SAYLA
Loren. Wow. This is so big!
Or wait. Do we want this to be NOT big? Like, maybe I should be reminding you that this is fine, everything is fine, regardless of the results. Because we have your back, and we love you no matter what and carpe diem and all that stuff.
ME
It’s okay for this to be big. It is big. But also? I think I can handle the truth now. I just don’t want to say anything to Bridger because I’m not sure he can. Either way, he’ll get his hopes up, and I had a hard enough time deciding if I should find out. I can’t even think about his puppy dog eyes.
The truth is, I’ve been picturing those puppy dog eyes all day long, except on little mini Bridgers. As in his kids. As in the kids I might someday want to make with him. He’s never asked, and my heart tells me he’d be supportive, either way. Which is why I finally want to find out what I might be up against, genetically. For me. For him. For us. For our future puppy-dog-eyed children.
SAYLA
That man really is such a puppy dog. What kind do you think? A Labrador? Golden Retriever? Boxer? Saint Bernard?
ME
Great Dane.
On that note, Bridger and I have to rescue a cat. A female. And her name will be Garfield.
SAYLA
Ummmm. ???
ME
Long story, but I’ve got a watercolor class with my dad, then I have to tutor, and for the rest of the night I’ll be playing nice with Medusa. See you Saturday. LOVE YOU BYE!
After an exhausting but productive day, I come through the front door thrilled to smell dinner cooking. The scent of cumin, ginger, and garlic makes my mouth water. Setting my bag on the bench, I shrug out of my cardigan. “Whoever is caramelizing onions is my new favorite person,” I call out.
“It’s Bridger,” Medusa murmurs.
I mean Margaret.
She’s in the dining room, just off the main foyer, and she appears to be setting the table. She’s got a handful of cutlery in one hand and cloth napkins in the other. I almost expect her to confuse which side of the placemats the forks and the knives go. But the woman is nailing it. Of course she is. She probably grew up in an etiquette class.
I come up to the table and relieve her of the napkins, then I drop into a chair to fold them.
“My mom wasn’t much of a cook, but she was great at turning our napkins into hearts.” A quiet laugh slips out of me. “I learned from her. How to fold napkin hearts, I mean. Not how to cook.”
Margaret sends a subdued smile across the table. “That sounds like fun.”
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic, and honestly, I don’t care. I simply take her at her word and continue to fold. “Shewas fun.” I finish the first napkin and arrange it on the mat in front of me.
“You must miss her a great deal,” Margaret says plainly.
I start on the second napkin. “All the time.”
Fold. Fold. Fold.
“I understand.” She hesitates before continuing. “Loss is hard.”
I offer her a tiny nod. “It sure is.”
She could be talking about her own mother or about Bridger. Her husband. Maybe all three. Either way, the tightnessin my chest softens. Medusa is only human after all. And I need to remember that.
“We ran into someone you know today,” she says, centering the last spoon beside the last knife just so.