19. Bridget
CHAPTER 19
Bridget
It’s unnerving how quickly Ethan’s made himself comfortable in my apartment and in my daily life. Twice in the last week, he ended up sleeping in my bed, and each time I took more solace in his presence than I’m comfortable doing.
He’s the only man I’ve ever let spend the night. Most of my one-night stands leave right after. A handful have stayed long enough for round two but still leave after the fun is over. Ethan is the only man I’ve ever fucked that I’ve also slept with, and that realization is terrifying. And he’s spent more nights since then snuggled up next to me. And I like it. Fuck.
It’s getting harder to concentrate on my recovery when I keep getting texts and emails from work colleagues asking for important financial information ahead of the merger. My anxiety is through the roof. I girl-bossed too hard, and now I’m saddled with responsibilities only I can handle. And while I have the job I’ve always wanted, it wasn’t until recently, when life hit me hard, that I realized how much I’ve truly sacrificed of myself to get where I am in my career.
The constant pressure to do everything looms over me like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash its fury at any minute. For Christ’s sake, I’m on medical leave, and somehow, I’m still the only one who can handle certain responsibilities for this merger. God forbid anything happened to me. How could this company function?
I need to recover from surgery, from a procedure I had done because part of my body couldn’t keep up anymore, which makes me feel like less of a woman, in a way.
I have to balance it all at work, but unlike my male counterparts, I worry about how I look doing it. It’s not like I can just throw on a suit and do my job. No, if I wear an outfit that’s too tight, then I’m accused of using my body to get ahead or called any slew of derogatory names. If I wear an outfit that’s too loose, I’m a slob who doesn’t care about her appearance. Not once in my career have I ever heard a man be criticized for his attire in the same manner, but I can’t go a single day without hearing at least one comment being made about a woman’s body from one of the men in my office.
I have to be assertive to get what I want, but not too much. I can’t call out any double standards or bad behavior without being labeled a bitch or difficult. If I speak up, I’m too bossy, but if I don’t speak up then I’m walked all over. Putting up with the good ole boy club is a constant struggle, as is dealing with its stepchild, bro culture. The kind of misogynistic bullshit these men spew daily makes my eye twitch and my gut boil every single fucking time I hear it. But I plaster on a smile and roll with the punches so I can be likable and “one of the guys.” Inside, my inner feminist is screaming that I’m a fraud, that I should speak up and defend the sisterhood. Though, what good would that do? I wouldn’t have the career I want, the life I’ve worked so hard to achieve. And now that I can feel the top of the glass ceiling caress the crown of my head, the small bit of hope left in me prays that it wasn’t in vain and that I’m paving the way for those behind me, so they don’t have to endure what I did to get here.
I’ve tolerated a lot to get where I am, and the worry that it could be stripped away in four to six weeks because one of my female reproductive organs stopped working reminds me that nothing I do as a woman will ever be enough. So I double down, desperate to prove myself. To prove my worth. To show others that I matter. To use my independence as a strength—despite the weakness it seems to have become lately. It’s something I’ve been doing my entire life, but the thought that I’ll have to continue at this pace fills me with dread, as though I’m a hamster on a never-ending wheel making no progress at all toward my own happiness and freedom.
All these thoughts fill my head, making it difficult to concentrate on anything. The only thing that’s ever seemed to quiet the voices in my head telling me that I’m not enough and too much at the same time is a night of mindless fucking, where I can focus solely on pleasure and touch.
I haven’t worried much about work these past few weeks, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s because of Ethan. I can recall countless times since I met him when my brain has been overwhelmed with paralyzing thoughts and how his touch quieted the tempest churning in my head. In fact, the night we met was the quietest my brain had ever been.
Admitting that to him feels too raw, as if my entire soul is bare and on display. Knowledge is power, and I’ll be damned if I give anyone that kind of power over my heart.
Sitting on the bed, I push down my swirling thoughts, hover over my laptop, and resume going through emails. It’s early afternoon, and I don’t have much time left before Ethan gets home.
I mean, gets back. Not home. This is my home.
Ethan’s running the lunch service today, having only agreed to go back to work after I assured him I’d be fine working from home on my own. It took him three days of hovering while I sat on the bed stuck in random work Zoom calls about the merger before he relented and started picking up shifts at the restaurant. However, this is my first full day back at work and sitting here for most of the day has been more exhausting than I expected it to be.
Thanks to his truth or dare win, I’ve had to come to terms with our living arrangement. Having lived alone most of my life, I’m not used to sharing a living space, and it’s taken some getting used to. I only have a few more weeks before I get my apartment to myself again and can settle back into my usual routine. Although, it has been nice to wake up to a cup of the most delicious coffee I’ve ever tasted. And having my own personal chef hasn’t exactly been a hardship. I’ve even incorporated some of the tricks Ethan picked up in his research into my nighttime skincare routine.
When I really think about it, dating someone like Ethan wouldn’t be so bad if perks like these were part of it.
I hear the apartment door open, and Ethan’s heavy footsteps echo down the hall.
“Hi, sweetheart. How’d it go today? Have you even left this spot? You’re exactly where I left you.”
“I still have a couple of hours of work to get done before I can call it quits. No rest for the wicked,” I say, my eyes never leaving the computer as my fingers fly across the keys. The tap tap tap from my pecking fills the silence between us as I feel Ethan’s gaze on me.
“I got you something.”
“What?” I say, half-listening as I finish typing a formula into the cell of my spreadsheet. Looking up, I notice a small gift bag in his hand and an eager smile on his lips.
“This is for you.”
I take it from his hand, holding out the bag in front of me like it’s an animal that’s going to bite me. “What’s this for?”
“Open it.”
Pulling out the tissue paper, I notice several animal-themed face masks, a gift card for a food delivery app, and a bag of sour gummy candy. Looking up at him, he holds out a bottle of white sparkling grape juice he’d been concealing behind his back, and I can’t contain the laugh that slips out as I dump the contents of the gift bag onto the bed. “What’s all this?”
Grinning, he sits on the bed. “It’s a care package. I Facetimed with my sister Erin yesterday, and she suggested it. I saw her before work, and she helped me pick out everything. I know you’ve been frustrated being cooped up here, so I got you a de-stress kit.”
“I…” I trail off when one of the animal masks catches my attention, and I get lost reading the back of it.
“The grape juice is because you still shouldn’t have alcohol, and this way, we can drink bubbles while we wear face masks. I noticed you were almost out of candy in your pantry, and you seem to go through sour gummies when you’re stressed. You can use the gift card to order lunch when I can’t be here to cook for you. And when I told Erin about your love of skincare, she picked out the masks. I figure we can put them on tonight and watch a movie.”
“But the animals?”
“She’s nine. She thought they were cute.”
Holding them up, I declare, “I get to be the cheetah. Do you want to be the kitty, panda, or puppy?”
“Surprise me.” He beams and flashes me the dimple, seeming pleased that I’m going along with his plans for the evening.
“What’s on the menu tonight, chef?” I ask absentmindedly as I put the masks in the bag and turn back to the screen, determined to finish this spreadsheet before dinner.
“Fuck, it’s kind of hot when you call me that.”
“Doesn’t an entire kitchen staff call you that when you lead service?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to fuck them.”
I can feel the blush painting my cheeks as I ignore his comment. It’s getting harder and harder to convince myself that I only want to be this man’s friend.
____________
When I emerge from my room several hours later, Ethan has dinner ready.
It’s like he knows my taste buds better than I do. Everything this man has cooked has been like heaven in my mouth. Tonight, he made pecan-crusted salmon and a light salad in a raspberry vinaigrette. While I’m not normally big on fish or seafood, I gobble up every crumb on my plate.
Ethan clears the table, puts our plates in the dishwasher, and starts the machine before putting the leftovers away. “There’s an extra filet if you want that for lunch tomorrow. I picked up a shift at the restaurant. Mina and Dre are out this week, and Alyx asked me to cover for him.”
I can feel the disappointment instantly; it tastes bitter as I swallow and attempt to clear it. “Oh” is all I can squeak out.
“Set the oven to two hundred and seventy-five degrees and pop it in there for about ten to fifteen minutes. You’ll want to put it on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Think you can handle that?”
“Yeah, I can handle it. I’m not completely inept in the kitchen,” I snap back.
“Whoa, hellcat, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m used to walking my sisters through instructions several times and…”
“It’s fine.” It’s not fine. I don’t know why I’m suddenly snapping at him. I know he didn’t mean to imply I couldn’t reheat something. His tone was fine, he just… Fuck. I think I’m starting to like him being around, and finding out he won’t be here tomorrow has me spiraling.
“I have five sisters. I know when a woman says something is fine, it most definitely is not fine.”
Deciding to put it out there—because what can it hurt—I take a deep breath and admit, “I was just counting on you being around tomorrow, and I guess I’m annoyed.”
He grins. “I’m growing on you, am I?”
“Maybe.”
“Was that so hard?”
Yes. Yes, it was fucking hard. I don’t let people in. I don’t tell them how I feel, and I just told him how his absence affected me. My chest feels warm and tight at the same time, and I clutch at it, pushing my palm to it in hopes of easing the ache.
“Thank you,” I rasp out, still holding my chest.
“For what, sweetheart?”
“For my gift. For dinner. For your help, even when I insisted I didn’t need it. You’ve made this recovery easier on me, and you deserve to know that I appreciate it.”
“I’m happy to help. Now, excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable and put my mask on.”
In a less than a month’s time, Ethan has quickly become one of my closest friends. I enjoy spending time with him. He makes me laugh and he calls me out, holding me accountable. His personality balances mine in ways I never expected. And the way he reads me is equally unnerving and exhilarating at the same time. I like that I don’t have to be someone I’m not around him. I don’t have to hide the parts of myself that the world deems unpalatable. And all that scares me. But I’m starting to think that only being friends isn’t possible. Maybe we could be more.
Just as my revelation reignites that ache in my chest, Ethan emerges with the puppy mask on his face and a huge smile.
“Of course you’d pick that one, pup. I should’ve known.”
He laughs as he settles onto the couch next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Can’t disappoint my hellcat.”