19. Trying too hard, maybe?
19
TRYING TOO HARD, MAYBE?
“I have nothing to wear!” I wail, pulling every single item from my closet one by one, inspecting it, and deeming it not good enough for today. I mean, what does one wear to a birthday party of the man you’re secretly in love with’s mom? A flowy dress? Casual jeans? Heels? Flat boots?
God.
Will
I’m about 5 minutes away from your place.
Bridget
5 MINUTES?!?! You cannot do this to me, Will. I need at least 10 more minutes
Will
10??? Why??? Did you oversleep or something???
I groan and type furiously away, while Ginger happily kneads (and probably destroys with her sharp nails) my favorite crimson sweater where it lies on the bed. It took me some time to find the right trim to fix the frayed edge of this vintage Helmut Lang sweater, but when I did, it was perfection. And now it was going to be destroyed by the love of my life just because I threw it carelessly on the bed—along with many other articles of clothing—in frustration. I should probably say goodbye to it before I return from the party to find it in pieces. Right now, though, I couldn’t care less.
Bridget
I still don’t know what I’m going to wear. And my hair is a mess. What’s the dress code? I asked you like 1093095838 times and you never gave me an answer.
Will
I would just like to say that I’m using the hands-free function on my car and hearing that number spoken by the rental’s robot voice was fully unnecessary.
And I did give you an answer. I told you it was casual.
Bridget
That’s not an answer! Casual could be anywhere between jeans and a dress.
Will
Just wear something comfortable.
Bridget
Oh sure. I’ll go ahead and wear my sweats.
Will
Whatever. You look great in anything, anyways. No one will notice you’re wearing sweatpants.
I frown, the pang in my chest knocking me breathless.
Why does he keep saying nice things? Why can’t he just… I don’t know. Not be adorable?
Bridget
Fine. I’m wearing a sweater dress. A brown one with a belt and matching boots. Does that sound good?
Will
Bridge, please don’t take offense to this, but… Who do you think I am? The host of a makeover show or something? I’m not a professional stylist.
Bridget
You should have at least a basic knowledge of clothing and what goes together, William Jacobs. You work in fashion.
Will
Not by choice, Bridget Quinn.
Bridget
What’s that supposed to mean?
Will
It means I wish I didn’t know the difference between herringbone and houndstooth. It also means you should stop texting me and finish getting ready because I’m 15 minutes away from your apartment.
Bridget
You said 5!!!
Will
I lied. I knew you’d need longer.
Bridget
…
I hate you.
Will
No you don’t. But I just showed you how valuable white lies can be. The pressure of the time crunch made you realize what you wanted to wear.
Bridget
No, I definitely hate you
Will
See you in 14 minutes.
After over an hour of travel where Will very graciously lets me control the road trip playlist and I agree not to comment on his driving, I half forget where we’re going and why. Just being in an enclosed space with him, joking around and talking has already made my day. That and the fact that he looks so handsome I could cry add to my good mood. With just a light blue button down under a cozy-looking navy sweater, Will’s broad chest looks like pure heaven—a place I would love to lay my head (again) and rest. I try not to stare at that place in between his shoulders and neck—that little nook that felt like a charging station the night we spent together. My safe space. But I fail miserably, clearly.
“Why do you keep looking at my clothes? Do I have a stain or something?” He glances down at himself before moving his eyes back to the road, swiping at his sweater as if he’s trying to brush something off.
Busted.
“No, not a stain. Just staring at your chest, is all,” I say casually, without even thinking.
He sputters a laugh. “What?”
I clear my throat once and then follow it with a deep breath. Screw it. I’m not gonna lie. “Your chest. I was staring at it.”
He pauses. “Because…?”
“I… don’t want to say.” I wince.
“Oooh. Now you’ve got to say.” He grins that wicked smile of his.
“Nooope.”
“Oh, you fucked up because you know I’m never gonna let this go.”
“Just kidding. You definitely have a big stain there. Mustard. A big gloopy mess. That’s what I was looking at.”
“Well, that’s fucking weird, since I had an everything bagel with cream cheese and not a fucking hot dog for breakfast. So how about you stop lying?” He asks with a laugh. “Just tell me.”
I sigh, putting my face in my hands. “Your chest. Looks comfy.”
And while I cannot see him since I’m covering my face, obviously, I just know he’s fighting a fit of smug laughter. In fact, it’s not long before I sense his body shaking.
“Listen, I had to wake up early this morning and am really tired because I couldn’t sleep and was checking you out and remembered how comfortable it was to cuddle together and so yeah… That happened. I’m sorry. I know we agreed to not talk about it again or do it again but that’s where my mind went, okay?”
Silence. Painful silence as I look down at my hands.
“I mean, I also look at your chest often. So we’re even.”
I burst out laughing in surprise and slap him on the arm. “William! What?”
He throws his head back in laughter, struggling to keep his eyes on the road. “What! It’s a nice chest.” He shrugs casually. “And I thought it would make you feel better to know you’re not the only one doing it.”
I bite my lip to hide my smile, because I should feel offended, shouldn’t I? But I’m not.
Oh god, this is a mess.
“Thank you for the compliment, I think? But also, how about we not look at each other’s chests anymore?”
“Like, in general or just in front of my mom? Because I don’t know if I can promise not looking at it long term. I’ll try to be more subtle next time, but…” He laughs when I hit him again. “Okay, okay. I get it. Boobs are off limits. Gotcha.”
I shake my head at the ridiculousness of this moment. We are crazy, but I love the way we are—a series of contradictions. Comfortable enough to talk about mutual ogling of chests, yet feeling a tension so tight after doing so that I feel like bursting out of my skin.
“I hope she likes the presents I got her,” I murmur, looking over my shoulder at the backseat where I’ve left them.
“You know, you didn’t have to bring her a present—let alone three,” Will tells me, eyeing the gifts in the rear view mirror.
“I’m sorry, but in what world is it okay to arrive to a birthday party empty handed? And I’m meeting your mom . That’s important to me.”
He presses his lips together, eyes on the road as he tries not to smile. “Why is that important to you?”
“I want your mom to like me.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“God, why are you being such a toddler this morning? Did you forget your coffee or something? Or have too much of it?” I run my hands down my thighs, smoothing my dress. I don’t want to look a mess when I get to his mom’s house, which, according to the GPS, is in twenty minutes.
Will laughs at my frustration. “Bridge, I’m just fucking with you. I just think you’re cute when you’re nervous. But I’m trying to understand why you’re even nervous to begin with.”
I exhale and look out the window, staring at the bare trees on the side of the highway. It’s February, but spring seems so far away.
I don’t look at him as I speak. “You’re… important to me. And she’s important to you. Which means it’s important to me that she likes me.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he processes my words. “Okay, then. I’ll stop teasing.”
I nod, eyes still firmly looking out my passenger window.
“For the record though, it’s also important to me that you guys get along. But it wouldn’t change anything between us if you didn’t.”
Not long after, we arrive to a small, but cozy-looking ranch-style home in a town I’ve never heard of before. The house is hidden behind a couple of bare, overgrown trees Will frowns at, but the walkway is clear and tidy.
“…told them to prune the branches last month before spring gets here… looks like fucking Tim Burton’s Sleepy Hollow…” He sighs and shakes his head, pulling our gifts from the backseat.
“You know,” he starts, “at the risk of bringing this up again, you didn’t have to get her flowers, a gift, and cookies. I’m sure this bouquet was enough.”
“Well,” I say, taking the three items from him. “The flowers are like a basic ‘Thank you for having me in your home’ gift. The birthday present is for her birthday—duh. And the cookies are from that cookie decorator who does all the celebrities’ cookies on instagram? Kooky Cookie Queen? You know the one. The famous one. She did a Valentine’s collab with that small coffee chain by my house, so I snagged a few before they sold out.”
“Famous cookie decorator for you , you mean.” He smiles, placing a hand on my lower back, using it to guide me up the walkway to his mother’s house.
Even through my coat, I feel its warmth. The heat rises up my spine and down between my legs. It causes my upper body to turn into a shade of bright vermillion, I’m sure.
One touch, and suddenly my mind is filled with filthy thoughts of flashbacks and fantasies of him and me together, back in my bed.
Sigh.
I pull myself together and glare at his smirk, but I love our flirting. “Either way, the cookies are gorgeous, and I thought they’d be perfect for today. So hush.” I stick out my tongue, and he laughs.
Without taking his eyes off me, his smile full and gorgeous and heart melting, he knocks on the front door.
While we wait, he whispers, “She’s going to love you, Bridge. In fact, I can’t imagine anyone helping it.”
If you believe that to be so true, then why don’t you love me, too?