Chapter 1 #2
So I pretend to eat, while Bridger checks the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors.
Like helping me rearrange my entire life is part of his normal weekend to-do list. Then again, Bridger’s been a better-than-normal friend since the day we met in the faculty lounge.
And then after Dr. Foster Abel jilted me, especially.
I really hate that word, by the way.
Jilted.
As an English teacher, though, I respect the accuracy.
Anyway, Foster did me a favor, in his own twisted way. Thanks to him, I swore off love forever. Repeatedly and loudly. In that very same faculty lounge. And I stand by that promise today. I can’t risk that kind of pain again.
I won’t.
I’ve got my students to focus on. And my father to take care of. As it is, there aren’t enough hours in the day to juggle my commitments. I can’t afford to dilute my heart even a little bit.
I can, however, appreciate a better-than-normal friend. And the way Bridger anticipates my needs.
Even the ones I don’t say out loud.
I glance at him now, on a step ladder, putting new batteries in the smoke detector. The cords in his forearms flex, and his calf muscles strain. Man, I wish I could stop sweating. I blow out a breath.
I need some air.
Lumbering up from the couch, I fling open the curtains and window. Sunlight spills across the floor, feeding me in a way a donut never could. I turn my face toward the sky, and the June breeze carries a hum of cicadas inside.
My mother’s voice suddenly bubbles up from that soft space where I keep her memory safely tucked.
Hope is never a bad idea, she whispers.
Then the smoke detector shrieks.
“Gah!” I cover my ears.
So much for hope.
“Sorry!” Bridger calls out. “Just testing the battery!”
“I’m good,” I chirp. And I really want to be good. But when my phone buzzes in my back pocket, my heart automatically braces for impact. I haven’t checked on my dad in hours.
But it’s not Dad news.
It’s Sayla.
Sayla
Just landed at AVL! Back from paradise to the mainland. Married life will be all downhill from here - lol!
Me
Shut up. You know you’re ecstatic to be Mrs. Michaels.
SAYLA
Dex keeps calling me wifey. It’s the worst.
ME
Liar. You love it.
SAYLA
Maybe a little.
See you at home?
Right. She doesn't know I already moved out. So I send her a string of kissy face emojis, which is a vague enough response. Not to mention true. But Bridger and I are officially on the clock now to beat the newlyweds back home and set up their surprise.
So we hastily lock up the apartment—my apartment—and speed across town to make quick work of the plan in my head.
Scatter rose petals across the house and into the bedroom, ending on the comforter in the shape of a heart.
Arrange tea-light candles in curated intervals following the same path.
Chill a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the dresser. (Their dresser.)
Leave two monogrammed crystal flutes on the nightstand.
As a finishing touch, because I try to think of everything, we place a lighter by the first candle in the door. This way, Sayla and Dex can deal with the candles when they get home.
We’re not about to leave unattended candles burning. Although setting the house on fire feels kind of on brand for me right now.
I stand back to survey the effect. “Perfect,” I say, giving Bridger a high five. Honestly? I’m proud of us. But I’m also exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. So I lean against the wall and let out a tiny, barely there, hardly noticeable sigh.
Bridger notices.
“You all right?” He ducks to meet my gaze, his dark hair falling over his forehead.
“Mm-hmm.”
“You sure?”
If he knew how fragile I actually feel, he’d insist on keeping me company all night. So I keep the focus on the happy couple. “I was just thinking about how beautiful Sayla looked on her wedding day. Like, statistically impossible levels of beauty. No other bride will ever match her.”
Bridger shrugs.
“What?” I blink. “You don’t agree?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face did.”
“No, no, Sayla was definitely beautiful.” He lifts his palms. “But you’re the one who threw in statistical impossibilities.” His lip twitches. “And as a scientist, I don’t think anyone can objectively quantify—”
My phone starts buzzing again. A call this time, not a text. Another leap of my heart.
Please don't be Dad news.
“Hold that thought, Bill Nye,” I interrupt. When I check my phone, Larry Wilford’s contact scrolls across my screen. I flash it at Bridger so he knows our principal is trying to reach me.
On a Sunday evening.
Weird.
“Hey, boss!” I greet him brightly, even as my insides twinge. “What’s up?”
“Loren, hello,” he booms. “How are you?”
“Pretty good.” I chuckle. “Ready to enjoy my one week off between summer school sessions.”
“Yes, well, about that,” he hedges. “I have an update, and I wanted to tell you as soon as possible.”
“Uh. That sounds ominous.” A nervous laugh trills out of me. “Is my next class going to be super packed or something?”
“The opposite.” He clears his throat. “Our enrollment numbers are down across all grades. Fewer failures last spring. Which means the English teachers were exceptionally effective. So hats off to your department.”
“Thank you. I do love a good hat removal.” I glance at Bridger and grit my teeth. Awkward. “So the update is good?”
“Not entirely,” Mr. Wilford says. “You see, the district can’t justify running two English classes in the second session anymore.”
“Oh, no,” I say flatly.
But my stomach craters.
If there’s only one class, the job will go to Judy Hollis. She’s got seniority over me by one year. Twelve stupid months. I always knew the position wasn’t a guarantee. The district couldn’t even offer me a contract for the entire summer. Still, I figured the universe owed me a good turn.
I have all my lesson plans ready.
“We’re going to have to cram all forty students—freshmen to seniors—into Judy’s room,” Mr. Wilford continues, like I hadn’t already connected those dots.
“I understand,” I eke out, willing my chin not to quiver.
“We thought we’d have enough left in the budget to fund another section,” he says. “Splitting the grades would have been preferable. Alas …” His voice drifts off, taking with it my final shred of financial stability.
Alas.
I glance at Bridger. As expected, his jaw is rigid.
Mr. Worrywart is worrying about me again.
But I’m still desperately clinging to hope. “What about the money we got from that anonymous donor last fall?”
“That’s long gone.” Mr. Wilford sighs. “Renovations on the gym and the theater soaked up every last penny. Unfortunately, damage from the storm was a lot worse than the estimate. Mother Nature really did her worst with that one.”
“Worst. Right.” I turn my back, so Bridger can’t see my eyes welling up. “I’d heard those donations would be recurring, though.”
“I’m afraid Stony Peak won’t be seeing anything more from the donor this year,” Mr. Wilford says. “Or possibly ever.”
“Who’s saying that?”
“Superintendent Dewey heard from the donor this week. The money is on hold. Indefinitely.”
“Okay. Wow.” I expel a trembly breath.
“I wish there were more I could do,” he says. “You’re one of our best teachers, and I know you were counting on the job.”
“Yeah, I really was.”
Understatement.
“If you want to take on a sixth class in the fall, I can give you first dibs,” he offers. “Of course, that won’t help you this summer. And you’d have to give up your prep period, but …”
But.
I might not have a choice.
“I’ll think about it.” My voice wobbles. “Thanks for the update.”
“Of course. Have a good—”
Rude or not, I hang up before Mr. Wilford can finish his sentence. Bridger crosses the room, his body tensed, ready to spring into action.
He puts his hands on my shoulders, while I stand there frozen. “What happened?”
“I’m fine.” The words crack in my throat. “Everything is fine.”
Except I just lost half my summer income. And my dad’s on the brink of needing full-time care. Even with my salary, his health benefits, and social security payments, we’ve barely made a dent in the mountain of debt from my mom’s medical bills.
“Loren.” Bridger’s gaze holds steady.
“I’ll be all right.” I fight the tears. “I will.”
“I know.” He gathers my body to him and wraps me in a big warm hug. “Tell me anyway.”
His hug is the last straw.
Words start gushing out of my mouth like water from a firehose. All the words, sniffled against his chest.
About the summer job I lost.
And the fact that I just applied for shifts as a nighttime and weekend hostess because I already tutor in the afternoons.
About how my dad already needs more help than I can afford.
And the fact that frontotemporal dementia doesn’t care about bank balances.
About how I still try to show up as a caregiver in all my nonexistent free time.
And the fact that I quite literally have no idea how I'll manage when classes start up again this fall.
I hate laying all these burdens at my friend’s feet. Especially a friend who worries about me as much as Bridger does. Sounding weak and sad and desperate is my least favorite thing, but he’s here, and I have to tell someone.
Or else I’ll burst.
When I finish, on a hiccupy cough, his look of sympathy almost splits me down the middle. So I step out of his arms and push out a laugh.
“Anyway, I’ve heard great things about those middle-of-the-night, online gigs teaching English to students in Japan.”
“You can’t work harder than you already are,” he says, his voice gruff. “There has to be a better option.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I’ll just rub my magic lamp and let a genie grant my wish like Aladdin.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I can be your genie.”
“Oh, right!” This pulls a snort out of me. And honestly, I’m kind of grateful for the release. “I totally forgot you’re sitting on a giant pile of cash.”
He shifts his weight. “I am, though.”
“Lovely.” I manage a smirk. “If you’d told me sooner, I wouldn’t have turned in that application at Tequila Mockingbird.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“That you’re secretly wealthy?”
“Yes.” His mouth doesn’t quirk. Even a millimeter.
“Fantastic,” I deadpan.
“I never planned to tell anybody. But I trust you.”
I frown, too tired to keep joking. “Trust me with what, exactly?”
He takes a step closer. “You remember the anonymous donation Stony Peak got last fall … after the storm destroyed the theater?”
“Obviously.” That chunk of money saved the school. Dex got the new gym he’d been fighting for, and Sayla got her new theater. No compromise required. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
He exhales. One quick breath. “The money was mine.”
“Wait. What?” My stomach dips, and goosebumps travel up my spine. A trail of shivery breadcrumbs. “But that funding came from some random donor. Anonymously.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re saying—”
“That was me.”
“Whoa.”
I probably should’ve eaten more than a bite of donut today.
As my vision tunnels, and the room fades away, Bridger lunges, shouting my name.
And then I’m on the floor.
Cradled by Bridger Adams.
The anonymous donor.