Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bridger
“Good riddance.”
Those are the words I say as the taillights on the Bentley transporting my mother disappear.
There are a whole lot of other words waiting to be spoken, millions accumulated over the years, but after the bomb my mom just dropped, I want to take Loren in my arms first and tell her everything will be all right.
That we’ll find solutions for our future that don’t include the trust. That Margaret Adams is in the rearview.
Literally.
I reach for her, and she draws in a breath. “Hold on,” she says. “I’ll be right back.” Then she hurries toward the bedroom. Our bedroom. That woman and her pee breaks.
Man, I love her.
A sigh slips out of me, knowing that when she returns, we’ll finally be able to talk freely. After days of holding off—or years, in my case—Loren and I can get fully honest about our relationship. Without an audience. Without threats.
Without any filters separating our behavior from the truth of our feelings.
Good riddance.
So I grab us a couple of waters and a plate of apple cider donuts from the kitchen, because conversations like these require hydration and calories. The sugarier, the better.
“I’ve got snacks,” I call out, wandering down the hall.
The bedroom’s as comfortable a place as any for us to talk. But Loren’s not in the bedroom. She’s in the big walk-in closet, stuffing her clothes into a duffel bag. The row of empty hangers sends a ripple of goosebumps up my spine.
“Hey, there. Slow down.” I set the bottles and donuts on the dresser. “I know my mom comes on strong when she’s trying to throw her weight around, but we aren’t getting kicked out today.” My forced chuckle sounds hollow, even to me. “There’s a process. We have time.”
“Do we?” She looks up from her crouch, her breath coming in quick, short sips.
Like she’s panicking. My mom did this to her, and Loren wasn’t prepared.
But I knew better. And more than anything, I want to roll back time and do everything differently to protect her from whatever she’s feeling right now.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice a low rumble. “About my mom. I should’ve never let you get involved.”
“You didn’t let me.” She spits a loose strand of hair from her mouth. “I basically forced you. If anyone’s to blame for all this, it’s me.”
“Well, you’re obviously mad.” The tension already brewing in my torso kicks up a notch. “I am too. Seriously pissed off. But … did I do something wrong here?”
“NO!” she blurts.
“So, it’s my mom then?”
“Yes … and …” Loren heaves a long sigh. “I’m furious with the entire world. With my whole life in general and everything in it.”
“Last I checked, I was part of the world, and a part of your life," I say. “At least I hoped I was. I hope I am. I still want to be.”
Her eyes fill, and she looks down at her bag. “I swear I’m not mad at you. Not even a little bit.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “You’re by far my favorite person. Of all the people. All the time.”
I squint. “If that’s true, then why are you packing?”
She brings her gaze up to mine. “Because you being my favorite person is the last thing I need right now.”
My guts hit the floor.
“Okay, wow.” I drag a hand along the back of my neck, and my mouth opens and shuts wordlessly.
“I’m sorry, but I just need to think, Bridger.”
“Yeah, me too,” I grunt. “And I assumed we could do that together, now that my mom’s gone.”
“Well, she didn’t exactly leave us a smooth exit ramp on her departure, did she?”
“She did not.” I grimace. “Margaret Adams is definitely more into turbulence.” I take a beat, nodding pointlessly toward the window. “But she’s gone now. And I swear, I’ll never let her have access to you again. Or to us. I’m cutting her out completely.”
“You can’t do that.” Her voice cracks. “Because then she’ll use that stupid napkin as a weapon. And you’ll lose everything. Because of me.”
“Not everything.” The words are gravel. “I’ll still have you.”
“No, no, no,” she mutters. “I can’t let you do that. This is all my fault.” She’s talking to her duffel bag more than me. “I never should’ve let myself relax. This is exactly why I can’t take help from anyone. Because you just don’t know. You never can. I never do.”
“Loren.” I’m trying to stay calm and rational, even as a spool of dread unravels in my gut. “Who doesn’t know what now?”
“This, Bridger. All of this.” She splays her hands wide.
“I started to believe. To plan. To dream. I let my guard down and spent weeks living in a fantasy land. And I’ll always be grateful for that.
Most women never get to be Cinderella, even for a day.
Or the queen of the world. Or Galileo’s wife … ” Her sentence trails off.
“So, what then? We’re not even going to talk about this?”
“I just have to think,” she mumbles.
“Yeah. So you mentioned.” My shoulders stiffen. “And apparently, said thinking can’t happen with me, is that it?”
“I can’t think when I’m around you, Bridger.” Her face goes ashen. “These days, I can barely breathe around you. When we’re together, all I want to do is kiss you and eat donuts and watch Surprise Bride and fall asleep in your arms.”
“And that’s a problem because …?”
“Because I want to wake up trusting that life will be fair,” she says, her voice wobbling. “And life isn’t fair. Sometimes life is terrible.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “Sometimes life is terrible. But there’s also always good stuff happening. All the time. All around us. And I kind of feel like it’s our job to notice the good stuff, too, and grab hold of whatever we can, while we can.”
“Sure.” She blinks back tears. “And that’s a whole lot easier to say when you’ve always had options.”
“Whoa.”
That one cut a little. Not gonna lie.
“I’m not saying you throw your money around,” she backtracks, shaking her head. “You’re the king of the good stuff, and I love that about you.”
“And I love that you love that.”
“I guess I’m just confused right now.” She swipes at her nose “And I wanted to be certain for a change, you know? For once in my life, I just wanted a little certainty.”
“Not me.”
My jaw is tight.
“Not you, what?”
“I don’t want certainty.” I level my gaze. “I just want you.”
She lets out a long, painful whimper like someone just stabbed her through the abdomen. “You see? When you say things like that, you make thinking and breathing around you totally impossible.”
“I won’t apologize for wanting you,” I say.
“Not helping,” she says, returning her attention to the duffel.
“Don’t go.” I’m not in the habit of making demands of women, but this one’s nonnegotiable. “Loren.”
“I can’t stay.” She shoves a stray sock in her bag and zips it up.
“I’m going to Havenwood to visit my dad, just like I would on any other day.
Consistency is best for him, and he’s still my priority.
After that, I’ll tutor the students who are counting on me to be a steadiness in their lives.
And while I’m gone, I’m going to try my hardest to forget all about my mother-in-law or Operation Fool Margaret or how badly we messed things up. ”
I swallow past the boulder in my throat. “So why do you need a bag?”
“I think I should sleep at Dexter’s place tonight.” She gives her head a little shake. “I mean my apartment. Maybe there—alone—I can breathe. And think.”
“No.”
She startles. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no walking out on me until tomorrow. In case you forgot, we’re married now, Loren. Which means we can take time to process our feelings, sure, but then we need to circle back.”
“Circle back?”
“Yes. We process, then we circle back until we find some resolution. Together. And if you aren’t here, we can’t circle.”
Her brow creases. “Have you been reading relationship books or something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” I fold my arms across my chest. “I found one at Book Smart yesterday. It’s all about good marital communication, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, because I’ve been too busy waiting for my intrusive mother to leave so my wife and I could finally talk to each other alone! ”
Am I raising my voice? Yes.
Yelling? No. Never at Loren.
But the truth is, I’m legitimately worked up right now, heart hammering against my chest, pulse throbbing in my carotid. I’m pretty sure if I looked in the mirror, there’d be a vein popping out on my forehead. And you know what? This feels like the appropriate response.
How else should a man behave when he’s being blackmailed into annulling his marriage?
To be fair, that probably doesn’t happen very often.
I’m guessing I won’t find a chapter in my new marriage book on how to handle that specific circumstance.
Still. I’m going for authenticity here. Being real with Loren.
And in a healthy, committed relationship, both partners need to feel safe expressing their frustration as much as their happiness.
Was that on the back cover of the book I just bought?
You bet.
That’s the only part I got to read so far.
“I’m not Foster,” I say, gruffly.
She rises from her crouch. “I know that.”
“Do you?” My right hand fists, just thinking about him.
“Because I gotta tell you, he was so smug yesterday at Book Smart, standing there in his sunglasses and bike shorts, acting like he cared. I wanted to murder the guy for what he did, making you doubt your instincts, ruining your ability to trust. But now I think that has to be your job.”
She tips her chin.
“Metaphorically,” I add. “Don’t actually murder that idiot.”
Her lip quirks. Just the tiniest bit. But still.
“My point is, you’re way too strong to let a troll like him keep you in a basement.” I cock my head. “Again, a metaphor. But what I’m saying is, you aren’t broken, Loren Cane Adams.”
She pulls in a breath.
“You never were.” I fix her with a stare. “And yeah, I know life won’t be perfect for us. We’ll have plenty of obstacles to face. Maybe even some terrible ones. But I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that we can get through anything together. If you’ll let me.”
Her eyes are soft and shining, wet at the edges. “I want to let you,” she says. “It’s just … all so … messy.”
I duck my head. “Hence the book on marital communication.”
For a moment, we’re both quiet. Then Loren presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Tonight,” she says. “I’ll come back tonight, and we’ll talk.”
My shoulders sag, a release of tension, but the war isn’t won yet. Compared to most conflicts involving my mother, this was barely even a battle. “And you’ll still be there, Saturday,” I say. Not a question. More like a desperate imperative.
“It’s your thirtieth birthday,” she says. “And you’re still my best friend. I’m not leaving your life right now. I’m leaving the house.”
As she heads to the door, I follow her. The duffel’s back in the closet. A good sign, I decide.
So I hazard a small smile.
“Take the space you need,” I say. “Breathe. Think. Whatever. Just promise me, while you’re gone, you won’t forget you’re my wife.”