Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sayla
The good news: Both the doctor and my nurses at the ER determined I’m going to be all right.
Their scans showed no sign of concussion or brain injury, or anything else dangerous.
All I needed was someone qualified to stitch up the gash at my temple.
I resisted going to the hospital at first, but Dex insisted on an ambulance.
And I had been unconscious for at least a little while.
So for the sake of his frazzled soul—trust me, the man was frazzled—I let him call.
I’m glad I did, too, because if we’d just slapped a butterfly bandage from Dexter’s first aid kit on my wound like I suggested, I probably would’ve ended up with quite the scar on my forehead.
The better news: As it turns out, the theater was the only building severely damaged during the storm, so a cleanup and hazard crew roped off the area for safety, and school’s already back in session.
Gordon hadn’t told Dex and me about the trees coming down there because he was afraid I’d leave the weight room.
Which I did anyway. For the time being, the theater’s uninhabitable, but I’ve already been brainstorming alternatives for our fall play.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream must go on, after all.
Hopefully, in the short term, we can find some other place to rehearse on campus—like the band room or the gym.
Then maybe, for the performances, we’ll get permission to use the auditorium at city hall.
Either way, we can’t improvise forever, and the theater is unusable.
So the FRIG will almost certainly be diverted to the performing arts department now.
To be clear, the switch in funding isn’t officially official yet, but Mr. Wilford assured me the theater will be completely renovated.
He got in touch with me less than two hours after I was injured.
I think Gordon let him know I got hurt. Either way, the news traveled fast, because I was still at the hospital when he called.
Shortly after talking to Mr. Wilford, I also heard from Dr. Dewey. She wanted to be sure I was all right, too. And she reiterated what Mr. Wilford suggested: That we’ll be getting a new theater after all.
Now, I’m not a lawyer, but I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody told her and Mr. Wilford that encouraging Dex and me to be on school premises over a weekend during inclement weather wasn’t such a hot idea.
Especially since all we were doing was making copies of the SACSS report for the faculty.
A report that’s already sitting in everybody’s inbox.
Either way, here’s where the bad news kicks in: There’s still only one grant.
Which means the athletic department won’t be able to fund the gym renovation after all.
A month ago, I would’ve told you I’d sell my pinkie toe to win that money over Dex.
Both pinkie toes, probably. It’s not like I’m a runner.
But sitting in the ER waiting to get my forehead stitched up, I was crushed for him.
Even more crushed than I was happy for me.
Which was weird.
In other bad news, I have no idea if Dex is upset about the FRIG, or upset that I risked myself to get his bear—or both, or neither—because once he knew my head wasn’t going to explode, he delivered me safely home to Loren, then he bolted.
Now it’s Sunday night. Twenty-four hours later. And I still haven’t heard from him.
Of course, there is a third potential reason why he left here yesterday in a big hurry, and why he’s been giving Loren and me space ever since. And that reason has to do with the worst news of all, which is that Loren and Foster broke up.
She was waiting for me in the front room when Dex dropped me off, just one sad, red-headed ball of snot and tears.
Absolutely shattered. She was sobbing so hard, understanding what happened to her took me a while.
But eventually I got there. In the world’s most terrible case of bad timing, Foster Abel told Loren Cane he didn’t love her enough to go through with the wedding.
And he delivered this blow just as the thunderstorm rolled in.
Loren was at her dad’s house, making sure he was okay—which is pretty much how she spends her life—and Foster picked that moment to show up and get this big confession off his chest.
Apparently, he doesn’t want his professional life to overlap with his personal life. And as Mr. Cane’s neurologist, Foster felt like that had been happening and would continue to happen if he stayed together with his daughter.
TLDR: He wasn’t into the happening.
Then, he went on to admit to Loren that he’d been thinking about breaking things off ever since linguini night.
So as it turns out, linguini is not the most romantic of the pastas.
Why it took the man so long to figure out his feelings, I’m not sure.
Treating her father is how they met in the first place.
But future father-in-law + patient = I’d like my ring back.
So Loren and I are both pretty pathetic company for a Sunday night.
Her face is swollen from crying. My face is swollen from stitches.
And neither one of us is feeling too terrific about love.
What we are doing is eating a gallon of butter pecan ice cream straight from the carton with two spoons. And then the doorbell rings.
We both shout, “Not it!” at the same time. But Loren’s heartbreak trumps my headache, so I get the door. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be Dex finally checking in.
It has to be Dex, right?
But it’s not Dex.
“Bridger! Hey.” I reach up to touch the bandage wrapped around my skull. “How are you?”
“Good.” He bobs his head, lifting a couple paper bags in his hands. “I heard you were hurt, and I just wanted to be sure you’re okay. I also brought apple cider donuts and chicken soup. I’m a food-bringer.”
“My hero!” Loren calls out from the couch behind me. “I couldn’t help overhearing!”
Bridger’s face turns tomato red. “I didn’t know Loren would be here,” he tells me in a low voice.
“Well, she is my roommate.”
“Right.” He cranes his neck, trying to see her, but the line of sight’s not great from the porch. “You’re welcome,” he announces to her. “There’s plenty for both of you.”
“Is there enough for three of us?” she asks. “If so, get in here, Bridge. I’m hosting a pity party, and you can be the guy to cheer up the crowd.”
“For the record, I am not pitiful,” I say under my breath.
Then I give my head a little shake, just in case Bridger feels compelled to report back to Dex that I’m sitting around the house pining for him.
Because I’m not. I just want to be sure he’s not too disappointed about the FRIG.
And kind of wondering where we stand. And yes, I may be responsible for the consumption of half a gallon of ice cream in the past twenty-four hours, but that’s not even unusual for me on a weekend.
“She’s right,” Loren says as I usher Bridger into the front room. “I’m the lone pitiful one here. In fact, Sayla got great news yesterday. The performing arts center is going to be renovated after all.”
“Because it was basically destroyed by the storm,” I add.
“Ummm … great?” Bridger says awkwardly. Then he finally gets a good look at Loren. She’s in a bathrobe with a pile of wadded-up tissues in her lap. Her blue eyes are shot through with red, and her hair can best be described as ginger cave girl. “What happened to you?”
She cringes. “That bad, huh?”
“Absolutely not,” he rushes to say. “You’re always beautiful.” As soon as the words are out, he slams his mouth shut.
“It’s all right.” I pat him on the shoulder. “You’re allowed to say Loren is beautiful. Because she is. She’s the most beauteous princess in all the land. She’s also no longer engaged to be married.”
Bridger startles, gaping wordlessly.
“You heard right,” I say. “Foster Abel has left the building. He is no Prince Charming, I can tell you that.”
“Oh, wow.” Bridger passes me the bag of donuts and soup and moves over to focus on Loren. “I’m … so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She waves the comment away. “I mean, being dumped is awful, don’t get me wrong.
But I think a part of me always knew I was trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.
Being with Foster was just so easy, you know?
But we had nothing in common. We were together so often for my dad’s appointments, things just naturally progressed.
But were we truly obsessed with each other? ”
Bridger and I stare at her, waiting for an answer, but apparently her question is rhetorical.
“No, she was not,” I say on her behalf.
“Anyway.” She tightens the belt on her robe.
“I don’t want to rehash all that now. I’m probably still a little bit numb, to be honest. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for me to perform a real autopsy on the end of our relationship.
Later, after I’ve had a chance to process the rug being ripped out from under me. ”
Bridger slides his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t sound fun.”
“For now, though, I just want donuts and soup with my friends.” She offers me and Bridger a weak smile. “Thank you, friends.”
Over the next half hour, we sit at the kitchen table slurping soup and rehashing the events of the day before.
And by that I mean where Bridger and I were during the storm.
We strategically steer clear of talking about Loren any more.
As it turns out, Bridger was at the animal shelter, and he spent all afternoon working with the techs there to calm the poor dogs and cats.
“Why were you at the shelter in the first place?”
“I volunteer there a couple weekends a month,” he says.
Loren tears a donut in half and offers the other piece to Bridger. “How did I not know this about you?” She takes a big sticky bite.
“We don’t really know each other,” he says.
“Now that’s a straightforward answer if I’ve ever heard one,” I say. Meanwhile, my stomach feels a little sick. A combination of the pain meds I’ve been taking and my continued nerves over not hearing from Dexter.
So, I decide to be straightforward myself. And I turn to Bridger. “Have you talked to Dex?”
Unfortunately, when I ask this, Bridger has half a donut stuffed in his face, which gives him time to craft a careful answer while he’s chewing and swallowing. Then he grabs a napkin and wipes the sugar off his mouth. “I have.”
That’s it? That’s all I get?
“Is he mad about the FRIG?” Loren asks for me. Man, I sure do love my wing girl.
“Why would he be mad?” Bridger’s brow furrows.
“Because my department is going to get the money now instead of his,” I say. “And Dex was there with me at the hospital when Dr. Dewey and Mr. Wilford called to tell me the theater will be renovated.”
The crease in Bridger’s forehead only gets deeper. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure Dex realizes they were talking about insurance money covering that.”
Loren and I both look at each other, our mouths hanging open for a moment. “Why didn’t we think of that?” she asks.
“Well, I have a head injury,” I say.
“And I have a broken heart,” she says.
Bridger pushes the bag of donuts over toward her. “Anyway, this is good news, right? You’ll get your theater fixed, and Dex will still get the gym fixed?”
“Win-win,” I say. “My two favorite words.”
“Of course, insurance claims do take a while to process,” he says. “And they may not cover all the upgrades you would’ve wanted in an ideal situation. Contractors will probably have to repair things that weren’t necessary before and—”
“Hey, Bridge,” Loren interrupts. “I thought we were focusing on the win-win.”
I let out a long sigh. “No, he’s right.”
“But the good news is,” she says, guiding the conversation back to positivity, “you are going to get that renovation.” She plucks a fresh donut from the bag. “Eventually.”
“Exactly,” Bridger says.
I chew at my lip. “So if Dex isn’t mad about the FRIG, is he mad at me?”
“Why would he be mad at you?” Loren scoffs. “Just because you risked your life going out into a dangerous thunderstorm to rescue a non-living teddy bear?”
“Dex isn’t mad about anything,” Bridger says. “That much I can tell you.”
I blow out a breath, shoulders slackening. “So I guess I just have to wrap my brain around the fact that he doesn’t care about me.”
Bridger meets my gaze. His eyes are soft. “That is definitely not the case.”
Loren points her soup spoon at him. “What do you know, Bridge? Spill.”
“All I can say is the guy was an absolute wreck the night you ended up at Tequila Mockingbird. He was so worried you might think he’d lied, he brought me into the search for you. You two didn’t see him or talk to him. So you have no idea.”
“I saw him,” I pipe up. “And talked to him.”
Bridge arches a brow. “Sober?”
I scrunch my nose. “You have a point.”
“Anyway,” he continues, “no man gets that freaked about a woman he doesn’t care about. He cares about you. A lot. And that might be the actual reason you haven’t heard from him.”
“Well, that’s just dumb,” Loren quips.
“Is it?” Bridger cocks his head. “Or is Dex protecting himself?”
“Ooh. Maybe both,” she says.
“Well.” I swallow the boulder lodged in my throat. “Either way, he’s telegraphing that he’s not emotionally available.”
Loren shifts her focus to me. “What does your telegraph say?”
I heave a sigh. “Message received.”