“Bridger,” I started. “You can’t go to work like that.” I stood in the doorway watching him saddle up. “Your hands are shaking.”
“No choice,” he said. He rose to his feet unsteadily.
When he came to the door, I was in his way. Putting my hands on his chest, I made him look me in the eye. “Stop,” I said. “Give yourself a break.”
“Let me go, Scarlet.” The cold sound in his voice was nothing I’d heard before. “I’m so very late, and it’s not okay. I have to run. Literally.”
Chastened, I moved out of the way. “Can I drop you anywhere at least? My car is just across Chapel.” I didn’t expect him to take me up on it. But I had to offer, if it was so effing crucial that he get to work. I’m the one who let his alarm go off without waking him.
He surprised me. “Could you? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
I grabbed my keys off the desk and plucked my coat off the chair. “Let’s go.”
“This is your car?” Bridger asked.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“You drive a brand new Porsche Cayenne with a turbo engine? In Harkness?”
“Sure,” I said, my voice testy. “But only if you tell me where to drive it.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Make a right. Please.”
The tone he took made me want to cry. He’s just grumpy because he’s sick, I coached myself. And stressed out about work.
There was no way for me to explain to Bridger that the car was just another farce in my life. I’d overheard my parents’ lawyer advising them to put assets in my name. In New Hampshire, I’d driven an aging Toyota Camry. But when my mother told me which car they’d picked out for me to keep at school, I wasn’t exactly shocked. The Porsche was a way for them to hide something like seventy thousand dollars from the families who would eventually sue my father in civil court.
I could either explain this to Bridger, or merely let him think I was ridiculously wealthy and out of touch.
Is it all that surprising that I chose the latter?
Bridger’s face was still a ghostly color as he directed me toward a distant corner of town. We were in a residential area, where old wooden houses sat close together. Some of their porches sagged under the weight of time, while others had been spiffed up within the last century.
“Just let me out here, thanks,” Bridger said stiffly.
“Bridge, there’s nothing here,” I complained. “Except these houses. And that school.”
Oh.
The school.
Bridger put his hand on the door, but I accelerated. I followed the U-shaped driveway of the elementary school, remembering the little girl with the pink bike helmet. When I came to a stop in front of the glass doors, Bridger opened the passenger door and got out without a word. At that moment, one of the doors opened up and the little girl with the chestnut ponytail came flying out.
He shut the car door behind him, but I could still hear their voices. “I’m sorry I’m late!” he said, his arms wide. She ran to him, and I saw his body sway from the impact as she flew into his midriff. He steadied himself.
“Everyone else was gone!” the little girl said. “Mrs. Rose waited with me.”
“I’m so sorry, Lulu. I’m not feeling well, and I fell asleep.”
“Oh NO!” she said. “You got it too?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry.”
“You can throw up on my shoe, and then we’ll be even.”
“If I throw up on both your shoes, do I win?”
She giggled, and tugged on his hand. “I’ll get my bike.”
When she skipped toward the bike rack, Bridger turned around. He mouthed thank you into the window of her car, and gave me a little wave. Slowly, he walked toward the little girl, who was putting on a bike helmet. I took my foot off the brake and idled the SUV around the school’s drive circle. At the stop sign, I braked again, and put on my blinker. Even though there was nobody coming, I waited.
A minute later, the little girl rode up to the corner and stopped. One foot on the ground, she turned back.
I watched in the rear view mirror as Bridger walked toward the corner, his gait painfully slow. He forced a smile onto his face, but his misery was evident. When finally he approached, I put my car in park. Then I pressed the button which automatically raised the tailgate door of my overpriced car. I gave the horn one minuscule beep.
He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me. Then he limped over to the car. I lowered the passenger side window. “Bridger, put the bike in the back.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re being a dumbass."
He leaned on the door of my car, not because he wanted to but because he needed the rest. “I don’t take help from people,” he said. “Even you, Scarlet. But I have good reasons.”
“I’m sure they’re excellent,” I hissed. “But unless you want her to watch you pass out on the sidewalk, get in the damned car.”
His eyes slid closed from exhaustion. When they opened again, he turned to the little girl. She’d been watching us the entire time. “Come here, Lucy,” he said. “My friend is going to give us a ride.”
“Let me get it,” I said, hefting the bike. Bridger was done arguing. He opened the back door, and after the little girl climbed in, he slid in next to her.
“I’m so sorry, Lulu,” he said as I got back behind the wheel. “You must have been freaking out.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Mrs. Rose told me some knock-knock jokes.” Her voice sounded little, reminding me of a Muppet. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Home,” Bridger said.
“Which is…?” I asked.
“Beaumont House,” he said stiffly.
“Seriously?” I swiveled around to face him.
He gave me one sad nod and then looked out the window.
No freaking way. He was keeping a child in the dormitory? That broke about ten different rules. I stole another glance into the rear view mirror.
He had leaned back, his head against the headrest, his eyes screwed shut. “Homework?” he inquired.
“Just a math sheet. And spelling words for Friday.”
“That’s it?” He squirmed uncomfortably against the leather.
“Yup!”
“God is merciful. How was the day?”
“Gregory pinched me, but then he got caught! And Mrs. Rose made him write ‘I will not pinch’ on the board. And it was library day, and I got an American Girl book out. A new one.”
“Awesome,” he said.
The drive was only a few minutes long, but that was long enough to break my heart into pieces listening to the two of them.
“Did you like the bananas on your peanut butter sandwich?” he asked.
“Yep. What are we going to call that one?”
“The… monkey nutter?”
“Hmm…” she considered. “Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.”
Bridger wouldn’t look me in the eye when I got the bike out of the back.
“Hope you feel better,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said stiffly.
“Let me know, okay?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked slowly toward the courtyard gate, where the little girl waited, still wearing her pink bike helmet.
That night, I was supposed to be working through a problem set for statistics. But my head was swirling with questions about what I’d seen.
Lulu had to be Bridger’s sister, or maybe his niece. They looked so much alike. From the looks I’d snuck at her, she would be about eight or nine years old.
As manly as Bridger was, it seemed unlikely that he’d conceived a child at age twelve.
My phone buzzed at ten-thirty, and I was relieved to see that the text was from Bridger. You still up? He asked.
I dialed him. “Hi,” I said carefully when he answered.
“Hi,” he whispered. No wonder his voice was always hushed when I spoke to him at night. Becaus
e he wasn’t alone in the room.
“She’s your little sister,” I guessed.
“Yes, she is.”
He didn’t volunteer anything more, but I wasn’t ready to let it drop. “You don’t drive a forklift at night, do you? You’re home with her.”
“You have it all figured out.” His voice was so soft that I almost couldn’t hear. “Well, go ahead. Tell me I’m a prick for lying to you.”
My eyes were instantly hot. “I’m not going to say that. You told me you had good reasons, and now I know it’s true. You’re afraid of getting caught by the college.”
“Scarlet, It’s not just the college. My life is a house of cards. It’s her school, and most of all child protective services. I don’t have custody.”
My heart contracted. “Where are your parents?”
“Our dad died three years ago. And Mom is indisposed.”
“Indisposed to take care of her daughter?”
“Indisposed to stop manufacturing crystal meth on her dining table.”
“Oh my God,” I said.
“Exactly.” His voice in my ear was warm and lovely, in spite of our depressing conversation.
“So you took her in.”
“No other choice,” he said. “It was either me or child protective services. And I’m not sending her away.”
“She’d go to a foster home?”
“Right. And some of them are… I shouldn’t really talk about this right now.”
I blew out a breath. “Is your stomach feeling any better?”
“I’ll live. Haven’t thrown up for about four hours.”
“Oh, Bridger. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“You know…” He probably just wanted me to drop it. But I couldn’t help myself. “I wouldn’t have told a soul.”
He sighed into the phone. “I know that, Scarlet. That’s not why I didn’t tell you. With you, I just don’t want to be that guy. That guy with all the issues.”
That made me suck in a breath. Because I’d done exactly the same thing — made exactly the same choice. He didn’t know a thing about me, because I didn’t want to be that girl.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Does that make sense?”
“It makes more sense than you’ll ever know,” I said.
I didn’t know if I’d see Bridger in class on Thursday, but he came in right on time, flopping into the seat next to mine. Wordlessly, I put my hand on his lap, palm up. And he took it, stroking my thumb with his.
“You take her to school in the morning?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “She starts at eight thirty, which is why I gave myself nine o’clock classes every day of the week.”
“She’s so cute,” I said, squeezing his hand.
“Yeah, she is.” He squeezed back. “What are you up to this weekend?”
“I’m writing my psychology paper. And probably watching some fascinating reruns of Dancing with the Stars. You?”
“I’m doing a bunch of chemistry homework. And attending a fascinating puppet show at the public library.”
As always, it was a struggle to tear my eyes away from his handsome face when the professor began class at the front of the room.
“I’m sorry to keep asking questions,” I said later, picking at my salad in the student center.
“Fire away,” he sighed. “Like I said, I didn’t want to be that guy. But I am that guy. And it’s a relief not to lie to you anymore.” He took a bite of his burrito.
I love you, I thought, watching him, happy to see him eating again. Out loud I said “so, what brought about The Most Pointless Night Ever?”
He laughed. “That is an excellent question. Okay, so Lucy was invited to a birthday party, and she was so excited. And I got her over to the other little girl’s house right on time, with a wrapped gift — just like you’re supposed to.”
He flashed me one of his killer smiles, and my heart melted a little more, just thinking about this hunky guy wrapping up a nine-year-old’s party gift.
“…But when I got there, the mom says, ‘where’s her sleeping bag?’” Bridger put a hand to his forehead. “It was supposed to be a sleepover. And I’m totally on the spot, because I didn’t read the invitation carefully. And the mom is like ‘never mind, she can use one of ours, she can borrow pajamas.’ So I looked like an ass. But then all of a sudden I was alone for the night.”
I shook my head, as if I could erase the whole debacle. “Could we bribe that mom into giving another slumber party?”
“Believe me, I had the same thought.” His green eyes flashed at me.
“How do you keep your grades up?” I asked.
“That’s actually the easy part. Because I’m home every night in a silent room from eight o’clock on. I have a clip-on light I use on my books, or I work on my computer.”
“What’s the hard part?”
He shrugged. “Hiding her. If I didn’t have to hide her, nothing would be all that difficult. And the money. Feeding her isn’t expensive, but when the spring term ends, I’ll have to find us some place to live.”
“There must be people in your entryway who have noticed that she’s around all the time.”
“Oh, there are,” he said, swigging back some milk. “The guy across the fire door from me is the only one who knows the whole truth. He’s propped the door open a couple times when I’ve had to run out at night, babysitting for me.”
“That’s handy,” I said. Fire doors were a strange feature of the Harkness dorms. They were unlocked, wooden doors connecting one room to another, so that every room had two means of egress.
“The guys on my floor — there’s three of them — they’ve seen her in the bathroom too many times not to notice. I tell them ‘she’s visiting,’ but they’re probably not stupid. Luckily, nobody seems to care.”
“It’s not like she’s throwing loud parties.”
His smile was rueful. “I actually make her be quiet. Even if she’s singing some happy little third grade tune, I tell her to keep it down. It’s like she’s in prison.”
I felt a pit in my stomach. “How long can you keep this up, Bridger?”
From the exhaustion on his face, I knew I’d asked the toughest question. “As long as I need to. If I lived off campus, I wouldn’t be afraid to be caught all the time. But I have a full ride at Harkness, and that pays for the dorm, not an apartment.”
“And there’s no such thing as a part-time student here.”
He shook his head. “No such thing. So, I already did the math on transferring to UConn. But it would cost so much more. You might not know this, but nobody does financial aid like Harkness. And they give me the full package, because they get to check a box next to my name under ‘local success story.’ Seriously, they care about that. The city keeps track of how many locals they let in.”
I could only shake my head. “You amaze me. You have so much more on your shoulders than most people.”
“Don’t be too impressed. If the wrong administrator wanders by my dorm room while she’s singing along with Frozen, I could be out on the street.”
I put my hand on his wrist. “What can I do to help you?”
He winced. “Nothing, Scarlet. It’s my mess to deal with.” He reached across the table, catching my hand in his larger one. “Just be with me, okay?”
“That’s easy.” I squeezed his hand.
Chapter Eight: You're Making Me Look Bad
— Bridger
“So, we have a stats midterm coming up,” Scarlet said the following week as we walked away from the student center’s cafe take-out counter.
“Are you ready for it?” I was only half listening, because my eyes were focused on the way her jeans hugged her long legs.
“Nope,” she shook her head. “I’m not even close.”
“Ah,” I sighed. “Has your tutor been slacking off?”
Scarlet cleared her throat, a
tint of pink appearing on her cheeks. “Only on the statistics.”
I felt a little pang of guilt, then. Because my mind was absolutely not on statistics. “Right. Okay. Well, let’s find a seat here and not in your room. Because your tutor is easily distracted.”
She led me to a sofa by the windows, where I sat down and patted the spot just beside me. “Let’s see your notes,” I said, pulling a sandwich out of our bag.
As much as I hated to waste any of my precious Scarlet time on homework, she needed a little help with time series regression. An hour later, I had finished both the tutoring and a chicken parm.
I had just stood up to throw away our trash when someone called out in our direction. “Jesus, Bridge! I’ve been thinking about putting your face on the back of a milk carton.” Hartley was coming toward me, hand in hand with his girlfriend, Corey. I stared at them for a second, trying to figure out what it was that looked so different about them. And then I realized that Corey had ditched her crutches, and was walking almost smoothly, with nothing but a cane in one hand. It was wild.
I charged them, lifting Corey off her feet. After swinging her around in a complete circle, I set her down again carefully. “Christ, Callahan. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Because this is a new shirt, right?” she said, turning around in a circle.
“You goof,” I couldn’t stop smiling at her. “Seriously, you’re looking great.”
“Maybe if you showed up to see your friends more often, my accomplishments wouldn’t be such a shock,” she said.
“Really,” Hartley added. “Where the hell have you been? I can’t even catch you at breakfast.”
I hadn’t eaten breakfast all year.
I gave him my most casual shrug. “I’m working three jobs, guys. Entertaining you over meals doesn’t pay enough.” Seeing them right now — Hartley with the symbol for “captain” on his hockey jacket, and Corey walking almost as if she’d never sat in a wheelchair — it caused me almost physical pain. Because there was so much I’d been missing.
The Year We Hid Away Page 8
