Chapter 33
Juliette
We had said goodbye to Chicago early in the morning.
The skyline had looked horrifying behind us as I turned around in the front passenger seat.
Like it was some too big, too cold monster.
That city had done nothing but haunt me from the day I was born.
Trapped in a house with unloving parents, sent off to galas and country club dinners like it meant anything at all, forced to marry a man who took joy in giving me nothing but cruelty and bruises.
The worst part was that the only good thing in that city, the only light and warmth, had been ripped away from me.
But now that boy had turned into the man who stormed back into my life and showed me how good it was supposed to be. I was worthy of love and happiness and so was he.
That was a good fifteen hours ago, and now my eyes were barely open as I yawned. I had been falling in and out of sleep on the drive over. My legs ached and I needed to stretch them out, but I felt soothing, long fingers stroking through my locks. They made me want to keep my eyes closed some more.
“Bridger?” I mumbled.
“I’m here, baby,” he said. “We’re here too.”
“Where’s here?”
He laughed. “Did you forget where I was taking you?”
Groaning softly, I finally let my eyes flutter open. My head had been turned to the side, so there I was, waking up to the man I loved, to the one who I thought I had lost forever once upon a time. A smile was there on his face and I felt one stretch across mine.
“I didn’t forget,” I said softly. “Are you ready for me to get screamed at?”
“It’s all gonna be fine, princess. Once they find out, once they know, it’ll all be okay. You know they’ve always loved you. Before that whole mess, anyway…”
“Yes, that mess. Do they know you’re here?”
“Thought I’d surprise ‘em. They’ve been begging me to come visit for a while now. I really miss this place…”
This place. I turned, coming face to face with a beautiful ranch home.
Soft, white panels covered the outside, a ramp there at the front that eventually connected to a porch that moved all along the front.
It was a small home. Cozy and warm looking, the kind you were supposed to grow up in unlike the one I was always miserable in.
I liked the garden out the front: the blossoming, bright rose bushes and how they seemed to be more spontaneously placed unlike the rigid, calculated garden back at my old home.
The empty one. The one I’d never have to go back to.
“Let’s go,” Bridger said, giving my thigh a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”
His tone was even, confident. Butterflies were roaring in my stomach as he got out of the car and opened the door up for me, his fingers tangled with mine as he guided me along the smooth, wide pathway that ascended into a ramp.
The air smelled fresh and light, but even that didn’t relax me. It was Bridger who knocked on the big brown door in front of us, his eyebrows waggling at me. And then the door swung open.
My head snapped to see who it was. Bridger’s dad.
William Underwood. He hadn’t changed at all since I last saw him, still with eyes the color of Bridger’s and a mop of dark hair.
A smile stretched across his lips, his hands lowering to the push rim of his wheelchair, but then his eyes flickered over to me, and that smile disappeared in record time.
Lips parted, I was just about to say hello when he slammed the door in our faces with a loud bang.
“Jeez, Dad!” Bridger snapped, fist pounding against the door. “Rude as fuck!”
“Don’t swear!” William called out from behind the door.
“Maybe I should…” I pointed behind us.
“No, baby, maybe you shouldn’t.” Bridger kept hitting the door. “Dad, come on!”
A good minute passed by before the door opened up again, this time revealing Bridger’s mother. Connie Underwood hadn’t aged a day either. Still with long, black locks and honey-colored eyes that always felt warm and inviting, especially to a girl who didn’t exactly find comfort in her own parents.
“Oh, he was right!” she cried out, her hands on her hips. “I thought he had finally gone crazy!”
“I told you!” William called out in the distance.
“You,” she said, pointing a finger at Bridger, “get inside.” Then her eyes moved to me. They were narrowed, her head shaking that tiny bit. “And you are not welcome in this house.”
“Mom,” Bridger said. “I get that you’re pissed. I understand. Let me explain. Just let us come inside and we’ll talk this out. The both of us.”
“I don’t want her in my house after what she did to you!” she snapped. “After all those horrible things she said!”
I fidgeted uncomfortably. “Bridger, maybe I’ll just…”
“You’re not leaving, princess,” Bridger said. “We’re all gonna talk this out. They need to know everything. Everything.”
Everything. Including me being pregnant. My hand landed on my stomach instinctively, and Connie’s eyes followed the action. I watched them widen a little before she breathed out shakily.
“Come inside,” she said, pulling open the door that little bit wider. “You didn’t tell me you were coming. A warning would have been nice.”
“You aren’t happy to see me?” Bridger asked, one hand on the small of my back, gesturing for me to move inside first.
“You?” she said. “Of course. You know you’re always welcome here. But your guest isn’t.”
The words stung, but I knew where they were coming from and what she was thinking. I was the spoiled rich bitch who was the reason her son was torn away from her for two years.
Despite all that anger, I felt a comfort wash over me as I stepped into the house, moving from the white walled entrance and over to the right and into what I assumed was the living room.
It was small and warm, and it felt sad that I already felt more comfortable in Bridger’s parents’ home than I did in the two gigantic lifeless mansions I had lived in.
I spotted William again. He had pulled himself from his chair, sitting on the deep, maroon colored couch; a loveseat of the same color sitting opposite it. A mixed tone of cushions covered it, a fireplace roaring in the background that offered the already welcoming room an orange, alluring glow.
The walls were covered with pictures, all spread out across the space.
Me and Gordon had only ever kept three photos up since we moved into that hideous mansion, one of him and his parents, the other on the day he graduated law school, and the last one featured us on our wedding day.
He knew I hated that memory, that it was nothing but an ugly scar of the past I had been forced to share with him.
But Bridger’s parents’ photos screamed warmth and gentle history: a photo of William with a baby Bridger in his arms, a photo of Connie with tears in her eyes and Bridger all dressed up for his first day of school, a photo of William and Connie on their wedding day.
So different to mine. Their smiles were so genuine, so blissful.
It was just the beginning of their new life together.
“Come sit,” Bridger said, our fingers still laced.
He pulled me into the loveseat adjacent to the couch, my eyes stuck on the coffee table that sat before us.
A few magazines sat on it, along with a lit candle.
I could smell vanilla, and for once, I was in a living room that was actually lived in.
It wasn’t all clinical and boring. It wasn’t staged.
I felt my nerves settle, but only for a second—because then Connie was back in the room, her eyes narrowed into a glare, and William was casting me the same look.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” Connie asked, hands on her hips as she stood a couple feet away from us. It was like she didn’t want to get too close to me. “What on earth have you been doing up there in Chicago?”
“Mom.” Bridger sighed, his hand on my thigh. “I know you’re confused. I get it. But—”
“Why would you bring her here?” she snapped, eyes landing on mine.
I nodded stiffly. “I know why you both don’t like me. Why you don’t want me here.”
“Bridger was in prison for two years,” his mom muttered.
“It’s not her fault,” Bridger said.
“Two very long years,” his dad chimed up.
“I wish I could have changed that,” I whispered.
I felt Bridger’s thumb rub against the skin on my thigh, the gesture beyond comforting.
“If I could go back in time and fix things, I would, but since I can’t…
I’m sorry about everything that happened.
I was stupid and young and I was lied to, and I know that’s not an excuse, but everyone made me think Bridger had hurt me.
I know now that he’d never do something so cruel… ”
“That’s nice,” Connie said, voice drenched with sarcasm. She eyed her son. “Can we get your side of the story now?”
“Juliette’s pregnant,” Bridger blurted out casually.
I took in a choked breath, watching as his mom just rolled her eyes and shook her head as his dad gaped at us. The room was silent, awkward, uncomfortable, but it had to be done.
“Are you sure the baby is yours?” William finally asked.
Bridger chuckled deeply. “Oh, definitely.”
“I don’t even know where to begin with this whole reuniting thing,” Connie said, huffing softly, “but it’s late and I’m already exhausted just looking at the two of you. I take it you’ve driven all the way down from Chicago today, so you’re probably both tired and hungry.”
“I was hoping to spend the night, to explain everything,” Bridger said. “You’re right about us being tired, and I don’t want to put Juliette under any more stress. Not with the baby and all.”
“Baby.” William’s eyes closed. “I can’t believe it.”
“Me either,” Connie said. Pushing her hands through her long locks, she cleared her throat. “You two come into the kitchen and eat then. Use the guest room. Eat, shower, sleep. Then in the morning, we’ll deal with whatever mess you’ve made.”
“Great.” Bridger stood up, his hands on Connie’s shoulders as he leaned down to press his lips to her cheek. “Missed you so much, Mom. I know you’re pissed—”
“No swearing,” she said, cutting him off.
“But it’s real nice seeing you two,” Bridger continued as he looked over his shoulder. “Missed you too, Dad.”
“You’re an idiot,” his father muttered.
Snorting, Bridger clapped his hands together and turned to me, shooting me a crooked smile that was all bright and amused. “You told me you missed my mom’s cooking, princess. Aren’t you happy I brought you here?”
“So happy,” I said softly.
He helped me up and guided me away from the couch, and when I looked over my shoulder, I could see his parents having a hushed, worried looking conversation.
“They’re so mad at me,” I mumbled. “They hate me. I don’t blame them for hating me.”
“They’ll get over it,” Bridger said as we entered the kitchen.
I was taken aback by how much life it had. Yellow walls; fresh flowers spread across the small, round dining table; the fridge covered in a million silly, bright magnets. Homely, warm. Something I had never had.
“Let’s see what Mom made.” Bridger yanked the fridge open before he crouched down a little to look inside, his hands rubbing together. “Roast chicken. Nice. I’ll get your plate ready. You stay put.”
Bridger pulled open a chair for me at the dining table. I took a seat as Bridger got to work, peering over my shoulder again for a second and catching a glimpse of his parents still deep in conversation. I was certain I was the topic of discussion.
I hoped when tomorrow came, so would their forgiveness.