually drinkable when this guy sits on they stool next to hers.

"You look familiar," he says, a coy grin playing on his lips.

"Probably seen me in the cover of a magazine. I seem to be fucking everywhere lately."

The media's been publicizing the shit out of the Brulian Break-up and it's really beginning to be a pain in her pilates-perfect ass.

The guy shakes his head, "Nope. More like Nathan and Haley's wedding picture." He says, extends a hand out to her, "I'm Clayton Evans—Clay. I'm Nate's agent."

Brooke shakes his hand, "Nice to meet you, Clayton 'Clay' Evans. I'm Brooke Davis. I'm Nate's friend." She says, "Wanna a drink? It's on me."

"Sure. I make it a rule never to turn down a beautiful woman who offers me booze," Clay replies, and she immediately knows that smirky-smile must've bedded plenty of other women before. "What's good here?"

Brooke chugs down what's left of her drink, and she manages to do so gracefully. "Nothing," she answers, "Bartender's shit. Whatever you order, take it straight."

As if beckoned, Chase Adams pops up, flipping a bar rag over his shoulder, "What can I get ya?"

"Two shots of Patrón." Tequila's always been his drink.

Brooke pouts those luscious red lips in thought, "Sounds good," she concludes, "Make that four, Ace. Put 'em on my tab."

It's a drink simple enough even for Chase and he quickly pulls out the four shot glasses, fills them to the brim.

"Patrón. Four shots." Chase announces, placing four lemon slices and a saltshaker in front of them along with the tequila. "Cheers."

Clay's cobalt blue eyes widen in surprise (and lust) as he watches the tiny brunette expertly lick the salt off her hand, down the two shots in a row, and then suck the shit out of the lemon slice without so much as a wince.

This chick's a pro, he concludes.

Clay forces himself to swallow the drool. He eyes her carefully, "Shoots it straight," he comments, clearly impressed, "My kinda woman." He downs his own shots, smirks at her daringly, "Another round?"

"Trying to get me drunk?" Brooke raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow questioningly.

Clay licks his lips, "You've already done that without me, baby." He says, "I'm just trying to catch up."

It's written in his face, it's in the way his eyes keep darting towards her cleavage when he thinks she isn't looking, and the not-so-subtle way he continues to ply her with alcohol. Everything inside Brooke screams it at her: This boy is trouble, the little voice in her head warns.

She knows she should walk away, but she merely tilts her head amused. "I'm not about to make it easy for you, sunshine. Four more, Ace!" she calls out.

"Make that six, bro." Clay amends, never looking away from her enticing hazel eyes. This chick may be goddess-like gorgeous and drink like the best of them, but he can fucking match her. Of this he is sure. "I catch up quick." He adds with a shrug.

-xx-

A week after what becomes known as the infamous TRIC Drinking Binge, Clay walks into the C-o-B store looking sinfully gorgeous in his Diesel jeans and Armani button down. "Hey, Sugarpop," he greets, "Been a while."

The brunette tears her eyes away from her sketchpad, a smile tugging at her lips, "And what brings you around my corner of the Hill?"

"Nothing much, just missing that perfect body of yours," Clay answers casually, "And it just so happens I have a business meeting in the Big Apple today. Thought you might wanna make a quickie getaway. It'll be fu-u-un." He tempts. Knows full well he should be keeping his distance.

"This girl, she's family, Clay." Nathan had warned him a few days ago upon hearing of their night at TRIC. "I know you like to screw anything with a pulse, but back off. I mean it."

Brooke Davis is officially off limits to Clay Evans.

That's what makes her even more fucking irresistible.

"Can't. Work." She raises her sketchpad as evidence of this fact.

Like a petulant child who will not be denied, Clay slides the pad out of her hands, "Cab's outside. Flight leaves in an hour. And your ticket's paid for. It's only a day. Hasn't there ever been a time when you've done what you've wanted rather than what's good for ya?" he asks almost tauntingly.

"As a matter of fact, that kind of thing used to be my specialty." Brooke replies with an almost nostalgic look, then she shakes her head, snapping out of it. "But I've grown out of the self-indulgent phase of my life. Downside of growing up and all that."

"C'mon," he leans in, his warm breath tickling her skin as he whispers in her ear, "Take a risk, baby. It's good for you." His tone's husky and seductive—not to mention that he's gorgeous, tempting and pretty damn close to irresistible.

"All right, Agent Boy," she agrees, grabs her purse from behind the counter, "Take me away."

Clay grins that smirky-grin, "Trust me, baby, it'll be your pleasure."

The day's spent bumming around the city. He takes her to meet up with one of his clients and she takes him to Clothes-Over-Bros Company Headquarters —where they avoid her mother like the plague, and end up running out one of the Emergency Exits.

They're strolling arm in arm down Central Park, passing around what's left of a bottle of Jack they bought from some dude on a corner, when they spot this guy.

Brooke's meticulous designer eye immediately identifies what he's wearing—large Wayfarers, which give him an air of mystery, and a grey Fioravanti suit, no tie. She also notes that he's fucking hot. Between that walk and that grin, women must've automatically spread their legs for him.

But most surprisingly, Clay seems to know the guy.

"Baze!" Clay greets as they do the half-hug-shoulder-bumping thing guys seem to think is always an appropriate greeting. "Been a long fucking time, bro."

The guy—Baze, if that's his real name—nods, grinning from ear to ear. "It certainly has," he agrees, "Do not call me Baze, Evans, or I'll be forced to reveal your nickname."

"Well, fuck you very much," replies Clay, turns to face Brooke: "This," he tells her, "Is Carter Baizen. He was my roommate down at Dartmouth for less than a semester before dropping off the radar once more to burn through his father's bank account. Baze, this is—"

But Carter cuts him off, reaches for the brunette's hand, "Brooke Davis," he says, pressing a kiss to her hand. "A woman who needs no introduction."

Clay raises an eyebrow in interest—what the fuck is it about this chick? He can't put his finger on it yet, but he's beyond impressed, and turned on doesn't even begin to touch what's coursing through his body at the moment. "Fuckin' hell, Sugarpop," he exclaims, a half-grin on his lips, "You're famous."

Brooke and Carter chuckle at his surprise. What did he expect? This is New York. For four years, this was her city. It still is.

"Come on, Beautiful," Carter says, "My girl's got a party tonight at the Empire—and I can show you a much better time than Clayton ever could. Shall we?" he asks, offering her his arm.

The brunette ponders it for a second—the guy's taken, quite clearly just wants to fuck with Clay's head. Yep. She can do that.

"We shall." Brooke answers, linking her arm through Carter's as they walk towards the exit.

Clay lets out a scoff of dismay—Holy Cockblock, Batman!—when Carter calls out: "C'mon, dickweed! You're invited, too."

The brunette's cobalt blue eyes narrow: "A'ight, that's how it is. Little fucker's gonna pay for that one." He mutters as he trots to catch up to them. He stands on the other side of Brooke, effectively pinning the petite brunette in between them, and slings one of his toned arms around her shoulders. It's his way of marking his territory.

Brooke can read the gesture's significance in his face: "This one's mine. And I don't want you to even think about playing with my girl."

She thinks about telling him that no one plays with her without her explicit consent, but thinks better of it. It's been a while since a guy's wanted her this way, and it does have its perks.

All eyes immediately land on her when she walks into the Empire with two of the city's most eligible bachelors hanging from her arms.

They meet Carter's fabulous girlfriend, mingle, drink and dance. Party goes on till about three then they decide to get a suite. The owner of the penthouse is out of town on business, and he's Carter's girl's stepbrother so they have the whole place to themselves: pool table, poker table, plasma and the most extensive collection of scotch known to man.

Welcome to a night of expensive decadence, frivolous spending, and copious consumption of legal (and some illegal) substances.

Next day, it's Haley who picks them up at Tree Hill Airport. She takes one look at them, immediately notices the obvious things: they're both wearing yesterday's clothes, albeit much more disheveled than they'd been before. Brooke's not wearing a bra. Clay's shirt is missing all but one of its buttons. And then there's the unmistakable stench of alcohol, which seems to be emanating out of their every pore.

Haley watches her brunette best friend kick off her heels and perch her feet on the dashboard of the Range Rover. Never taking her eyes off the road, she extends her right hand to pull the large tortoiseshell Ferragamos off the brunette's face.

"HEY!" whines Brooke, winces away from the light, "The fuck, Hales?"

"Dammit, Brooke!" Haley reprimands after taking one look at the brunette's bloodshot eyes, "What the hell are you doing? Where exactly did you two disappear to yesterday?"

In the backseat, Clay merely throws his head back and chuckles at the scene playing out in front of him.

"And you," Haley glares at him through the rearview mirror, "You can shut up, Clayton! I know you like to screw around carelessly, but there's no need to drag Brooke down with you."

This goes on for what feels like forever to the hungover duo. It's in fact the longest car ride ever, especially with all that pounding hitting Brooke's temples in time with Haley's screams of protest and disapproval.

The copper-haired mother drops them off at Clothes-Over-Bros. Truthfully, she didn't want to leave them there together, especially in their current states, but they're adults—or at least they're supposed to be.

And anyway, she's never had any control over what either Brooke or Clay do—they're both the very definition of 'untamable'.

The pair stands at the sidewalk, wave Mother Scott goodbye, then burst out laughing as soon as she's out of sight.

The motherly concern is fucking hilarious and they're still a little buzzed.

Brooke leans her head on his broad shoulder, "Thanks for the trip, sunshine." The 'I needed to get away' went unsaid, but most definitely not unheard.

"Brooke Davis," Clay eyes her seriously, "I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship."

Casablanca is one of her favorite movies, so she appreciates the reference.

"Clayton Evans," Brooke replies, her tone equally serious, "I wholeheartedly concur."

-xx-

To this day, Brooke still isn't quite sure why she hasn't just told Haley that she's never fucked Clay.

Probably because Haley wouldn't approve either way, and the less she knows the better.

Clay wolf-whistles, snaps his fingers, "Earth to B. Davis," he says, "I asked if you got your cell charger in here?" he asks, busting her out of her thoughts, his hand already roaming her bottom bedside drawer. "My battery is nearly dead."

Her bottom bedside drawer is the one full of the Ghosts of Boyfriends (And Girl Friends) Past—the one that has the remains of her on-and-off thing with Lucas, the sketches of her sometimes reckless youth with Peyton, photos and movie stubs from her short-lived relationship with Julian, amongst other less meaningful relationships.

Clay pulls out one of the photographs in the top pile and turns it over. The back reads: Peyton, Luke & Sawyer B. Canberra, Australia. "Do you not find it even slightly creepy that this kid looks so much like you?" he asks.

Brooke sits up, stares at the picture in Clay's hand for a few seconds. That fact is most certainly not lost on her.

Contrary to everyone's expectations, Sawyer Brooke Scott's hair never lightened into strawberry blonde curls, but rather darkened into a light chestnut and remained only slightly wavy.

That, and her fair complexion make the kid look like mini version of Brooke.

"I have not seen that kid since about a week after she was born, when her parents jetted off to the other side of the world and left Tree Hill behind." Brooke answers, placing the picture back in the drawer and closing it, "My charger's in the kitchen."

Clay raises an eyebrow skeptically, "Excellent dodge, B."

In just a few short months, Clay has become an expert on all things B. Davis: the fucking-gorgeous-extremely-hypnotizing dimples that show up when she smiles, the way she kinks her eyebrows, the freckles on the small of her back, the way she avoids talking of the pair of brooding blondes or any of her ex-boyfriends for that matter.

"Fuck off, C." Brooke counters easily. She stands up the bed, ready to jump off the wooden platform and head for the bathroom, away from that conversation.

But Clay's bigger and faster, so he snakes a hand behind her knees to trip her. Her taut body lands atop of his softly and he has to smirk at that. "Easy, Gorgeous—have I called you 'Gorgeous' before? If not, it was purely an oversight." He says, his cobalt eyes burrowing into her hazel ones, "Don't run outta bed yet. I hate to be left alone."

Brooke rolls her eyes at the pick-up line—if she were any other girl, she'd have fallen for that hook, line, and sinker. But she's Brooke-fucking-Davis. Instead, she leans down to give him a kiss on the lips—a reward for the solid effort.

Clay wastes no time, brings up a hand to cup the back of her head, his fingers getting tangled in silky-smooth cascading locks of chocolate-colored hair.

Her lips are soft and warm against his own.

His other hand quickly slides down to her ass.

She giggles against his mouth, kisses him again, presses their lips together harder.

This is as far as she ever lets him get: a kiss, a feel, a few seconds.

"Points for efforts," Brooke declares, sliding off of him and trotting off towards the bathroom.

Clay stays dazed for a couple of seconds—the things Brooke Davis did with those lips were unparalleled—before following her into the bathroom.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching her agile fingers combing through her hair. "Y'know, I feel used." He pouts endearingly, "I wish you would use me more."

Brooke smiles that smile that must've broken a thousand hearts. "But then who would I hang out and bitch about boys with?"

"There's always Rachel."

The brunette shakes her head, "She's not as fun now that she doesn't party." She says, "You're my friend, sunshine—without the benefits."

Clay groans as if he's in profound pain, but then grins: "I guess I can live with that." He hums, "I do have a question, though, blonde chick in the picture, is that Peyton Scott?"

Brooke succinctly nods, "Née Sawyer." She says, a slight trace of bitterness behind her tone, "Why the sudden interest?"

"Not interest," amends Clay, "Mild curiosity. Rach has told me plenty of stories about Peyton Scott–née Sawyer," he immediately adds, "Just wanted to put a face to the name, that's all. There are no pictures of her around the Naley house."

"One of the great mysteries of life, I'm sure." Brooke says feigning interest.

The truth is, since they'd left, it was easier to put the couple out of sight, out of mind.

Clay rolls his eyes, "Lovely attitude, as always, darling," he says offhand, "Get dressed. I want food—not your shitty attempts at cooking. Something edible. Let's go to Mel's."

-xx-

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, the seams of the Scott/Sawyer marriage finally start to unravel.

It all starts with a drunken revelation:

"Senior Year of high school, I told Brooke that I loved you. That I was still in love with you."

That is the one tiny pebble that created a huge motherfucking ripple.

The Scott/Sawyer Family is spending their last night in Madrid, Spain. After travelling all throughout Europe with Karen, Andy and Lily, they have finally decided it was time to go home.

To them, home means Tree Hill, North Carolina.

And so, on their final eve in Spain, the couple decides to crack open a bottle of La Rioja's finest wine.

The intoxicating grape juice flowing freely throughout the curly blonde's veins and an overwhelming feeling to discuss the good ol' days bring about the topic of old relationships.

That's how the Cheery Brunette with the world's most perfect smile comes into the conversation.

And that's how one life-changing revelation finally sees the light of day: "Senior Year of high school, I told Brooke that I loved you. That I was still in love with you."

"What?" The brooder is perplexed, to say the least.

Peyton sighs, twirls a curl between her dainty fingers, "God, I think it was the night of Nathan and Haley's rehearsal dinner…" she lets her voice trail off, allowing the memory to come back to her, "I wanted to be honest, so I told her. It seems like a lifetime ago now."

Lucas isn't exactly sure why this fact bothers him so much. Nevertheless, he felt that The Why is neither here nor there—what does matter is that he's fucking pissed off about it.

And he lets her know it.

"HOW IN THE HELL COULD YOU HAVE KEPT THAT FROM ME!" he bellows, at the top of his lungs. Thank God Sawyer sleeps like log.

Peyton crinkles her nose in confusion, "Shh! Keep it down!" she urges, "Sawyer's sleeping. Why are you getting so agitated about this?"

This was nothing. Just something that tumbled out of her mouth while they discussed high school under the haze of the wine.

"W-why?" he lets out an angry chuckle, "WHY? Because you've lied to me for seven fucking years, that's why!"

Lately, their relationship has been strained at best. They haven't had sex in months, and he can barely tolerate talking to her because all the emotional baggage and whining have finally gotten old. This is just the drop that tips over the glass.

He yells.

She cries.

He demands an explanation.

She only offers him substandard excuses.

It's the longest flight in history.

Welcome back to fuckin' Tree Hill.

-xx-

Rachel Gatina arrives at the fashionista's house bright and early. There's a blonde-haired baby boy in her arms, a diaper bag on one shoulder and her purse on the other, which makes retrieving the key under the pot a little harder, but not impossible.

Once inside, Rachel throws her bags on the living room table, and settles down on the couch with her baby boy. "Whore!" she yells, "Get your ass out here! Where the fuck are you?"

The baby in her arms coos at her, and she's not sure if it's in reprimand for her bad language or amusement.

Rachel loves her son, but since he's started learning to talk he's been like a parrot repeating everything he hears. "Ooh! Please don't repeat that, sweetie," the redhead pleads with her 14-month-old son. "You shouldn't talk like Mommy, okay?"

The boy blinks at her with his dark brown eyes and utters a single word: "Fuck."

Most mothers would be horrified, but Rachel grinns at her son somewhat proudly. "A'ight, baby," she says, "Might as well learn it at home."

Brooke trots down the stairs, "I'm here, bitch, quit complaining." She says, plopping herself down onto an armchair. "My baby boy!" she claps in excitement, taking the fair-haired baby in her arms, "Hey, Jax, did you miss me?"

"I hate it when ya'll call him Jax."

"Tough shit." Answers Brooke, "He likes it—he knows that's his name."

"I still fuckin' hate it." Replies Rachel curtly.

Brooke rolls her eyes, "To which I repeat: tough shit."

As Rachel watches her best friend play with her son—her son, over a year and it still feels surreal to say the word—she realizes just how far she's come.

-xx-

A year ago, just after Lucas and Peyton jetted off, Rachel had come blazing back through Tree Hill like a tornado.

She's one year sober and seven months pregnant when she shows up at Brooke's front door. All her belongings fit inside a large duffel bag that hangs from her shoulder and she has an envelope full of cash to pay Brooke back all the money she'd taken before.

Because Brooke is Brooke, she forgives the redhead for before—she knew that had mostly been Victoria's doing, anyways—and she puts the cash in a college fund for the kid. It takes less than 24 hours for the redhead to settle into the guest bedroom and just like that, they're roommates again.

Two months later, Jackson Thomas Gatina is born.

Rachel is officially a mom.

Brooke is a godmother—again.

And they are both grown-ups. This time for real.

Then along comes Clay. He takes an instant liking to the redhead and brings the kid freebies from all the sport teams his clients play for. He also wastes no time in naming Rachel Gatina the Hottest MILF in History.

Neither Brooke nor Rachel had ever had much in the family department, but their Two Girls, a Man & a Baby arrangement blossoms into its own particular family dynamic, and they're all grateful for it.

-xx-

It's then that Clay waltzes down the stairs, boxer-clad and groggy, his hair sticking out in all directions. "The fuck's goin' on?" he asks no one in particular rubbing the back of his head. "How'd I get here, and I how come I can't find my pants?"

Rachel and Brooke exchange looks before busting out laughing.

"I haven't a clue, but you look better without pants, anyways." Answers the redhead, and even Jackson lets out a chuckle.

Clay stretches his toned arms over his head as he lets out a yawn. "How's my man, Jax?" he picks the baby out of the brunette's lap and bounces him in air. "Y'know, you're pretty handsome, kid. Must've gotten it from your old man, but your Ma won't spill who it is. She's holding out on us, and that shit ain't cool, little man."

Any time someone mentions the subject of Jackson's dad, Rachel clams up. She also gets really pissed. "Fuck off, Clayton," she hisses almost venomously, "Hand me my kid." She cradles her son against her chest, storms out of the living room, heads upstairs. "Fuckin' prick."

Brooke slams a cushion against his head, "Why'd you go and do that for?" She asks, her voice raspy.

"Hey, I was just askin'," Clay shrugs a shoulder casually—they've had the argument countless times. "She's gotta drop that bomb at some point, and–"

Haley's voice resonates throughout the house, effectively cutting Clay off. "I am walking into the den of iniquity," she calls out, "I have Jamie with me, everybody damn well better be clothed and presentable."

Jamie runs into the living room ahead of her, jumps into Brooke's lap. His seventh birthday's tomorrow, and the party's all planned out. Brooke and Rachel got him a killer gift, and Clay's been working out the details of some big surprise. Jamie then scampers off upstairs to see Rachel and Jax.

Brooke laughs, it's still a wonder why it is that Jamie likes Rachel so much. "What brings you around my humble abode, Tutor Mom?"

"We need to talk." Haley announces.

Clay smirks, "Ominous, much?"

Haley flashes him the maternal-disappointment glare she saves especially for him, "Shouldn't you be down at the studio right about now? Nathan's shooting that add today, remember?"

Clay jumps up so fast he gets a bitch of a head rush—he rubs a hand against his temples, swears to give up scotch. He starts grabbing his shit off the floor. He yanks his button down off the ceiling fan, finds one shoe, then the other one. Looks around frantically for his jeans. "Seriously, B, we can play Hide My Pants later—where the fuck are they?"

Brooke chuckles, "Drier." She wasn't hiding them. The knucklehead had puked on them last night so she had to throw them in the wash.

In seconds, Clay runs out of the front door sliding on his jeans and buttoning up his shirt as he goes.

"Hide My Pants," repeats Haley with a mortified frown, "Is that some sort of kinky sex game you two play?"

Brooke rolls her eyes, "He puked last night. Get your mind out of the gutter. What's the real reason for this visit, Hales? I know it's not just to pass judgment on what we do on our spare time."

"As a matter of fact, it's not just for that, but what fun would it be if I didn't?" replies Haley. Both friends stare at each other for a second before bursting out laughing. The copper-haired mother wraps an arm around her brunette friend and hugs her tight, "Are you three behaving at least, if only for the sake of Jax?"

Brooke sighs, "Hales," she says, her tone turning serious, "I know you haven't exactly approved of these last few months. And I know you were disappointed when Julian and I broke up, but I'm good—we're all good. Rae and Jax are settled into the new apartment, he's an awesome little boy. Rach's doing good, too—no drugs, no drinking, no nothing. As for Clay and me…I know you think he's a bad influence, but he's good. He watches out for Rach and for me. He's a male influence for Jax. Trust me, we make do just fine."

While all her regular concerns are still there, the sincerity of Brooke's assurances quells them, if only for a while. She lets out a small sigh of relief, "I trust you, Tigger." She uses the nickname she hasn't used for her in years, "Um, I'm also here because I just got some news. Lucas called."

Brooke feels like her heart stops for a beat. It's been a year and two months since Luke and Peyton fled Tree Hill, and she's put a lot of time and effort into pushing both blondes to the back of her mind. But even then, it isn't so much that he'd called that surprises her. It's the way Haley has announced it, in a tone that means nothing good.

"He, Peyton and Sawyer are flying down for Jamie's birthday. They'll be here tomorrow." Haley continues, "Um, apparently they're having some marital issues right now. It sounded serious. Peyton was having a bitch of a fit."

Brooke licks her lips, "They're coming back?"

"Yeah," Haley nods, "I just thought you should know. In case Peyton pops up around here or something," Haley clears her throat, "Um, I should go. Final touches on the birthday party. I'll go grab Jamie."

Brooke nods, "Okay, Hales," she says, "Um…I hope things work out."

"Yeah, I do, too. I'll see you tomorrow, Tigg," Haley stands up, gathers her purse, "James!" she calls out, "Get your butt down here, we're leaving!"

Jamie scampers down the stairs, kisses Brooke goodbye and off they go.

Rachel comes down the stairs a few minutes later. "Jax asleep?" asks Brooke, noticing the boy's not in her arms. The redhead nods in response, seats on the couch next to her. She pauses for a second then adds: "Heard Pucas and the spawn are coming back to town."

Brooke narrows her eyes, "How'd you hear that?"

"Jamie, dude," replies the redhead matter-of-factly, "Kid knows everything about everything… How you feeling about it?"

The brunette pouts her red lips in thought. Rachel eyes her friend curiously, waits for an answer.

"I'm feeling…" Brooke starts, pauses, "That it'll be trouble."

-xx-

The Naley backyard is full of little kids running around, tables are littered around the yard with food and presents. The parents are lingering on the sidelines eating the finger food and watching their little ones play.

Nate and Clay are hanging around the food table munching on Haley's special cookies, arguing over next year's contracts.

Brooke and Rachel sit by the pool, dip their toes in the warm water, and finish up a pitcher of homemade lemonade.

"Sad that this is the wildest party I've been to this week." Comments the redhead.

Brooke only laughs at the comment, then the Birthday Boy walks over to them.

Jamie's over the moon because Haley's older sister, Quinn James, showed up to surprise him. "Aunt Quinn is here," Jamie announces with a smile, "She surprised me with cake."

Clay's smirk widens, "Last time a girl surprised me with cake–"

"Let's open gifts!" Cuts in Haley, glaring at Clay.

Still, it's Clay's gift that's the coolest of them all: Jerry Rice shows up, signs jerseys, and puts on a pretty good show for the kids.

Clay and Quinn are arguing sports, and it's interesting to watch.

"Listen, the Bobcats have no depth in the backcourt so get this guy paid, Jerry Maguire."

Now, Clay finds Quinn hot—which translated from Clay-English into normal English means she's fuckable, and he wouldn't mind being the one who fucks her. Which is why he humors her, "Jerry Maguire, huh?"

Nathan laughs, puts him in a headlock to give him a playful noogie, "Hands off, dude," he warns, "Quinnie's married."

Rachel, Brooke, and even Quinn laugh at the boys' pre-school antics.

-xx-

When Lucas Scott walks in he goes pretty unnoticed by most.

The kids and most of the adults are engrossed in a touch football game with Jerry Rice.

The Brooder takes a look at the game, spots Brooke and Rachel playing, and a smile tugs at his lips.

They've got Brooke at QB. He can hear her yell out: "Hut, hut, hike!" Watches her run around uncoordinatedly, waving the ball wildly in the air over her head, completely oblivious about how the game's supposed to be played. It's about the cutest thing ever.

Then an entirely different feeling tugs at his heart. Suddenly, looking at her he doesn't see just a sexy brunette—beautiful, brilliant, brave. She's something else entirely now.

The Road Not Taken: another history, another future, another chance, another fate entirely — infinite POSSIBILITIES. She's now a glimpse into another life entirely.

He wonders if it's the life he should've lived—the life he should be living.

"Luke!"