Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Loren
SAYLA
YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW IS HERE?? Gif of dog in fire. Do I need to bring marshmallows?
ME
This is fine! Everything’s fine!
SAYLA
Does Margaret have Medusa snakes for hair, and are you currently texting me with statue arms?
ME
LOL. Don’t tempt me with a mythological good time. TBH, his mom IS scary, but also kind of funny. I don’t hate her. I just hate the way she makes Bridger feel sometimes. PS: My dad says hi.
SAYLA
Tell that man he owes me a game of cribbage.
ME
Done.
Can I tell YOU something now? But it has to go in the vault.
SAYLA
Duh. Are you poisoning Mommy’s margarita on Saturday? Consider the arsenic vaulted.
ME
I talked to my dad’s neurologist today.
I think I might let her test me.
And by that I mean I made an appointment for her to test me next week.
SAYLA
Wait. We’re not joking.
ME
I just want to know if I have the markers. Finally.
SAYLA
Loren. Wow. This is so big!
Or wait. Do we want this to be NOT big? Like, maybe I should be reminding you that this is fine, everything is fine, regardless of the results. Because we have your back, and we love you no matter what and carpe diem and all that stuff.
ME
It’s okay for this to be big. It is big.
But also? I think I can handle the truth now.
I just don’t want to say anything to Bridger because I’m not sure he can.
Either way, he’ll get his hopes up, and I had a hard enough time deciding if I should find out.
I can’t even think about his puppy dog eyes.
The truth is, I’ve been picturing those puppy dog eyes all day long, except on little mini Bridgers.
As in his kids. As in the kids I might someday want to make with him.
He’s never asked, and my heart tells me he’d be supportive, either way.
Which is why I finally want to find out what I might be up against, genetically.
For me. For him. For us. For our future puppy-dog-eyed children.
SAYLA
That man really is such a puppy dog. What kind do you think? A Labrador? Golden Retriever? Boxer? Saint Bernard?
ME
Great Dane.
On that note, Bridger and I have to rescue a cat. A female. And her name will be Garfield.
SAYLA
Ummmm. ???
ME
Long story, but I’ve got a watercolor class with my dad, then I have to tutor, and for the rest of the night I’ll be playing nice with Medusa. See you Saturday. LOVE YOU BYE!
After an exhausting but productive day, I come through the front door thrilled to smell dinner cooking. The scent of cumin, ginger, and garlic makes my mouth water. Setting my bag on the bench, I shrug out of my cardigan. “Whoever is caramelizing onions is my new favorite person,” I call out.
“It’s Bridger,” Medusa murmurs.
I mean Margaret.
She’s in the dining room, just off the main foyer, and she appears to be setting the table.
She’s got a handful of cutlery in one hand and cloth napkins in the other.
I almost expect her to confuse which side of the placemats the forks and the knives go.
But the woman is nailing it. Of course she is.
She probably grew up in an etiquette class.
I come up to the table and relieve her of the napkins, then I drop into a chair to fold them.
“My mom wasn’t much of a cook, but she was great at turning our napkins into hearts.” A quiet laugh slips out of me. “I learned from her. How to fold napkin hearts, I mean. Not how to cook.”
Margaret sends a subdued smile across the table. “That sounds like fun.”
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic, and honestly, I don’t care. I simply take her at her word and continue to fold. “She was fun.” I finish the first napkin and arrange it on the mat in front of me.
“You must miss her a great deal,” Margaret says plainly.
I start on the second napkin. “All the time.”
Fold. Fold. Fold.
“I understand.” She hesitates before continuing. “Loss is hard.”
I offer her a tiny nod. “It sure is.”
She could be talking about her own mother or about Bridger. Her husband. Maybe all three. Either way, the tightness in my chest softens. Medusa is only human after all. And I need to remember that.
“We ran into someone you know today,” she says, centering the last spoon beside the last knife just so.
I tip my chin. Waiting.
“I believe he was your father’s doctor?”
The air freezes in my lungs. “Foster.”
“Yes. That’s him.” Her shoulders straighten. Satisfied. “He seemed quite surprised to learn you were married.”
I swallow. “Yes, well. Foster and I used to be engaged.”
Margaret’s shoulders are coat-hanger stiff. “So I gathered.”
I return my focus to folding, then I gently set another napkin on the mat across from me. “You already knew about my engagement, though, didn't you? Before today, I mean.” I bring my gaze up to hers. “That must’ve come up in all your research.”
She stills. “I knew.”
“Right. Well.” I draw in a long steadying breath. Exhale. “Then you should also know, Foster is completely in the past now. Your son is my entire future. Our future is together. So if you’re afraid I might be—”
“I’m not,” she interrupts.
“Oh.” I blink, too stunned to speak for a moment. “I guess I just figured you wouldn’t love the fact that I’d been planning to marry someone else. This time last year, in fact.”
She arches a brow. “That’s very direct of you.”
“I’m direct,” I say. “When I’m not feeling blindsided. Or judged.”
She rests a hand on the back of a chair. “You needn’t worry, Loren.”
My stomach tightens anyway. “About what?”
“It’s clear to me that you and my son care about each other. Deeply.”
I grab the third napkin, and my heart squeezes. “We do.”
“You know, he defended you quite thoroughly today.” Her brow crooks. “There were strong words exchanged. Even threats of physicality. Bridger was doing his best to control himself, but if I hadn’t intervened …”
My pulse picks up, and my heart is a throb against my ribs. “You can’t leave me hanging like that, Margaret.”
Her lip twitches. “I’m afraid poor Dr. Abel would’ve needed a great deal of medical attention himself.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then we both start laughing.
If surviving the rest of the evening were an Olympic event, Bridger and I would take home the gold. We eat dinner in the dining room, read in the study, then queue up a movie in the home theater.
Garfield.
Naturally.
Margaret doesn’t protest a single suggestion.
In fact, she’s oddly cooperative, all while keeping an observant eye on us.
Constantly. For our parts, Bridger and I make the show worth watching.
The thing is, pretending we have feelings for each other, which we both know now are real, is …
weird. And tiring. Luckily, I have a man-sized pillow perfect for my weary head. It’s Bridger.
He’s the pillow.
By the following morning, I’ve pretty much mastered the art of ignoring that I slept wrapped around him like a baby sloth. On a Great Dane.
Progress.
We brush our teeth, finger-comb our hair, and throw on casual clothes, preparing for another full day with Margaret. I think even Sayla would be proud of our performance. Except what we’re doing isn’t acting anymore.
“Ready, kitten?” Bridger asks at the bedroom door.
I wag my brows. “Born that way.”
I’m expecting to find Margaret in the breakfast nook.
Or maybe even upstairs in her bedroom. So imagine my surprise when we find my mother-in-law waiting for us in the entryway, luggage packed.
She’s in a linen suit, makeup fresh, perfume wafting to the ceiling.
I cut a glance at Bridger, and he does a secret little fist pump between us.
We did it.
She's going home.
“Ahhh, leaving so soon?” I sigh.
Bridger reaches behind me to pinch my hip.
“Ouch!” I yelp.
Margaret narrows her eyes. “Are you quite all right, Loren?”
I offer her my most peaceful smile and let the relief wash over me. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I just stubbed my toe on this console.”
“She’s always like this before she’s had her coffee," Bridger says, really sticking to his role.
“Ten out of ten,” I whisper. “No notes.”
“Are you sure you can’t stay for breakfast?” Bridger asks. I’d take a turn pinching him if he had an inch of anything on him but skin, muscle, and bone.
“No, thank you,” she says. “I’ll get something on the jet.”
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “Dry toast?”
Her lips curve primly. “Perhaps I’ll treat myself to a bit of orange marmalade today.”
I nod my approval. “Quite the splurge.”
“Unfortunately, my departure does mean I’ll be missing the party,” she says. “Which is a shame, since we have so much to celebrate.”
“We do,” I say, a genuine smile tugging at my lips.
“Hmm.” She pauses for a moment, taking this in. “Although I do wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
She lifts her chin. “The two of you clearly had an agenda the morning you called to tell me you were getting married.”
Bridger’s palm comes around to rest on my hip. “My only agenda was to be Loren’s husband.”
“And all I want to be is his wife.”
Even as I speak the words, a lump builds in my throat. Because the truth is, long before I started waking up in his arms, I loved Bridger. My friend, my rock, my anchor. The person I’ve needed above all others. The one I want.
The man I choose.
More than anything, I want to be alone with him. In our home. Just us. Without an audience. We don’t have to pretend anymore. And I’m not deceiving anybody.
Not Bridger or Margaret. Not myself. Even my dad knows I’m married to Bridger now, and he’s thrilled.
As for me, I’ve got the rest of my life to learn how to finally belong to someone else.
“Yes.” Margaret shuts her lids for a moment, inhales deeply, then opens her eyes again. “I have no doubt you’re being sincere, Loren.” She smooths her hands down her tailored blazer. “And you too, son.”
My heart cartwheels over my lungs.
We did our jobs.
And bonus points, we’re telling the truth.
“But you misunderstood my intentions,” she says. I note a slight tick at her jawline, and my stomach goes queasy. “I assumed you were trying to thwart me by marrying each other and eliminating Rosalind from the equation. I expected your union to be superficial. A legal arrangement only.”
“And you were wrong,” Bridger says. “Again.” He pulls me closer to him, his palm still pressed to my hip. Margaret’s arms hang stiff at her sides.
“I came here in person to confirm my suspicions that you two were not, in fact, a legitimate couple,” she says. “Instead, I found irrefutable proof of the genuine bond between the two of you.”
“Margaret.” I square my shoulders. “I know it’s hard to admit a mistake, but surely you’re happy for us. Happy for Bridger?”
“On the contrary.” Her tone is steely. “Real love is the last thing I want my son to feel.”
“Sorry, Mom.” His strong palm slides down from my hip to take my hand, fingers entwining. “That’s what you got.”
“Fortunately, time heals all wounds.” She sighs. “And this one, deep as it may cut at first, will be a memory soon enough.”
A buzz of alarm sounds in my ears. “What wound, exactly?”
She glances out the window. “My car will be here soon,” she says. “And I’ll be heading back to New York. I’ve contacted Rosalind’s father. The arrangements are made.”
Bridger scoffs. “What arrangements?”
Margaret’s eyes go cold. “You have a week to end this marriage. Then you’ll make Rosalind your wife.”