10. Bridget
CHAPTER 10
Bridget
I feel like shit. It’s been two hours since I left the hospital, and my pain meds are starting to wear off. Why do I feel like I can do everything? I’m clearly not impervious to pain. It’s clear I may need to expand my inner circle to avoid situations like this with Ethan.
My puppy dog has followed me around all day. To the pharmacy to pick up my pain meds. To my apartment to take care of me. Around the block when I went for my mandatory daily doctor-prescribed walk. I literally felt like I was taking him for a walk like a damn puppy. He’s always nearby, and it’s unnerving.
When we first met, he told me he prefers a quiet night in. At first, I thought he was fucking with me because what young guy in his twenties doesn’t like going out to clubs and partying? But he’s spent the entire day in waiting rooms, hospital rooms, and now he’s sitting in my living room, offering me quiet support on the loveseat across from where I’m lying. I thought he’d get bored or annoyed by now and leave, but I’m beginning to think he was telling the truth.
I’ve been alone most of my life. Growing up as an only child, I didn’t have many friends to play with. My parents were decent parents. They supported me. My needs were always met, and I never went without. But I never felt like I was their priority, more like an addition to their relationship, a welcome one most of the time. But it still felt like it was them against the world. Even now they’re on a cruise together while someone who’s practically a stranger takes care of their bedridden daughter. And if he weren’t here, I probably would’ve used an app to find someone to run errands for me.
I had a few friends in school, but I preferred to keep my head down and get lost in a book. Escaping into another world was fun. Safe. I could experience the drama without it being a part of my life. And if things ever got too intense, I could put the book down and come back to it.
Friendships aren’t like that. If you walk away from someone’s drama, it’s considered rude. And in my experience, teenage girls are drama. Listening to story after story of who did what to who was exhausting. I’d had to perfect my resting listening face. If I feigned enough interest, it would appease most people. There was a formula to figuring people out and then giving them what they needed. Some wanted you to listen to their drama. Some wanted you to solve their problems. Once I figured out what each friend required, I could follow that formula and maintain that friendship.
That was until the end of tenth grade when everything went to shit. When my high school boyfriend cheated on me, I didn’t find out from him. I was standing at my locker when I overheard the gossip that he’d gotten someone pregnant. I never found out who it was. Did it matter? The one person that I’d trusted with my true friendship, my love, my virginity, had betrayed me. And to make matters worse, all my so-called friends sided with him.
“But, Bridget, they’re having a baby. What do you expect? He’s not going to leave his baby for you!”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of selfish to expect him to choose you over her? They’re having a baby together.”
Like having a baby warrants someone’s loyalty over all else. It just means you didn’t practice safe sex. I couldn’t imagine ever choosing anyone else’s happiness at the sacrifice of my own. I couldn’t imagine loving anyone else more than myself.
All those years I spent making, maintaining, and perfecting those friendships. Gone in the blink of an eye. Gone in the few minutes it takes to take a pregnancy test. And how dare I expect him to choose me? How dare I expect any of those friends to choose me? I listened to all their drama, and the one time I got caught up in the drama that wasn’t even my own making, those friends immediately abandoned me.
Because that’s what people do—they choose other people over you. My parents did. My friends did. My first boyfriend did. I didn’t understand people or friendships like I’d thought. Clearly, there were unknown variables that could affect the outcome. Like drama. And babies.
Becka is the only real friendship I’ve ever maintained. She was an anomaly I couldn’t figure out, and eventually I stopped trying. I could ignore her for days, but she never seemed mad at me about it. Maybe our friendship worked because I hadn’t treated it like I did in my youth. I didn’t try to figure out the formula to her happiness or the formula to our friendship. I simply let it be. And she accepted me for who I was. She’s the only person on this planet who loves me for me.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Ethan asks from across the couch. Like hell am I sharing any of my thoughts with him.
Wincing, I try to sit up. “Christ, I feel like shit.”
Ethan stands and crosses to the kitchen. I hear him moving around, opening cupboards, filling a glass with water. He returns with my Percocet and a glass of ice water. “Here, take this. I know you said you didn’t want to take any narcotics, but this will help. You can take half the dose if you like, or I can help you wean off them.”
“I won’t need your help after today.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“It is. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re in pain. I can see it in your face and in the stiffness in your body.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I get the feeling that you’re not used to having someone take care of you. But I want to help you.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
A pained look crosses his face as his brows pinch. “I’m not doing this because I want something out of it. I’m doing it because I genuinely like you and want to spend time with you.”
Well, fuck. That’s… nice. But there’s still a motive here. In my experience, people don’t do things out of the kindness of their hearts without expecting something in return. I’ve seen it in business time and time again. It’s why I’m so successful. I figure out what people want and leverage it to get what I want.
“We aren’t sleeping together again.”
“Not for the next four to six weeks,” he agrees easily. “I’m going to go run over to my place and pack an overnight bag. I’ll stay on your couch, if that’s okay. In case you need anything during the night. And I can grab you anything you need while I’m out. You’re almost out of ice, and it doesn’t look like your ice maker is working. And I know you like your water cold.”
Dumbfounded, I stare at him. How did he know that? We’ve shared one meal together. “It’s been low on the priority list.”
“I can look at it. Tell me, what kind of ice do you like? Big chunks? Little pellets?”
Blinking up at him, I’m at a complete loss for words. “I’ve never really thought about it before,” I reply, unsure of where he’s going with this.
“Cool. It looks like you’re low on coffee too, and I didn’t see any creamer in there.” He strides toward the door.
“I don’t take creamer in my coffee.”
“I do.” He turns back to me and asks, “Is there anything you’d like me to cook for you this week? I can grab some ingredients while I’m out.”
“Week? I’ll give you the night, pup. You’re not staying a whole week.”
He taps his knuckles twice on the doorframe. “We’ll see about that.” With that, he leaves my apartment before I can offer a retort.
Grabbing for the water, I swallow two pills and lie back on the couch, waiting for them to take effect and usher me into a painless sleep.
____________
The smell of something delicious tickles my nose and brings me back to consciousness. I can hear Ethan moving around in the kitchen. “How long was I out?”
“About four hours,” his sexy voice calls back. “It’s dinner time.”
“That smells delicious,” I say, gingerly attempting to prop myself up on my elbows.
Ethan comes rushing over from the kitchen. “Here, let me help you. Your discharge papers mentioned that you may need help sitting up for the next couple days.”
“I’m fin—” A sharp pain stabs at one of the incisions on my right side as I try to sit all the way up.
“Careful, hellcat. I kind of want you in one piece,” he croons, flashing me a boyish smile. “How’s your pain?” He gently places his hands around my back and shoulders as he helps guide me to sit up.
“It was better after I took my pain pills, but I think I tweaked something,” I admit.
“Do you think you can walk to the dining table, or would you like dinner here?”
“I can walk, you don’t have to baby me. I’m a grown woman.”
I hear his soft chuckle as I cross toward the kitchen, and I freeze when I see an assortment of ice cube trays on the kitchen island. He places his hands on my shoulders as he comes up behind me and whispers in my ear. “I thought we could figure out which ice you prefer. I borrowed a bunch of different ice cube trays from the bar at the restaurant. You have tons of options. Giant round spheres and cubes like what we use for whiskey. Long cylindrical cubes for a water bottle. Little tiny pellet cubes. I’ve got round ice, square ice, big ice, small ice. I’m the Dr. Fucking Seuss of ice.”
I laugh, then clutch my side as pain lances it. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”
“Sorry,” he says as he runs his hands from my shoulders down my arms, squeezing lightly. “Since I wasn’t sure how hungry you’d be and your discharge papers mentioned starting with a simple diet, I grilled you some chicken with rice. Admittedly, it’s not my best dish since I only seasoned it with a little bit of salt, but I promise to add more spice as you heal.” He crosses around the island and begins putting food on plates for us.
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“No.” I laugh lightly, pushing a palm to my side to ease the pain.
“Brutal.” He smiles. “Did you decide which ice to try in your water?”
I didn’t tell him earlier, but I know exactly what kind of ice I like in every possible scenario. But I’ll throw him a bone since he put in some effort to get this right for me. I just can’t figure out why he’s doing it. I get that he’s smitten and our chemistry is intense, but what does he want from me? People aren’t this nice for no reason. There’s always an ulterior motive. Give me time, and I’ll figure out his.
Shit, what am I saying? This has already gone on long enough. I’m not giving him any more time, if I do, he’ll get attached and then there’s bound to be drama when it ends.
And it will end, because I’m old enough to be his mom.
Because I don’t want kids, and he probably does.
Because people will judge us like Nurse Maggie did.
Because I’ve worked too fucking hard all my life to be reduced to a fucking stereotypical label like “cougar.”
And because, like every other relationship in my life, this will end, and it’ll be messy when it happens. I can tell.
“Earth to Bridget.”
“What? Oh, you asked about ice. Um… the normal-sized cubes are fine with dinner,” I say, not willing to go into my whole speech about what ice should be used in what scenario.
He gathers up all the other ice trays and puts them back in the freezer before fixing me a glass of water with the ice I requested. After he hands me a plate, he offers me two more pain pills. “It’s been long enough that you can take two more, but I know you mentioned not wanting to rely on them. Is your pain better after your nap?”
“It’s manageable right now, as long as you don’t keep making me laugh.”
“In that case, I’ll save the pickle story for another night.”
“Asshole. You’re such a tease.”
Shooting me a flirty look, he pulls out the chair next to me and begins eating his dinner. This motherfucker chows down like he didn’t just tease me. I’m not even sure why I want to know so bad.
Breaking the silence, he offers, “I’ll tell you when you’re ready to hear it.”
“On second thought, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Liar.” He smirks as he stares ahead, never making eye contact while scooping another bite into his mouth.
We finish our meal in silence. Picking up my plate, I start to move toward the sink before Ethan’s large hand reaches out to grab my dish. The veins pop on the corded muscle of his forearm as he steals the plate out of my hand. “Let me. I can clean up in here while you relax.”
I don’t think anyone has ever said sexier words to me. Settling back into my spot on the couch, I turn on the TV to binge some mindless entertainment on one of my streaming services.
Ethan moves around in the kitchen, the clatter of pans in the sink producing a cacophony of background noises. It feels very… domesticated. I need some space. Gingerly, I rise from the couch and move toward the hallway toward my bedroom. I don’t want him to feel at home here. I already agreed to let him stay tonight, but that’s it; this isn’t becoming a thing.
“Are you headed to bed?” he calls out after me.
“No, uh… going to my room.”
“Have you pooped yet?”
That’s it. I pause in the hallway, one hand resting on the wall. I’m not talking to this man about my bowel movements.
“I read that painkillers can sometimes slow down your bowels. Your paperwork recommends adding a stool softener and laxative if you haven’t pooped within a few days after surgery.”
My back still to him, I take a deep breath, counting to ten before I release it. “I’m not talking to you about that,” I grit out before walking into my room and closing the door behind me. Leaning back against it, I don’t relax again until I hear the clanking of dishes resuming in the kitchen.
I can’t do this. This is too hard. Recovering from surgery would’ve been awkward but manageable if Becka or my parents were here. But Ethan? Navigating this with him feels reckless. One of us is bound to get hurt, and I pray it’s him because I’m not sure I could survive it.