Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Loren
Two weeks after my dad moved to Havenwood, I finally start to believe he could be safe. Even when I’m not with him in person. Even when I’m not checking in remotely. Still, I’ve got years of worry-habits to unravel, and he’s got years of practice with my hovering. So the shift is an adjustment.
For both of us.
His adjustment involves plenty of sunshine, extra PT sessions with Noah, and signing up for every enrichment activity Havenwood offers. Literally all of them. Joanna told me.
My adjustment involves plenty of snacking.
Oh, and Bridger.
One night, I find him on his laptop, reading all about brain-health optimization.
Naturally, I ask him if this particular research is inspired by me.
After all, my dad’s brain health is … sub-optimal …
and I may have inherited his issue. But Bridger swears he just wants to focus on getting healthy before his thirtieth birthday.
Spoiler alert: he’s as bad a liar as I am.
Still, his gesture takes my breath away.
The man clearly wants to care for me in practical, logical ways using methods that don’t involve money.
So under the guise of promoting his health, we both commit to a whole new lifestyle routine.
And in case you’re ever in the market for any kind of optimizing or routine, Bridger Adams is your guy.
We start each morning with a walk outside for the fresh air and exercise.
Then, with breakfast, we gulp down a series of vitamins and probiotics.
In the evenings, we make our dinners from scratch, and Bridger turns out to be a shockingly good cook, considering he grew up in a household with a professional chef.
I’ve eaten fish now. Twice.
I hardly recognize myself.
Before bed, we do meditation and yoga to lower our stress levels and improve sleep. And let me tell you, watching my husband bend his well-muscled body into downward dog is a sight to behold.
As for the rest of the day, we spend the bulk of our hours apart, which is exactly what we’d planned. The goal was never for us to be glued at the hip. So we definitely aren’t.
Glued, I mean.
Most afternoons, I still tutor. I owe that much to my current students.
But the middle of my day is reserved for my dad.
We watch the Braves on TV in the common area, and play cribbage in the garden.
Yesterday, he invited me to lunch in the dining hall with his new friends.
He calls them his fellas. They’re amazing. He’s amazing.
I love him so, so much.
Meanwhile, Bridger hears nothing from his mother, outside of their formal contact through the trust. Having zero direct contact with the woman responsible for our marriage feels off. But he swears it’s on brand. I decide it’s preferable.
And I stop asking him about her.
He spends his days at Stony Peak with Sayla and Dex, helping them to reassemble the gymnasium and the theater.
Since renovations on the buildings are mostly complete, there’s a ton of stuff to move back in.
Or so I’m told. I haven’t lifted a single basketball or stage light.
But none of them expects me to leave my dad for that.
They want me exactly where I am.
This morning, in a slight detour to our routine, Bridger is meeting Dex for a workout in the new weight room, and I’m meeting Sayla over at Havenwood.
She and Joanna are working on a volunteer program starting this fall where Sayla’s theater students will perform for the residents in exchange for community service credits.
Sayla and I are planning to have tea afterward. And if my dad’s not too busy with a pottery class or mahjong or watercolors or journaling, Sayla might even get to see him.
I warned her not to get her hopes up.
I’m halfway across town when I remember my dad asked me to bring my senior yearbook today. He wants to show me off to the fellas, now that they know who I am. And anyway, memories like that are good for him. So I make a U-turn and head home. Bridger’s car is still in the circular drive.
“I’m back,” I call out, hurrying down the hall. When he doesn’t reply, I figure he’s upstairs getting ready for the gym. “And I’m not an intruder,” I continue. Hopefully, talking to yourself is a definite sign of optimal brain health.
I move quickly toward my bedroom, because Sayla’s meeting with Joanna is already underway, and I don’t want to be late for our tea. “I think I left the box of stuff from my dad’s on the—”
I come around the corner and freeze.
The bathroom door is shut. But I left it open, didn’t I? A shiver runs up my spine, and I cock an ear. From the other side of the wall comes the echo of water pelting the marble. And then, above that, some kind of hybrid of hummed tunes and mangled song lyrics.
Wait.
“Bridger is singing in my shower?” I whisper. “Before a workout?”
My mouth curves up, and I move closer to the door, listening as his warbling continues. On the second verse, I finally recognize the melody. Taylor Swift. “Wildest Dreams.”
The song that played while I walked down the aisle at our wedding.
A giggle bubbles up inside me. This might be the cutest thing anyone has ever overheard, and I probably wouldn’t believe it without proof. So I pull out my phone, open my camera, and start to record.
Footage for Margaret.
But as Bridger continues to sing his heart out, completely wrecking T-Swift’s song, a flush spreads across my cheeks, and I realize I will never show this video to another human being.
It’s way too intimate, and he’s far too sweet.
So I take a small step backward, preparing to tiptoe out of the room.
And that’s when he switches to a new song. More mangling, different lyrics.
“Marry Me” by Train.
Our first dance.
My heart rate skyrockets, and I remain there frozen for another two minutes while Bridger cycles through chunks of two more songs: “Galileo” and “Ghost.” He gets at least every tenth word wrong, but since our wedding, he has clearly listened to every song that played a role in our lives together. Many times.
Each cell in my body, brain, and heart longs to hang around to see him come out of that bathroom, his torso glistening and water dripping from his tousled hair.
If I were Sandra Bullock in a romcom movie, that’s exactly what would happen.
In fact, we’d probably fall on top of each other with only a towel between us.
But this is real life, and I doubt I could even look Bridger in the eye right now. Not without acknowledging the speed of my pulse. Or the heat in my cheeks. Or the truth that’s been dawning inside me for weeks. Something warm has already shifted in my soul. Prepared to share space.
Making room.
For him.
So I totally forget the yearbook.
After speeding across town, I race through check-in, and scurry past the well-monitored doors straight into Havenwood’s cafe. Sayla is waiting for me at a bistro table. She’s wearing a visitor’s badge on her sweater, and she’s already ordered us two cups of tea.
“Sorry!” I collapse onto a chair and hang my bag on the hook under the table. I’m sweaty and flushed, and my brain is completely preoccupied by an imaginary slideshow of what Bridger Adams must have looked like in my shower.
Sayla’s brow furrows. “Are you good?”
“What do you mean?” I blurt.
She pushes a cup of tea toward me and says nothing.
“It’s just that good is so subjective,” I choke. “I’m not sure answering that question accurately is even possible.”
She leans back, appraising me a moment. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Nobody expects that,” I say, forcing a laugh.
She’s quiet for another stretch. “It’s just that you’re always on time. Like, always. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
I blink. “Punctuality?”
She studies me a bit longer, but offers no response.
“I … just … I had a thing,” I manage.
“Well, that’s very unspecific.” She squints. “Also, you’re very red.”
“Red? Like my hair?”
“No. Everywhere.” She nods to indicate my face and neck area.
Possibly my throat and chest, too. Then she rips open two packets of sugar with her teeth before dumping them into her tea.
She stirs, stirs, stirs, her spoon causing a whirlpool in her teacup.
I press a hand to my cheek, and she’s not wrong.
My skin does, indeed, feel red. And by that I mean hot.
Also, Sayla still isn’t talking.
I lean over the table. “Are you good?”
She stops stirring. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that you always talk,” I say. “Like always. Talking is one of my favorite things about you.”
She sets down her spoon. “I’m fantastic, thanks.” She exhales. “Married life is the absolute best. A dream come true for me. I’m basically obsessed with my husband. So my answer isn’t subjective. It’s yes, I’m good. Objectively. Yes. Yes.”
I tilt my head, pinning her gaze. “Yes … and?”
“Awwwwww.” Her eyes go soft.
“What?”
“You know I’m a sucker for improv speak.”
“I know most things about you.”
Yes, this is me, turning the focus back on Sayla, without sharing that I just caught Bridger singing love songs in my shower. Our love songs. Or that he’s been acting like an attentive husband, and I’ve kind of enjoyed being his wife.
More than kind of.
The thing is, I’ve spent the past eight months swearing off romantic relationships forever.
And now forever is turning out to be more like …
eight months. Still, I’m barely able to admit this shift to myself, let alone anyone else.
So I reach for Sayla’s hand, hypocrite that I am, and I ask again, “You’re good … and …?”
“And.” Her lids beat like butterfly wings. “I miss you, Lo. So much.”
I squeeze her fingers. “I miss you, too.”
Her shoulders sag a little, hopefully with relief. The last thing I want is for Sayla to be weighed down by worries about me. Especially since I’m not being completely forthcoming with her. “The thing is, I’ve been a terrible friend,” she says.
“Are you kidding?” I squawk.