Chapter 22 #2
“No. And I can’t even blame Dex for demanding all my time, because I’m the one who’s hogging him. I just love being his wife so much.”
“You’re the very best wife, and the very best friend,” I insist. “Nobody has my back the way you do.”
Well. Except for maybe Bridger. But that’s comparing apples to … not apples. And I’m definitely not sharing fruit metaphors with Sayla.
“I’ve just been so busy over at the school, and with Dex, at a time when you probably need my support the most. You’ve had so much going on, with your dad moving in here.
Plus”—she glances around and whispers—“the whole fake marriage thing. I think I’m just a little afraid of rubbing my happiness in your face. ”
“Except my dad’s doing great, and our wedding was real.” This protest comes out a bit too quickly, and then I compound the issue by saying, “You signed as a witness, remember? You were definitely there for us when we needed you.”
Our. Us. We.
Yep. I heard it.
And I think Sayla did too, because she pauses, then takes a long sip of her sugary tea. “I didn’t realize you and Bridger were thinking about your marriage as legitimate.”
“I’m just saying it’s real, in terms of legal,” I backtrack.
“Yes … and … I haven’t asked how you actually feel about the situation in a while, though.”
I glance at my untouched tea. “You already know how I feel.”
“Do I?”
“Of course.” I swallow. I’m not sure why I’m hedging with her.
If anyone could relate to a change of heart, it’s Sayla.
She was the last person to realize how she truly felt about Dex.
Still, I’ve been so afraid to acknowledge that I might be (possibly, or a little more than possibly) falling for Bridger that saying those words out loud to someone else, someone who knows me as well as Sayla does, makes the shift all too real.
“Tell me again,” she says.
“Tell you what?”
“Your honest thoughts. About Bridger. Currently,” she specifies. “Not last year, when you were engaged to Foster. Not two weeks ago, during Operation Fool Margaret.” Her pupils laser in on me. “I’m talking about right now. Today. How do you feel in this exact moment?”
“I … I really care about him,” I stammer.
She arches a brow. “Yes … and …?”
“And.” I scramble for the safest answer. “He’s smart. And he’s funny. And he’s kind.”
Sayla’s mouth quirks. “Everyone knows Bridger Adams is just about the smartest, funniest, kindest man around. He’s also the second-most attractive man in Harvest Hollow, after my husband.
” She lifts her shoulders. “You know what’s extra attractive?
When a guy doesn’t show off his assets. So to speak. ”
“You’re so right,” I sigh, taking a beat. “I’ll admit these past several weeks have been enlightening.”
She guffaws. “Your face is so red right now. You’re way past enlightening.”
She puts air quotes on enlightening.
Nonverbal sarcasm at its finest.
“Maybe,” I admit.
“And how enlightened do you think Bridger is at this point?”
My cheeks flush, and I mentally tabulate the evidence: our almost-kisses and stolen looks. His careful attentiveness and routines. All the vitamins and yoga and Surprise Bride viewings. His promises to protect me. The singing in the shower.
I glance around at the surroundings. Havenwood. My father's memory care community.
“I’m not sure I can afford to dwell on our feelings now. Enlightened or otherwise.”
“On the contrary, my friend. You can’t afford NOT to dwell. I’d argue that you should be full-time dwelling on Bridger. And if you think you two are falling for real, that would be …”
Her sentence trails off, and a whole host of words pop into my head.
Terrifying. Risky. Heartbreaking.
Wonderful.
“The thing is, Bridger and I both just crawled out from under some huge stressors. Psychological stress. Financial stress. Parental stress. Emotional stress.” I draw in a long breath, then exhale shakily. “What if it’s a monumental mistake to admit … that … that I might …”
Sayla leans over the table. “Admit that you might what?”
“That I might …” I avert my gaze.
“Might what?”
“I might like my husband!” I blurt.
A cough sounds behind me, and I spin around to find my dad standing there in a two-toned tracksuit. He’s missing his glasses, and his hair’s a little wild, but he’s grinning. “I thought I heard a familiar voice.”
“Hey there, Dad.” I offer him a smile, but I don’t jump up to hug him yet. Sometimes he’s flustered in the morning and confuses me for my mom. “Are you just waking up?”
“Nah.” He runs a hand over his wispy head. “I’m an early bird, you know that, kiddo.”
Kiddo.
He knows.
“I was just coming back from a session with Noah,” he says.
The reminder that I don’t have his current schedule memorized—that I don’t have to—sinks into my bones. In a good way.
“How was PT?”
“Oh, pretty good, pretty good.” He chuckles. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but you ladies sure do talk loud.”
“This is Sayla,” I tell him, although they’ve met several times. But it’s been a while.
“Hello, Mr. Cane,” she says.
“Hello to you.” He bobs his head, a little bashful. “Please, call me Harlan.”
“Would you like to join us, Harlan?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” He pulls an empty chair over from the table next to us and takes a seat. “I couldn't help but overhear you two talking about Bridger.”
I exchange a quick glance with Sayla. “How did you know we were talking about Bridger, Dad?”
His shoulders pitch up. “You just said you like your husband.”
For a second, I’m too stunned to speak.
“I told you you’re loud,” he chuckles. “But I like him too. A lot.”
My fingers bolt to the empty spot on my left hand where my wedding band would be. There’s nothing there. And we definitely never told my dad anything. He must just be confused. “What makes you think Bridger’s is my husband?”
“I know he is.”
“How?” I draw in a gust of air.
“My mind may be unreliable,” he taps his temple, “but some stuff sticks with you. And Joanna had to tell the receptionist Bridger’s your husband when he forgot his ID yesterday.”
Yesterday.
I exhale.
Okay, my dad’s just got his facts confused, which is completely normal.
He and Bridger saw each other once, the night they met; a second time, when we made plans for my dad to move to Havenwood; then a third time, the day Bridger and I moved him in here.
Frankly, I’m impressed my dad even remembers Bridger’s name.
Which, honestly, says a lot about the kind of impact that man can make in a short period of time.
“So you like Bridger a lot, huh?”
He beams at me. “I sure do.”
“Even though you’ve only met him a few times?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Bridger stops by most afternoons, when you’re at …” He squints. “Is it dance class?”
My heart throbs in my ears.
“Tutoring,” I say with what’s left of the air in my lungs.
“That’s right!” He smacks his forehead. “But I’m not supposed to tell anyone he visits. So maybe let’s just keep that secret between us.”