Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Bridger
Loren wouldn’t let me drive her home.
She said she wanted to stick around after dinner and watch a movie with her dad. So I left her to get a ride share later. Which makes me …
Not happy.
While I wait to hear that she’s home safe, my brain is a tornado of thoughts.
About trusts and conditions and money that could solve so many problems. My mind won’t power down.
Even a little bit. So I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, cataloging every crack in the drywall.
If I do this long enough, maybe they’ll morph into letters that spell out answers to the question running through my head:
How can I get Loren to let me help her?
They don’t. Answer me, I mean. Or even morph, for that matter. And as it turns out, there’s no easy solution on the periodic table, either. No element for “fix everything.” Believe me, I looked.
When the moon’s high enough to shine through the window, my phone buzzes with a text, interrupting … not sleep.
LOREN
Home safe. Lionel and his Honda were a delight.
Me
I would’ve stayed.
LOREN
I’m aware. And thanks for taking no for an answer. We watched Beauty and the Beast.
ME
You and Lionel?
LOREN
Ha ha ha. The movie was magnificent as always. Minus some mild crying at the end. Just me. Not my dad. But you can stop worrying about me now. I’m good.
That last part is highly doubtful, but I’m not going to debate this with her.
ME
My worry isn’t entirely unfounded, for the record.
LOREN
After what you told me today, I’m worried about you too TBH.
ME
Hmm. Conversation for another time.
LOREN
So you can dish it out, but you can’t take it, huh?
ME
Get some rest now.
LOREN
Same. Don’t run off and get married.
ME
Ha ha ha.
I think I lost Rosalind’s number.
I wait for text bubbles that don’t come.
Then I wait a few minutes more just in case.
But apparently, Loren’s done for the night.
Which is probably for the best. Hopefully, she’ll be able to get some sleep.
Settling back against the pillow, I picture her tired smile just before I left.
And then earlier, the way her shoulders settled when her dad followed Noah down the hall.
Both Harlan and Loren count on the guy. And they’re losing him. Soon.
If she’d let me, I could make things easier for Loren. My ribs tighten at the thought. The woman will accept help for her father. But help for herself?
Not so much.
After another half hour of fitful sleeplessness, I admit defeat.
The treadmill’s calling my name.
I run for almost a full hour, keeping the speed cranked and the incline brutal. When the time’s up my lungs are burning, and sweat pours down my face. But my mind’s still racing. So I add ten more minutes.
In the end, I’ve blown through my longest Spotify playlist. My heart’s hammering, and I’m slightly dizzy as I stumble off the machine.
No one’s here if I faint, though.
One scalding shower later, my legs are jelly, and my stomach’s still full of stones. So much for exercise as therapy. Or a sleeping pill. I towel off, pull on a clean T-shirt, and finally do the thing I’ve been avoiding since I left Harlan’s house.
I listen to my mother’s message.
“Hello, son.”
Her voice is exactly as I knew it would be. Cool and precise. Calibrated to land without raising the volume.
“It’s been months since you accessed your trust. Unexpectedly, I might add. And the two of us have yet to discuss the implications. I’m afraid you’ve been avoiding the subject, Bridger.”
Yep. It’s been eight months, actually. And we haven’t spoken at all. About anything. I didn’t come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, either, but I guess you don’t care about that.
“If you intend to utilize your trust further, all conditions still apply. And I need hardly remind you about the date coming up. Or do I?”
I sit on the edge of the bed, head hanging. To help Sayla and Dex and Stony Peak, I deluded myself into thinking I could stay under her radar. Just dip in once or twice a year. Get in and get out, right?
Wrong.
“This is not a death sentence, Bridger. On the contrary. Marriage is a stabilizing institution that benefits everyone involved when done correctly.”
She takes a beat. And the irony almost pulls a laugh out of me.
Done correctly.
I guess Margaret Adams is more of a “do as I say, not as I do” kind of mom, given the fact that her own marriage crumbled. My dad walked out on us with zero warning. Not so stabilizing when I was ten.
“Rosalind is more than suitable,” she continues, as if she hasn’t just said something unintentionally hilarious. Or maddening. Or sad. “The Barringtons understand discretion. They share our long-term priorities.”
They. Our.
Not Rosalind’s and mine.
“But we need to move quickly. Time is running out. Rosalind is prepared. Call me.”
The message ends, and I drop the phone on the mattress, then scrub a hand over my face. She didn’t say the words out loud, but she might as well have.
Marry or lose control.
Control of future donations. Control of the programs and scholarships I’ve dreamed of creating. Control of whether or not the money does anything good.
Ever again.
Loren’s face floats before me, hanging on by a thread, but still reluctant to let me buy her a couple of burgers. And the truth is, I could still be generous on my teacher's salary. I might even convince her to let me pay for a meal now and then.
But without the trust, I can’t offer to build a new gym or theater.
Can’t afford to send her dad to Havenwood.
Come morning, Loren will probably be downtown, pursuing her application as a server. Host. Bartender. Whatever shifts she can stack between tutoring, lesson plans, and paper grading once the school year starts up again.
And that’s just her day job. Forget caring for her father. How much longer will he be safe at home by himself, assuming he’s not already at risk? Live-in help comes with an even higher price tag. Add that to the past medical debt she’s already drowning in.
If I could do something—anything—I would.
My mom wants to talk about stability? Fine. I want stability for Loren. For her father. And yeah, even for Stony Peak. I want to keep the donations going that I foolishly promised last fall. But I can only do that if I play the game. If I follow the rules.
If I marry Rosalind.
I try to picture her face now, the exact shape of her smile, or the sound of her laugh, but Rosalind’s fuzzy.
Which makes sense since we’ve only met twice.
A couple of polite dinners with decent conversation.
But that was years ago. Way before I fled the city for North Carolina.
Before I got a degree in something I actually wanted.
Credentials. Certifications. Then Harvest Hollow and Stony Peak High.
Loren.
Everything keeps circling back to that school. To her.
So … Rosalind. Right. She’s smart and polished. Kind, if I recall correctly. I don’t dislike her. I just don’t know her. And she doesn’t know that a piece of my heart already belongs to someone who has no idea she owns me.
I stand, pacing the length of my bedroom. The king-sized bed takes up too much space in this too-small house, and I stub my toe on the foot of it, hopping around, cursing at the pain shooting up my leg. At the helplessness of it all.
I face the mirror over the dresser, take in my gritted teeth. My hollow eyes.
No. I refuse to be helpless.
This is about responsibility, in the end. About using what I have to benefit the most people. If Margaret Adams wants to swing around a big stick of control, fine. I’ll bring out a bigger one. I collapse on the bed as the easiest solution settles in my gut like a boulder.
A big old Barrington boulder.
I’ll marry Rosalind. Not for myself, but for everyone and everything I care about. I’ll make her my wife, then spend the rest of my life going against my mother’s wishes.
Not for spite.
For good.
And you know what? My mom could be right about one thing: a loveless marriage doesn’t have to be a tragedy. I’ve seen worse. Her marriage was worse. If Rosalind and I are honest with each other up front, no one has to be hurt.
The woman likely has no delusions about the reason for our union. We could set up boundaries and live separate lives with parallel futures, both centered around access to our wealth. She’d be free to use hers as she wishes, and I’d use mine for all the things that matter. To me.
This could work. No, it will work.
But.
There’s someone I want to tell about this first, and she’s probably not going to like it.
No, she definitely won’t. She already said as much.
Still, Loren’s one of the few people who knows about the money.
And the clause. So I feel like I owe her the heads-up.
Plus she’s my friend. My good friend. A point she makes as often as she can.
And since that’s all we’ll ever be, I need to do what’s right for the most people, regardless of her opinion.
So I grab my phone, finger hovering over her contact, then I stop myself. This can wait until tomorrow. Loren’s probably beyond exhausted after the day she just had. Hopefully, she’s sound asleep now, back at Dex’s, on the mattress we dragged up the stairwell.
Man.
Was that less than twenty-four hours ago?
Talk about a pivot.
Just past dawn, my phone starts blaring at me from the nightstand.
A call from Dex.
“Whhhhhy,” I groan. “What’s so important that you gotta talk to me this early?”
“Sorry, man,” he says, on a low chuckle. “But you’re usually up by now.”
I haul myself upright, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m glad my fatigue amuses you.”
“Anyway, you left your little toolbox here yesterday, champ.”
“Not mine,” I grunt, my voice still rusty. “I put that stuff together for Loren.”
“Ahhh.” Another chuckle from Dex. “Of course you did.”
I run a hand through my bed-head hair. “I just figured she’d need some basics now that she’s living alone.”
“Uh-huh. So we’re just going to pretend your little toolbox means nothing more than friendship?”
“Stop saying little,” I mutter. “I’ll come by to pick up the completely normal-sized toolbox in about fifteen and bring it to her.”
That gives me an excuse to talk to Loren in person. Tell her my plans face-to-face.
“Sayla and I won’t be here then. We’re headed to Stony Peak.”
“Now?”
“The contractors want to see us. The renovations are mostly done, but they’re basically out of budget, so we’ve got a couple last-minute choices to make.”
At this, my chest constricts. Wilford probably called Dex about the budget right after he called Loren. No more money for the gym or theater is bad for the school. No more money for summer school positions is bad for her. Just another reason I need to control my trust. “Sorry, man.”
“Not your fault,” Dex says. “Hopefully, Lincoln James will snag a big movie role soon. Toss out another one of those anonymous donations.”
I can practically hear the air quotes, and I grimace to no one but myself.
Not telling Dex I was the donor seemed like a good idea last year. I’m not about the flex. And I was honestly hopeful no one would ever have to find out.
But now that Loren knows the truth, I don’t want to keep the news from my best friend. Sayla either. I’m just not sure how and when to drop something like that.
It’s gonna be weird.
“Let’s not forget the good news you are responsible for,” Dex quips.
“Which is?”
“Loren has a brand-new toolbox!” He pushes out a guffaw, and I can’t help admiring my friend’s ability to stay positive. Whether or not that means busting my chops.
“Yeah, yeah. She does.” I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “If you leave the box on the porch, I’ll pick it up and drop it off at Loren’s myself.”
“Right. Special delivery,” he snarks. “I’d say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but I know it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“You’re already in love with your coworker. Just like I am.”
I frown, but the man isn’t wrong. I am fully in love with Loren.
And she’s the reason I’m about to marry someone else.
A half hour later, when I swing by Dex and Sayla’s house, the completely normal-sized toolbox is on their porch. Harvest Hollow isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Gardening equipment, bikes, skateboards—pretty much any personal property—is safe here, even left in the front yard.
The town is ridiculously safe. For objects. Maybe not so much for my heart.
Related: the drive to Loren’s is almost too quick.
I’m not sure how to tell her I’m going through with the marriage to Rosalind, but I figure I’ll break the ice by gifting her the tools. Given the fact that she basically dubbed me Richie Rich yesterday, the gesture seems kind of underwhelming now.
Too bad I’m short on other options.
I draw in a breath and square my shoulders, preparing to knock, but the door swings open first.
Loren’s standing there in a loose robe and pink cotton pajamas. And by pajamas, I mean a matching tank top and shorts. Emphasis on short.
Her red hair is damp and clipped up chaotically. She’s got cow slippers on her feet.
Related: cow slippers are my new favorite.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she says, pulling her robe tighter.
“You were?”
“Sayla called with a heads-up. And also to check on me, since I was all dramatic yesterday and fainted in her living room.”
“Well, I come bearing gifts,” I say, aiming for calm, although my pulse is amped for the whole Rosalind conversation.
Loren nods to indicate the toolbox. “You didn’t have to.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I just put together a few basics I already had two of in my garage. They were taking up space. Extra hammer. Screwdriver. Level. Stuff like that. No big deal.”
“So you mentioned.” She tilts her head. “And I accept, due to the clear lack of bigness of this particular deal.” She coughs out a laugh. “And by that I mean thank you.”
“You’re more than welcome.” I shrug. “Also.” I take a beat, and my heart starts pumping harder. “I figured we should talk some more. About yesterday. A lot went down, and we kept getting interrupted.”
“I expected that too,” she steps backward and gestures for me to come inside. “I made a pot of coffee. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
On the other side of the door, the space is warm and smells like freshly ground dark roast. And also like Loren’s shampoo. Which I like very much.
The bag of apple cider donuts is still on the table.
“So.” I take a deep breath, bracing. “I’ve been thinking.”
Loren shuts the door. Rounds on me.
“First things first.” She meets my gaze. “Tell me you didn’t elope with Rosalind.”