This is the good stuff.
And my father really is thriving.
Still, the tally marks don’t fall entirely on the positive side.
Ignoring Sayla’s texts gives me twinges of guilt. The thing is, I don’t know what, if anything, Bridger might have told Dex, and that leaves the door wide open to questions from her I’m not prepared to answer. At least not until I talk to Bridger.
Also, tutoring has never been harder for me, if I’m being honest. Yes, my students are as funny and smart as ever. But in the quiet moments of our lessons, my mind drifts back to Margaret’s threats if we don’t end our marriage.
Not to mention her promises if I do.
For now, Bridger set up my dad’s residency to be paid automatically, but what happens if Margaret regains control of the trust? If I force an annulment, she claims Bridger will maintain control of the trust, and that my dad will keep his spot at Havenwood.
Indefinitely.
But on the drive back home to meet Bridger, a not-so-gentle voice echoes in my head:
Can you really trust Margaret Adamsmorethan you trust your husband?
Walking away from the man I loveonly to have his mother betray me would be some pretty rich irony. A lesson worthy of my World Lit class. RealGift of the Magienergy. OrRomeo and Juliet.
Either way, not good.
Still, thanks to Operation Fool Margaret, my mother-in-law has the upper hand.
If only I could go to that afternoon at Fig & Apple and rip up the evidence.
Or if Bridger hadn’t left his tux hanging in the guest room closet.
Or if Margaret hadn’t ended up in that room in the first place.
So many variables. And none of them matter, because what’s done is done. That’s a truth nobody can argue. It’s the weight of what’s to come that makes the minutes drag. Right along with my heart. More than anything, I want to trust that Bridger and I will be okay, that we can meet every challenge, even if thehowof it all seems impossible.
Look for the good, Loren.
By the time our estate emerges above the tree line, my pulse is galloping through my veins. The sunset glows along the rooftop as I follow the long drive up the property. Bridger’s car is in the circular drive. Of course it is. He knew I was returning, and my husband has made a habit of being exactly where I need him to be whenever I need him.
He’s even waiting for me at the door.
“Welcome home,” he says, the timbre of his voice deep and sure.
“Hi.” I step right into his arms. And as he folds himself around me, I try on the idea that we could just be this.
Just be us.
If we walk away from the trust, the bills and debt will tag along, but we’re both smart and hardworking. We could put our heads down and figure things out. I picture us living in his cozy bungalow or in Dexter’s apartment. My apartment.
Ourapartment.
Maybe I’ll reapply at Tequila Mockingbird. Or teach six classes next year instead of five, like Mr. Wilford offered. Or both.
Either way, I won’t take a penny from Margaret Adams.
Would I love the money and security? Yes.
Would I trade that for Bridger's faith in us?
Never.