“Foster?” I almost throw up a little in my mouth. No one should ever confuse that man with Bridger. “Oh, no.”
“I even checked the visitor logs for a Dr. Foster Abel. Believe me, if that guy had shown up here trying to worm his way back into your lives, I would’ve said something to you immediately.”
“I believe you.”
“Anyway.” He frowns. “No Foster.”
He says the name like it’s a curse, and yeah, I know the feeling. “What a relief,” I sigh. “And good riddance.”
“After that, I let the subject go,” Noah continues. “Disorientation with your dad is totally normal. And I didn’t want to risk upsetting anyone by bringing up your ex. Notwhen your dad’s been doing so well here in every other way.”
“No, I completely understand.”
“I’m glad.” He offers me a shy smile. “So. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes, and thank you so much.”
If I weren’t dying to get home and talk to Bridger, I’d hug Noah right here in the parking lot. He just confirmed what I was unsure of. The final piece in the puzzle of emotions I’ve been putting together for weeks.
Maybe longer.
As it turns out, my dad was right. Bridgerhasbeen visiting him. My kind, strong, excellent, brilliant, beautiful husband.
And whether or not I’ve been ready to admit this to myself, my feelings for him are real.
Now the man I married deserves to know I kind of like being his wife.
You should call Sayla.
This is my first thought as I make my way back home. But I know she’d have an opinion. And she’d probably want Dex to weigh in. And we could be starting a whole debate between the three of us before I even talked to Bridger.
So I don’t.
For the first time since we became close, I intentionally decide to keep Sayla out of the loop. At least for now. What if she tried talking me out of saying something to Bridger?
What if she succeeded?
I realize she’s just worried about him, and about me, and about what might happen to all four of us if Bridger and I were to implode. That all makes sense. I don’t want to blow things up either. But the only other choice is staying quiet.And I won’t let miscommunication be the thing that stands between Bridger and me.
Honesty is the only answer.
At least I’ll be as honest as I can be, given the fact that I’m still confused myself. But there’s only one person who can help me work through this complicated mess, and that’s Bridger.
My husband.
As our rooftop emerges beyond the tree line, my lungs start working overtime. Hopefully, by the time I reach the house, I won’t hyperventilate, knowing what I know now. Feeling what I feel.
I pull up the circular drive and park behind Bridger’s car, while my mind plays a carousel of memories of the past few weeks. The past few years.
And the one constant is him.
When I come inside, I don’t call out to him. Instead, I toe out of my shoes and hook my bag on the coatrack. My hands are trembling, but the scent of something delicious wafts in from the kitchen, and a smile tugs at my lips.
This symbol of domesticity is so comfortable and familiar already. Bridger's cooking for me. Again. There’s so much we need to discuss. And I could be making a terrible mistake, even suggesting we try for more than friendship. But at least I’ll know.
He’ll know.
And from there, we can decide where we go. Together.