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. Andifmy 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.
“Bridgeris 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.