“And howenlighteneddo 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 andSurprise Brideviewings. 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.