Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Loren
Something you should know about my dad is he doesn’t believe in boundaries.
Ditto to personal space.
He’s always been a hugger, and that instinct’s only grown in the past few years. Probably a side effect of losing my mom. I think he misses the physical touch and emotional connection they had, and that breaks my heart whenever I notice.
Little chunks at a time.
Right now, he’s holding on to Bridger like they’ve been bosom buddies for years.
A full-on bear hug can’t be far behind. If Bridger had come into my life even one year earlier, he and my father would probably know each other already.
But introducing people—even good friends—can be confusing for my dad.
At least potentially. I never really know.
Solution: I don’t bring anyone around, for everybody’s sake.
Until now.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” my dad says, hauling Bridger into the house. The place still smells like the Pine Sol I used on the floors yesterday, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks that nothing’s gotten too messy or cluttered.
Yet.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cane,” Bridger starts, then he glances at me, like he doesn’t know how to proceed.
Yeah. That makes two of us.
“Call me Foster,” my dad says.
My ex? No, no, no.
“Wait.” He shifts into a handshake before releasing his grip on Bridger. “No.” He squints. “That’s not right.”
It’s about as wrong as you can get. My stomach knots. From across the room, Noah darts a glance at me and nods, a nonverbal reminder that I’m supposed to give my dad space to figure things out first.
But in front of Bridger, I just … I can’t.
“Harlan,” I say. “Your name is Harlan, Dad.”
“Yes!” His smile bounces between Bridger and me. “I’m glad you two finally showed up. Noah’s already here. But Noah’s always here.”
“Bridger can’t stay, Dad.”
“Of course he can.” More grinning from my father. He’d turn life into one long social gathering if he could. But there are only so many hours in the day I can visit him. Between school and tutoring and, now, possibly waitressing, he’ll be on his own even more.
Too much.
Which is why a place like Havenwood would be so much safer for him.
Even better than a live-in caregiver, honestly.
I’ve got Ring notifications and trackers on my phone right now.
A health-alert bracelet on his wrist. I check in constantly on the phone.
Monitor the cameras. But those are stopgap measures.
At Havenwood, he’d not only have full-time support but also companionship. Community.
He’d have Noah.
But the cost isn’t even close to something we can afford.
I cast a quick glance at Bridger. Could I really let him—
Don’t even finish that thought.
No. Final answer.
Even if he’d let me, I’d never be able to repay him. Not to mention, relying on someone else is just too … risky. Especially when the fallout involves my father.
I learned that lesson the hard way, when Foster left me. My dad struggled too. He abandoned us both. And we’re a package deal. So I won’t let my relationships impact him.
Not again.
“Make yourselves at home,” my dad booms. He gestures toward the same old sofa and matching armchairs I grew up with.
In the corner, there’s an oversized pot that used to sport a ficus.
But my dad doesn’t have a green thumb, so we stopped replacing it after my mom died.
An abandoned mug and a plate with a half-eaten sandwich sit on the coffee table. Still, there’s nothing too … off.
I exhale.
“Did you see my roses out front?” My dad beams at Bridger. “Your wife would have loved them.”
His wife? I push aside a wave of panic. This is probably an uptick in my dad’s disorientation. A reaction to the introduction of someone he doesn’t recognize. Still. “Dad,” I jump in. “He’s not mar—”
“Your roses are beautiful,” Bridger says, stepping in. “Happen to be a big fan.”
“A man with excellent taste.” My dad claps him on the shoulder. “Where have you been hiding this one, Loren?”
“I’m here now.” Bridger sends me a smile of reassurance. He’s a natural with my dad, but I should’ve expected this. A part of me did, I guess. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have let him walk me to the door.
“Sit, sit.” My dad gestures toward the couch. “Both of you.”
“I hate to interrupt,” Noah says, intervening. “But we weren’t quite done, Harlan. You were helping me set up the new tracker app, remember?” He makes a move toward the hall. “Let’s finish up in the sunroom.” He waves for my dad to follow him.
Instead, my dad plops into a chair, launching into a story about me when I was eight years old.
Great.
Bridger takes the chair next to my dad and listens. He laughs in the right places. He doesn’t flinch or rush the punchlines or try to finish his sentences. Meanwhile, I sink onto the couch across from them and observe.
A few years ago, I decided my friends would never have to see this. More a survival mechanism for me than anything else. I can’t stand the look in the eyes of people who knew my parents before. Before the scleroderma took my mom. Before the FTD started stealing my dad.
And at this point, most of my childhood friends have moved away or moved on, so it’s not an issue.
Sayla’s the only current friend who’s even met my dad.
Until tonight.
But now Bridger’s here in the house where I was raised, hearing about the girl I used to be. Before. I fold my arms across my chest and will the lump in my throat to dissolve. That’s when Noah tries again.
“Hey, Harlan. Sunroom?”
“In a minute,” my dad says. “I’m telling Bridger about the time Loren loaded up her Hello Kitty backpack and ran away to—” He stops to scratch his head. “The circus?” He glances at me for confirmation. “Ringling Brothers, wasn’t it?”
“It was the Asheville Aquarium,” I say. “I was obsessed with being a marine biologist.”
“Ah, yes. My little Orca. You wanted to swim with the whales and train dolphins.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Exactly.”
Noah catches my eye, and I see an apology there, which makes me feel even worse than I already do.
“Ready for Noah, Dad?” I prompt.
“We just need to test out that new app,” Noah says, taking his cue. “Then we’ll finish up with some stretching exercises. Sound good?”
“Yep.” My dad rises from his chair. “Work the brain first, then the body.”
“You got it,” Noah says.
“In the meantime, I’ll set the table,” I say, as brightly as I can. “Dinner’s on the way. Bridger ordered smokestack burgers and sweet potato fries from Hickory Grill.”
“Oh! Is he eating with us?”
My heart sinks. Blurting Bridger’s name out like that was so dumb. “Oh. Um. I …”
“There’s only enough for two, tonight,” Bridger says, saving me from the stammer. “Maybe next time?”
My dad perks up. “I’ll hold you to that raincheck.”
“Yes, sir. I expect you to.”
As my dad follows Noah down the hall, there’s a new bounce to his step. Bridger did that.
Without being asked. Or told. He just figured it out.
“Hey, there.” He leans forward now, peering at me across the coffee table. Dark hair falls over his forehead, and dust from our move still streaks his forearms.
“Hey, back,” I say.
“Food’s almost here.” He lifts his phone to show me the new notification. “I’ll handle the delivery.”
I manage a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“You all right?”
I push out a chuckle. “Oh, I’m a whole lot of things, and all right doesn’t feel like one of them. But thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“Being so good with my dad.”
Bridger hitches his shoulders. “I like him.”
“I like him too.” I stand to collect the coffee and half-eaten sandwich. “But sometimes, I kind of feel like I ended up in the circus after all.”
Bridger heads out front to grab the food, then he finds me in the kitchen at the sink. When he sets the bag on the table, the scent of hot cheese and meat sends my stomach into a rumble.
“I’m starving,” I admit, absently rinsing a plate.
“I’ll bet.” He comes to the sink, takes the plate, and snags a dish towel. “Let me help.”
“You’ve done so much al—”
“Two more hands can’t hurt.”
“That sounds like math,” I sigh, too tired to protest.
So I let him help.
While he dries the dishes, I wipe down the counters. I’m about to start a quick mop of the floors when Noah pokes his head in.
“I’m heading out.”
“Oh.” A thrum of nerves vibrates below my ribs. “That felt fast.”
“Harlan did great. He’s just washing up for dinner.” He runs a palm over his head, and something passes behind his eyes. “About next week,” he says. “These evening appointments—”
I throw up a hand, cutting him off. “I know, and I understand,” I say, hoping I don’t choke on the words. “We’re really going to miss you.”
“I really wish I could do both. This and Havenwood.”
“And I really wish I could clone you.”
As I walk him to the door, I’m tempted to crawl under the couch cushions. I’d love to take a nap in a pretend fort right now. The kind I used to build when swimming with whales was my biggest goal.
After he’s gone, I stand for a moment too long, staring out the window and calculating the money I’d need to replace him with someone full-time.
Somebody who’s still not Noah.
When I turn, Bridger is watching. Not with pity. With understanding.
“You did good,” he tells me.
“I did well,” I say, forcing a laugh, but my eyes begin to water. “Not really, though.”
And that’s when I realize today hasn’t been about my move or the lost summer school position, or about my fainting. It isn’t about my father or cheeseburgers, either. It’s about the moment Bridger Adams saw how hard things are for me.
And he didn’t look away.