Over the next hour, we cycle through a series of games, competing in every combination of teams possible. First the girls go against the guys. Then Bridger and I play Sayla and Dex. When it’s our turn at the pool table, Dex and I even take on Bridger and Sayla.
Bridger wins every time, no matter who he’s partnered with.
Afterward, Dex nudges me. “Your future husband is one of those people who’s annoyingly good at everything. Did you know this?”
“I can’t say I did.”
“Well, noteveryone feels the need to showboat all the time.” Bridger chuckles. “Not that I’m naming any names.”
“I will,” Sayla sings out. “Dexter Michaels!”
“Hey!” Dex throws his hands up in mock protest. “I can’t help it if I’m a naturally gifted athlete, who also happens to be devastatingly handsome and—against all odds—incredibly smart.”
Sayla rolls her eyes, but she's giggling. “And you wonderwhy I couldn’t stand you for the first however many years we knew each other.”
He tugs her to him. “Denial is a legitimate river, sweetheart.”
As we drift back to our table, all laughing and light, I’m feeling less stressed than I have in as long as I can remember. I even manage to forget, for a moment, the monumental task Bridger and I are undertaking tomorrow. Not just getting married, but convincing his mother that our relationship is real.
Sayla, however, hasn’t forgotten.
“Hey, Lo, I just shared a bunch of pics and videos in our group thread.”
“Thanks, Say.”
“After the ceremony, I’ll make an album with some video montages you can send to Bridger’s mom.”
“That reminds me,” he says, digging in the pocket. He pulls out a smallish black box, and my mouth suddenly feels cottony. Like socks fresh from the dryer.
“Whoa.” Sayla’s eyes widen. “Is that a ring?”
“No, I’m picking our wedding bands up from the jewelers’ tomorrow.” He gives me the box, and my fingers shake a little, which is weird, because he’s clearly not proposing. Nobody’s down on one knee, and he never asked for my hand in marriage. This is all just pretend. A means to an end, not real. So why are butterflies swarming my stomach?
“It’s just something else I worked out for us today,” he says.
I pop the top of the box open, and inside is a key.
“We agreed to live together.” He keeps his focus on the box. “So I hope you don’t mind, but I found a place for us this afternoon. And I went ahead and signed the lease just in case.”
“But why?” I swallow. “We already havetwoplaces.”
“We do.” His gaze comes to mine. “But they both only have one bedroom. And I’m a team player, but I’m also not a small guy. My back isn’t built for sleeping on the couch for months.”
Months.
Dex claps him on the back. “That’s just smart, man. But you’re playing kind of fast and loose with Operation Fool Margaret. Our plan is on a napkin. In ink. And we said nothing about you renting a love nest.”
Love nest?
“The napkin doesn’t care, Dex,” Sayla says. “But how long is the lease, exactly?”
“I had to commit to a year,” Bridger says before turning to me. “But that should be more time than we actually need to convince my mom that we’re official. Once she eases up, we can too.”
He says all this matter-of-factly, as if he isn’t talking about us sharing a home as man and wife. Meanwhile, as the future wife in this scenario, I’m having an out-of-body experience. Not discussing timelines beforehand seems like a ludicrous oversight now. Then again, Operation Fool Margaret wasn’t something we took a long time hatching.
Just ask our napkin.
“So where’s the apartment?” Dex asks. “Near us?”