Brown-Eyed Girl Across the Street
Scene 1
The snow had stopped, leaving the world blanketed in a pristine layer of white that glittered beneath the bright winter sun. Hunter took a deep breath, the air sharp and cold in his lungs, and stretched his commanding 6'3" muscular frame, joints popping after the morning’s shoveling. He pulled up his snow bibs, squeezed his broad shoulders into his winter coat, and tugged a snow mask over his thinning dirty-blond hair before slipping on his massive gloves and snow goggles.
His own driveway was already cleared, a clear path cut down the 100’ driveway that just an hour ago was covered with a layer of snow that separated his garage from the street. But Tom’s driveway was still buried.
Tom, an affable 80-year-old gentleman, stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame. His cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes tired but warm as he waved Hunter over. The cancer had been advancing steadily despite the chemo breaks, and the fall he took while taking down the Christmas decorations hadn’t helped. His wife had pleaded with him to let the grandkids handle it, but Tom’s pride was a tough thing to chip away.
Hunter killed the engine of his John Deere tractor and strode over, snow crunching beneath his boots.
"Morning, Tom!" Hunter greeted, voice muffled by the mask but warm nonetheless.
“Morning, big man,” Tom replied, his breath curling in wisps of fog. They exchanged pleasantries, discussed the weather, and then the conversation shifted to Jerry, the neighbor next door,a feeble 90-year-old recently separated from his wife of 35 years.
"Brooke should be here soon," Tom added, eyes brightening. “She’s a godsend for Jerry, you know. Keeps him company, plays cards, heats up the meals his daughters make.”
Hunter nodded, though his curiosity piqued at the mention of Brooke. He’d heard of her but had never met her,a young woman who visited Jerry a few times a week, not to shuttle him to doctor’s appointments or out of obligation, but simply to keep him company. She even cleared the leaves from Jerry’s basement areaway herself. What a woman.
Tom’s voice broke through his thoughts. “She should be here in about 15 minutes.”
Hunter cleared his throat. “Better get it done, then,” he replied, forcing a grin. He turned back to the tractor, heart beating a little faster for reasons he couldn’t quite admit.
The engine roared to life, and he wasted no time, moving quickly to clear Tom’s driveway before making his way to Jerry’s. The cold was biting, but Hunter barely noticed, too focused on getting the path clear before Brooke’s arrival.
As he maneuvered the tractor back and forth, Jerry appeared in the open garage, waving. Hunter hopped off, shaking off his gloves and mask to exchange pleasantries. The old man’s eyes were bright, sharp despite his frail frame, and their banter was easy, familiar. Hunter started scraping the snow off Jerry’s SUV, the steady rhythm soothing.
Then he heard it: a warm voice, light and cheerful.
“Hey, great to see you, glad you could make it,” Jerry called, his voice brightening.
Hunter turned, a quip ready on his tongue, but the words died as his snow goggles were blinded by a dazzling smile. Brooke.
She was a vision, dressed in a winter coat that hugged her petite frame, a scarf tucked neatly around her collar, brown hair peeking from beneath a snug skull cap. But it was her eyes that caught him, eyes that seemed brown, though maybe they were dark green. The lighting, the sun reflecting off the snow, and the soft flush of her cheeks made them look an impossibly vivid brown. The real brown-eyed girl.
Jerry made introductions, and Hunter fumbled for words, the usual ease of conversation slipping beneath the snow.
“Great to meet you,” he managed, clearing his throat. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you. Understand you’re quite the landscaper.”
The joke was weak, but Brooke’s laugh was soft, melodic, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Thanks,” she replied, voice warm. “I’ve heard great things about you too. It’s awesome you clear the driveways.”
And just like that, she was gone, following Jerry inside and leaving Hunter momentarily speechless. He could only stare at the closed garage door, cheeks warm beneath the mask, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He finished clearing the driveway, making sure to shovel a path by Brooke’s car, ensuring she wouldn’t slip on the way out. It was practical, sensible, but a part of him,a part he wasn’t ready to acknowledge,just wanted to do something nice for her.
But the garage door stayed shut, and with a sigh, Hunter packed up his gear and headed home, muscles sore and mind racing.
The hot shower soothed the ache in his limbs, but not the restlessness buzzing beneath his skin. Brooke’s eyes,so very brown,stayed with him, even as the steam clouded the bathroom mirror.
She was just being polite, he told himself, but even he didn’t believe it.
Scene 2
Hunter had no real reason to stop by Jerry’s place on the way to the store, but he found himself slowing as he passed the driveway, eyes flicking to the garage. It was open, and there she was, crouched by the recycling bin, brown hair slipping from beneath her cap.
He swung in, heart pounding a bit faster than he’d like to admit, cutting the engine and slipping out of the truck in one fluid motion.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, voice steady, almost.
Brooke straightened, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before recognition dawned, her smile blooming slow and warm.
“Sure,” she replied, dusting her gloves against her coat. But Hunter saw the slight hesitation, the flicker of uncertainty in her gaze, and realized, she didn’t recognize him.
“I’m Hunter,” he clarified, chuckling. “From across the street.” He jabbed a thumb toward his house, sheepish. “I, uh, did the snow earlier.”
Her eyes glinted with mischief, and the smile that spread across her lips was positively sinful.
“Of course,” she teased. “I didn’t recognize you without your tractor.”
He barked a laugh, nerves easing, and her giggle joined his, soft and warm.
They talked easily, leaning against the open garage. He explained about his father, who had turned 90 this past summer and could use some company like Jerry. The words came out smoothly, and they were true, his father was struggling, and with Hunter living an hour away and his sister on the Eastern Shore, someone like Brooke would be a godsend.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
Brooke smiled, eyes softening with sympathy. “I might be able to help,” she offered, pulling a card from her coat pocket and pressing it into his palm. Her fingers were warm despite the cold, and Hunter held onto the contact for a moment longer than necessary.
“Call me once you talk to him,” she added, voice gentle.
“I will,” he promised, voice rough.
She smiled once more, soft and genuine, before turning back into the garage. Hunter watched, breath misting in the air, eyes lingering a moment too long on the sway of her hips, the way her jeans hugged her curves.
He slid back into the truck, card clutched tight in his gloved hand, and couldn’t bite back the grin that split his face.
Sure, his father needed help, and Brooke was perfect. But a part of him, the part that couldn’t forget the vivid color of her eyes and the warmth of her smile, couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there might be something more.
And as he drove to the store, heart light and mind spinning with possibilities, Hunter couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through his chest.
From the Hunter Chronicles: This and other Hunter stories are standalone moments from Hunter Foster's life. While each can be read independently, together they form pieces of a much larger journey, that even Hunter hasn't fully planned for yet.
