Guess he doesn’t want to call me out directly.
“You figured I’d be stressed because I’m going to end my days as a broke, lonely spinster?”
His smile is lopsided. “Methinks the English teacher doth resort to hyperbole too much.”
“Maybe.” I snort. “Horrible Shakespeare, by the way.”
“You’re doing great, Lo.”
I open my mouth to protest, then I close it again. This is just Bridger being Bridger. He’s an encourager. A doer. And as much as I hate being coddled, I’ve spent the past few years in the role of caregiver. In other words, I need this little bit of grace more than I need to be stubborn.
“Here.” He slips a donut from the bag and pushes it at me on a napkin.
“I do eat, you know,” I insist. Except for the stretch of time between right now and dinner last night.
“You’re telling me you had breakfast this morning?” He dips his chin until our eyes lock. Circles of darker gray edge his irises. I’ve never noticed them before. “Lunch?” he persists.
That’s ano.
“I split a pepperoni pizza with my dad last night,” I say.
“Yeah, not good enough.” He pins me with a stare, waiting until I take a big bite.
“Ahhhh-maaaaay-zzzzing,” I say around the mouthful of donut. I nod and offer him a thumbs-up. Finally satisfied, he hauls himself up from the couch and collects the toolbox he left in the entryway. I swallow and try to take another bite, but my stomach doesn’t have the heart.
Or something like that.
So I pretend to eat, while Bridger checks the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. Like helping me rearrange my entire life is part of his normal weekend to-do list. Then again, Bridger’s been a better-than-normal friend since theday we met in the faculty lounge. And then after Dr. Foster Abel jilted me, especially.
I really hate that word, by the way.
Jilted.
As an English teacher, though, I respect the accuracy.
Anyway, Foster did me a favor, in his own twisted way. Thanks to him, I swore off love forever. Repeatedly and loudly. In that very same faculty lounge. And I stand by that promise today. I can’t risk that kind of pain again.
I won’t.
I’ve got my students to focus on. And my father to take care of. As it is, there aren’t enough hours in the day to juggle my commitments. I can’t afford to dilute my heart even a little bit.
Ican,however, appreciate a better-than-normal friend. And the way Bridger anticipates my needs.
Even the ones I don’t say out loud.
I glance at him now, on a step ladder, putting new batteries in the smoke detector. The cords in his forearms flex, and his calf muscles strain. Man, I wish I could stop sweating. I blow out a breath.
I need some air.
Lumbering up from the couch, I fling open the curtains and window. Sunlight spills across the floor, feeding me in a way a donut never could. I turn my face toward the sky, and the June breeze carries a hum of cicadas inside.
My mother’s voice suddenly bubbles up from that soft space where I keep her memory safely tucked.
Hope is never a bad idea,she whispers.
Then the smoke detector shrieks.
“Gah!” I cover my ears.