I’ve heard positive updates about my dad before. In fact, when Foster was my dad’s neurologist, he told me exactly what I wanted to hear. Until he didn’t. Which is partly why our new neurologist is a married grandmother of twelve. And also why I spent the past eight months convinced I was done with men forever.
Romantically speaking.
The thing is, I want to trust men again. Scratch that. I want to trust people in general. Especially Bridger, who’s got my heart fluttering with feelings.More-than-friendfeelings. Still, before I talk to Bridger, I want to double-check.
A. If he visits Havenwood, he probably cares about my dad.
B. If he sings our songs in the shower, he probably cares about us.
A plus B plusprobablyequals …
C. Bridger Adams cares about me. As more than a friend.
Unfortunately, this isn’t exactly a solid math equation. And no answer will ever be entirely safe for my heart. But still. I’m beginning to think my heart might be ready to take a risk.
“Has Bridger been visiting my dad?” I blurt.
No warmups or stretches. Just a full sprint of a question. Right into Noah’s face.
“Huh.” He strokes the scruff along his jawline. “That’s interesting.”
You think? Also, not an answer.
“Apparently, he comes in the afternoons? Like, every day?” I pause for a breath as uncertainty swirls in my stomach. “Except you haven’t said anything about it, and Bridger hasn’t said anything, either. Only my dad did. And let’s face it. He can be … an unreliable witness.”
My nose begins to sting, a tell-tale sign that I’m about to get teary. Which feels overly dramatic, not to mention embarrassing. Am I really going to cry in the Havenwood parking lot because my dad might have a visitor?
A secret visitor that D. You care about, too.
“Hey. It’s all right.” Noah’s eyes go soft. “Emotions are good.”
“Are they, though?” The words come out squelchy.
“Yeah. Go ahead. Let it out.”
“I just wish people would tell me things,” I sniffle.
“I get that, and I think I can clear this up.”
“Yes, please.” I blink and nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat. I need to get a grip, like yesterday.
“I’m in my office in the afternoon,” he says. “Meetings. Scheduling. Programming. Just your basic administrative stuff.” He runs a hand over his man-bun. “And my sessions with your dad are in the mornings, which is probably why I never ran into Bridger here myself.” Noah takes a beat. “However.”
“However?” I sniff, because apparently I’m repetitive today. Repetitive and weepy.
“Harlan did tell me someone’s been coming to see him.”
“He did?”
“Yeah.” He grimaces. “But he said it was your husband.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops, and my throat goes dry.
“I just figured …” He shrugs. “Temporary confusion, you know? Definitely not worth mentioning to you.”
“No, I get it,” I say. Cue a ripple of shaky laughter.
“To be honest, I was a little worried your dad might’ve been talking about your ex.”