We Are Nowhere and It's Now

By: caramelo

I do not own One Tree Hill or anything related to it.

Brooke Davis was a party girl.

She smoked, and she drank, and she shimmered, shimmered, shimmered under the glow of that cheesy old disco ball in the middle of the bar floor.

She shamelessly made out with the hottest boys from her school, the rival school, and the local junior college. Tongues clashed, and fingers roamed underneath shirts, and people watched, but she just didn't care. In fact, she basked under the attention, laughing loud and hard and on occasion even letting out a lusty little moan just to see how many people she could scandalize around her.

And then, when she was sure everybody's eyes were on her, she dragged off her new boy-of-the-week into a dark corner by his collar, and depending on what kind of mood she was in that night, she'd look over her shoulder at the rest of the crowd and either wink or flip them off.

And later, when the party moved to somebody's mansion or beach house like it always did, she'd show up unforgivably late, clothes rumpled and hair tousled but still shimmer, shimmer, shimmering, and make her presence known right away, with a half-smoked cigarette twirled in her fingers as she coaxed a bottle of hard liquor, preferably tequila, out of the hands of the nearest person.

Brooke Davis knew how to party. Her parents may have never paid her any attention but goddamn if she didn't know how to grab it from everyone else. While all the girls trudged out around three or four in the morning and looked in their rearview mirrors to see raccoon eyes and lipstick that had strayed outside the lines, Brooke Davis was in the pool house hooking up with the host, eyeliner smudged just enough to look smoldering and lips that still shone dangerously.

Hey boytoy, she'd say with a smirk, in that husky, smoky voice that sounded like trying-too-hard on anybody else, but sexy enough to give you a hard-on when it came from her.

Lucas Scott simply did not know what to do with his new, sexy, shimmering girlfriend.

He hadn't bargained for this when he first joined the team – hadn't bargained for the fame (or, rather, infamy), the mean-spirited practical jokes, the confrontations with his half-brother, or the fact that his social status had shot so far up the stratosphere that even Brooke Davis was willing to take a second look.

And then some.

It started with a leopard-print bra and then a tattoo, and then in one huge whirlwind of the sexiest, craziest relationship he had ever had in his life, Brooke Davis was sitting across from him and asking him if maybe it would be okay if she trusted him a little. Of course she could, he told her, and that was how Lucas Scott got Brooke Davis to give.

And he never, ever thought he would be the kind of guy that would make her regret it – the only kind of guy Brooke had ever known up until him – but apparently he was wrong.

Brooke Davis is not a party girl anymore.

She's feisty, to be sure. She's bouncy and bubbly and just an all-around good person – and beautiful, as always – and this is what everyone says makes her fashion line sell so well. The talent – budding in high school and now breaking all sorts of records in her twenties – brings the people in, but she's the one who drives the bargain home.

For better or for worse, he matured her.

He was the one who believed in her, who always backed her, who always wanted to lend a helping hand. He was the one who showed her that she could be more than the drunk girl in the slutty red dress (though he had to admit, he was rather partial to that dress). Brooke Davis could have the world at her feet if she wanted it that way, and he made sure she knew that.

But he looks at her now, amidst the success and the fame and the fortune, the place where she always belonged, and he knows that he was also the one to put those lines on her face, prematurely. He's the reason those dimples aren't so forthcoming anymore, and that she hasn't had a serious relationship since high school. He's at least partly to blame for Brooke allowing herself to be ushered behind her mother's domineering presence because he's the one who taught her, more than once, that putting yourself out there means opening yourself up to heartbreak.

He's getting married today. To Lindsey, forever and ever amen. Everybody, including Brooke, thinks he's making a mistake – that it should be Peyton.

But there is no Peyton here, or Lindsey. He's standing in front of a mirror in a spare room tucked away in the corner of the church Lindsey grew up going to every Sunday, straightening his tie and telling himself he's happy, but he's not seeing himself in his reflection. It's Brooke he sees, twirling around the room in a white wedding dress, not giving a damn that superstition dictates that the groom shouldn't see the bride before she walks down the aisle.

We've already damned this relationship to hell and back so many times before baby, she coos. We'll be lucky if we make it through the year.

And then she's laughing so hard that she can't breathe and her dimples are showing, and his arms come round her waist as he kisses the top of her forehead. Forever and a day, he whispers into her veil and feels her arms tighten around his neck.

But in a split second it's over and she's pulling away and scrunching her nose in that tiggerish way that helped earn her the nickname back in high school. How Naley of you, she says, and then she's bursting into peals of laughter all over again and he can't even be annoyed with her for ruining the moment. She's so beautiful, he thinks, so happy – they're both just so happy – and he's within hours of promising her forever. He loses himself in this idea and her for a few minutes before she brings him back.

What are you looking at? she says, an eyebrow cocked expectantly.

He smiles. You, he murmurs, trailing a finger down her cheek and sending shivers down both their spines.

We're getting married baby, she whispers, and Lucas thinks it sounds better than anything he's ever written before.

"You're getting married, Lucas," Brooke says, not in the high-pitched, giggly squeal she usually reserves for big occasions for these, but she sounds happy for him at least. And he looks up and now she really is there in his reflection, standing a few feet behind him in her dress.

It's not white, he thinks dully, and thinks that it's wrong, terribly wrong, but the haze in his mind lifts and he remembers where he is and what's expected of him and that Brooke is supposed to be in a red dress, one she designed herself, because she's a bridesmaid, not the bride.

She's still stunning.

"You're not supposed to outshine the bride, you know," he chides teasingly, but his voice is quiet and so it doesn't come out quite like it's supposed to.

Brooke laughs anyway. "Trust me," she says, "I just came from that room, and there's no way. She's beautiful, Luke."

"So are you," he says, and she looks like she wants to slap him but the moment passes, and she's composed again.

"Thank you," she says and then fiddles with her skirt. "So the dresses came out okay?"

"Of course they did," Lucas assures her. "We knew they would when Lindsey first asked you to make them."

He isn't lying. Brooke had kept it simple, nothing too outlandish like a few people had first feared. The dresses were a dark red, strapless and cut to the knee with a sweetheart neckline. They were, he realizes suddenly, very reminiscent of the dresses she and Peyton had worn for Haley's wedding ceremony so many years ago. She's even more beautiful now than she had been then, and he wonders how he ever let her go.

"You're getting married, Luke," she says again, softer now.

"I'm getting married," he repeats.

"Are you happy?"

He'd be thrown if he didn't know she wasn't asking for herself. Because she's not. She's asking for Peyton and for his mother and for all the people seated on his side of the chapel that are wondering if he's making the biggest mistake of his life by marrying a girl who doesn't have hazel eyes and blonde hair curled into ringlets.

"It's not Peyton," he says, so quietly that he doubts she can hear it because nobody should ever hear it.

But she does. Of course she does.

"What?" she says sharply.

They stand there for a few moments in front of each other, Brooke's lips curving into a small o of surprise, and he's struck by how so many things change and how so many things stay the same all at once. Here they are again, just like so many years ago, she in a red dress and he in a tux, forcing each other to give. But her hair is cut sharp to her shoulders now and her collarbone juts out more than it used to and her face is clear and sad, but not devastated.

"It's not Peyton," he says again, louder, and he hopes she ignores the shake in his voice. "I never fought for Peyton."

Not like I did for you remains unspoken, just like it ought to be, but it still hangs in the air between them. It's a long, pregnant pause before she can finally piece together a reply.

"Marry Lindsey," she says, and it sounds clear and sad, but sure. "She's standing in front of a mirror right now directly across the church from you, and all her family and friends are here, and she's beautiful, Luke."

"Marry Lindsey," he repeats as if the concept is foreign on his tongue.

"Marry Lindsey," Brooke says, in hopes that maybe the third time really is the charm. "Marry her, and don't you ever, ever stop fighting for her, okay? Act like every day is today and you've never been happier in your life. She can make you happy if you let her."

He runs a hand down over his face. "I've made so many mistakes, Brooke."

"I know," she says gently, "but not with her. This is your chance to get it right, Luke."

"And if I said I didn't know if I could do that?" Lucas looks back up at her and he's dead serious. "What if I got down on one knee right now and asked you to come away with me to California or Europe or anywhere and you could open up a new branch of your clothing line and I could get to work on my next book?"

"I'd turn you down," Brooke says flatly. But before he can say anything, slump his shoulders in defeat even, she continues, unbidden. "And then I'd turn right back around before I even managed to step out that door and say yes. But I'm asking you not to do that to me."

He understands. It's not fair to make her the whore today. It really wouldn't be fair to her ever, really. She's more than that, and he has to stop pulling her down. He smiles, but the only feeling behind it is regret.

"I'm getting married today," he says.

"Oh, Lucas," Brooke sighs, circling her arms around his neck. "You always did know how to break my heart."

"I'm so sorry for that," he says, and it might be the most sincere apology he's ever given.

The moment's interrupted when Nathan walks in the room. He clears his throat awkwardly. "Everything's just about to get started," he says.

Brooke pulls away, fingers combing her hair, smoothing her skirt, eyes focused anywhere but him. "I should go back and see if Lindsey needs anything," she says. She doesn't meet either of their eyes directly as she darts out the door, and Lucas knows, he knows, that that was it and he can't do anything about it. That's why he can't look up to watch her go.

But Nathan does.

"Are you sure about this, man?" he asks.

"Sure about what?" he retorts, voice clipped.

"Listen, I'm not about to endorse you leaving the poor girl at the altar, but…Are you sure Lindsey's the one for you?"

His eyes shoot up to meet Nathan's, and he sees the concern. It makes him more tired than anything else has today. He shakes his head and looks away. "I'm not in love with Peyton, man," he says tightly.

"Okay, then," Nathan says. "Let's get you married."

Brooke shimmered.

She shimmered as she walked down the aisle towards him, the folds of her silky dress catching the light and reflecting it back in his eyes until it was all he could see.

What do you think they all would say if we just bolted? she would have whispered if she were in the white lace dress. Both of us, just right out of the blue?

It'd make a great anecdote for the wedding announcement in the paper, he'd say.

She'd grin. I always did like to make a scene.

Author's Note: This came out of nowhere, really. I like Lindsey, and I like Lucas and Lindsey well enough. And the idea of telling someone else you love them on your wedding day has always depressed the hell out of me. Umm..Happy Valentine's Day?