Bailey’s was one of her favorite restaurants in the city. The atmosphere was homey rather than fancy, and the food didn’t cost much but tasted great. She hadn’t been in a while and would definitely have to change that situation when she had a bit of extra cash to spare. “Bailey’s? I love that place. Have you been working there long?”
“Not long, no.” Wesley shook his head as he leaned back against the wall. Why did it constantly feel like one step forward, three steps back with him? He was the one who’d sought her out. He was the one who had said he wanted to be friends now. Then why was he still being so cagey about sharing himself with her?
Bridget decided that the best way to find out would be to ask him directly, even if it made them both uncomfortable. “Why do you suddenly want to be my friend, Wesley Wright?”
“Because I worried about you when you didn’t show up tonight, worried in a way that implies maybe we already are.” That made sense. He didn’t want to care for her but had accidentally started doing so, anyway. She could definitely understand that, since the same thing had happened for her.
She smiled, hoping it would put him at ease and help him open up to her a bit more. “And if I agree to be your buddy, you’ll stop worrying?”
He chuckled, although his eyes remained serious, unblinking. “Don’t let me force you into anything.”
Bridget rolled her eyes and then pointed toward her couch. “Have a seat. If we’re going to be friends, then I need to know a lot more about you.”
Chapter 20
Bridget pulled one of the hard wooden chairs from the dining room and set it across from the couch. She had only the one sofa and would rather face Wesley while talking to him than sit beside him. Of course, all three dogs piled on the couch with Wesley, choosing comfort over loyalty.
“Traitors,” she murmured as her guest laughed and lavished attention on each of them. Teddy in particular appeared to believe he was in the presence of royalty. His bright pink tongue lolled from the side of his mouth, and he panted and snarfled so heavily, Bridget had to wonder if he was literally choking on the excitement of having Wesley in their home.
“They’re good dogs,” he said, bending forward to give Teddy a little kiss between the ears—and just like that, any remaining doubt Bridget had about whether the two of them could actually find a way to become something to each other disappeared.
If animals were Bridget’s life, then that aging fluff of a Pomeranian was her heart, and Wesley had instantly charmed her. Wesley also seemed more at ease now that he was flanked by canine supporters.
She laughed, not because anything was funny but simply because it was the only way to smile even bigger. “Until now, they’ve always seen you when we’re about to go for a run. It’s no wonder you’re their new favorite person.”
“Or maybe they just think I’m a good guy,” he said, lifting his soft eyes to meet Bridget’s. They changed colors, she realized. Wesley’s eyes were always blue, but the exact hue changed with his moods—light and happy, bright and wanting, dark and stormy. Fascinating.
She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, then met his inviting gaze head-on. “Well, get on with it,” she demanded, the silence feeling more intimate than any words possibly could.
Normally she fell into friendships naturally, easily. This situation with Wesley was anything but. They’d started with arguments and false invitations, grew closer over time, and now had announced they’d like to start an official friendship.
Who did that? Only Wesley, apparently.
He lifted his head a bit higher and asked, “With what?”
“Your life story,” she answered with a wry smile. It seemed he didn’t know how to proceed, either. At least they were well matched.
He chuckled. “There’s not much to tell. I’d much rather hear about you.”
She shook her head. “Nope, not falling for that. When a guy only wants to talk about you, it’s because he’s hiding something about himself.”
“But we’re not on a date. We’re trying to become friends here,” he reminded her. Trying? Earlier, he’d said they already were. Also there was no way a date could be any more uncomfortable than this.
“And friends share, so dish.”
Wesley laughed again, presumably at her assertiveness, while Bridget felt heat rise to her cheeks at the mention of dating. Except for a brief boy-crazy period in high school, she’d tended to prefer friends to boyfriends. Friends made fewer demands on her time. Friends didn’t try to change or mold her to better fit into their already established lives.
She liked Wesley, yes. Found him handsome, even. But that didn’t mean she’d try shoving such a big new piece onto her already overflowing plate.
Besides, it would be nice to have a friend nearby in case she ever needed a cup of sugar or something, right?
“Tell you what,” Wesley said with a sudden trace of a frown. She wondered why that might be, since their conversation had been so lighthearted until now. Awkward but light. Kind of like her. “We’ll take turns. And I’ll even start. Good?”
Bridget shrugged and motioned for him to go ahead. She focused on his hands as he continued to lavish affection on her dogs. They accepted him, and she trusted their judgment. Not that they’d ever shown any sign of disliking anyone, but they were extra fond of Wesley and that had to mean something.
When she met his eyes again, he cleared his throat and shared another fact about his life. “Okay, so I was born and raised in Homer. Only moved to Anchorage fairly recently.”
“What brought you here?”
He lifted a finger and wagged it at her. “That’s not what we agreed to. I shared a fact about me. Now you share one about you.”
She took a deep breath. Why did this feel like a game of truth or dare? She’d always chosen dare when growing up, but today’s game was composed exclusively of truths. No questions, though. Only a fair exchange of facts.
“My dad was in the army, so I was born out of state, but we’ve been in Anchorage for pretty much as long as I can remember. My parents—I mean, my dad—still lives in the same house where I grew up.”
Wesley caught her small slipup but didn’t ask any follow-up questions. Was this because he was a stickler for the rules he’d set for this interaction, or because he figured she’d share if she wanted to?
Now it was his turn. “I went to college for engineering but never got to finish. Now I’m a cook instead, and honestly I think I like it way better than I would have liked being an engineer.”
She nodded. Despite his seriousness, she couldn’t picture him as an engineer, either. When he’d told her about working at Bailey’s, his entire face had glowed with pride and excitement—as if he was exactly where he needed to be and doing what he was meant to do. She wondered if she had the same glow about her when she was at the vet clinic, hoped she did.
“I’m going to school to be a veterinarian. I had to take a year off to help my mom when she got sick. She died at the beginning of this year, and I’ve missed her every single day since.”
Wesley tensed, sitting straighter on the couch, his hands growing still on the dogs’ backs. “I lost someone close to me, though not in the same way. It’s hard, but it does get easier with time.”
“Thanks,” she said, meeting his eyes again and offering a sad smile. “I hope you’re right, because I don’t think I can live with this giant gaping hole in my chest much longer.”
Wesley stood and untangled himself from the pile of dogs, then approached Bridget’s chair and kneeled. He took both of her hands in his and squeezed. “It gets easier. Running helps. So do friends.”
Friends would help.
And now thanks to Wesley, she had one more.
Chapter 21
Nichole came by again later that week just as she had promised—or more accurately, threatened. She even brought her InstaPot so the two of them could make dinner while they chatted.
“Sometimes it’s easier to open up about the hard t
hings when we have a mundane physical task to distract us,” she explained as they moved into the kitchen. “So, here . . . chop the onions.”
“The onions, really?” The onions were a big part of what had ruined her latest cooking adventure, and she still felt a bit sore about it.
If Nichole realized this, she did nothing to indicate it. Instead, she smiled and pushed a large Vidalia onion into Bridget’s chest. “Yup. That way if you need to cry, you can blame it on them. No one will ever know otherwise.”
Bridget scoffed at this. “I’m not going to cry. Sorry to disappoint you.” She tossed the onion from hand to hand until Nichole caught it midthrow and set it down on the counter.
“I don’t need you to cry,” she said, grabbing the cutting board from its place on top of the fridge and placing it before Bridget. “Just be honest with me and yourself,” she continued as she retrieved a knife from the chopping block.
“I’m always honest.” Bridget peeled the skin from the onion and set it aside.
“Good. Then this will be a breeze.” Nichole plugged in her InstaPot, then turned to Bridget while she washed her hands in the kitchen sink. Her demeanor visibly changed as she took off her friend hat and donned the social worker one. Nichole had always been a bit more serious and severe than the others, and now she set her jaw and narrowed her eyes.
“Today we’re going to take stock of your life as it currently is. Next week, we’ll focus on how you’d ideally like your life to be, and then decide on a list of actionable items to help you bridge the gap between the two.”
“I feel as if I should be handing you my insurance card right now, Dr. Peterson. Do we really need to be so clinical about this?” Even though it was hard to share her worries with her friends, it was even worse to think she required professional help just to get through life—especially since she was perfectly fine. Just a little sad was all.
“You like busywork, and I like doing things right the first time, so yes.” Nichole positioned the can opener over a can of kidney beans and began to crank. “So let’s start talking about the things that take up the most space in your day. You finish those onions, then slice these tomatoes, and I’ll take notes for us to refer to later.”
“But . . .” Bridget’s argument fell away when she saw Nichole fish a small notebook and pen from her purse and set them on the counter.
Once back, Nichole dumped the beans into the pot and began fiddling with the ground turkey. “If you’re not sure where to start, just walk me through a typical day, and I’ll take notes on things we should talk more about.”
Bridget nodded and wiped away the beginnings of a tear. “Stupid onions,” she muttered.
“That’s okay, let it all out,” Nichole joked. It felt weird, though, since Nichole had never been one to fool around, especially when in social worker mode. She seemed to be trying extra hard to get through to Bridget, which was equal parts touching and irritating.
Clearly, Nichole wasn’t going to just drop it, which meant the faster Bridget went through this exercise, the faster it would all be over. “Well, I work at the vet five days a week. Volunteer at the shelter one day a week. There’s Potluck Club on Sundays, and I run each night now with Wesley.”
Nichole grabbed her pen and jotted everything down. “What else takes up your time?”
Bridget swiped at another tear with the edge of her shirt. “Wasn’t that enough?”
“For a normal person, yes. For you, not really. Keep going.”
“I’m returning to college in the fall. That’ll be a big thing. But that’s pretty much it.” Bridget chopped quickly and a bit clumsily, anything to get this interrogation over with as fast as possible.
Nichole wiggled her pen between her fingers. “So you’re telling me that out of twenty-four hours in a day, you are always”—she dropped her eyes to the notepad and read—“at work, school, volunteering, running with Wesley, or at Potluck Club with us?”
“No, of course not. I sleep, too. And eat. And drive from place to place.”
Nichole bobbed her head again, starting a second column on the paper to list these activities, too. “How about TV? Reading? Chores?”
“I do all that, too. Though maybe not as much as I’d like.”
Nichole raised one eyebrow as if she expected whatever she said next would have a big impact. “How about family?”
“I saw my dad last night. I do need to visit him more. Caleb was out of town. You know where my mom is.”
Her friend grimaced.
And Bridget was quick to apologize. “Sorry, this whole thing makes me a little uncomfortable.”
“Why? Let’s unpack that.” Nichole’s eyes narrowed again; a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. She loved solving the mysteries of the human heart and had just landed on a new case to investigate.
“I don’t know. I guess I’d rather just deal with this stuff on my own.”
She raised an eyebrow and smiled more widely. “Yeah. And how’s that working out for you?”
Bridget finished with an onion and dumped the discarded bits into the trash. “You’re annoying. You know that?”
Nichole’s expression remained serious, her pen poised over the pad. “Yes, I do, but I’m okay with you being mad at me, if it helps you in the long run.”
Bridget sighed. Why did Nichole make it so hard to stay mad at her? “Why are you so sure I need help?”
“Because running isn’t just a fun new hobby you’ve taken up. I know you, and I know how you process things.”
“How do I process things?”
Now Nichole was the one to sigh. “Well, this wasn’t how I pictured this activity going, but fine. You deal with negative feelings by throwing yourself into any and every new activity, hobby, or project you can find. The more upset you are, the more you take on, trying to drown out your feelings, but that only works for so long. Doesn’t it?”
Chapter 22
May accosted Bridget the second she walked into the shelter for her Saturday volunteer shift. “There you are! I’ve been waiting all week to hear about what you have planned for our next big adoption event and how soon we can put it on. Do you think the first weekend of August would work?”
Shoot. Bridget hadn’t even begun planning yet, and yet somehow she needed to have everything ready in just three weeks?
She hung her head, ashamed. Although May was far too pushy, ultimately the dogs and cats were the ones who would suffer if Bridget delayed too much. “I had to clear a few other things from my schedule this past week so that I’ll be able to really dig in and focus once I get started. I’ll have my proposal ready to share with you and the board when I come in next week, though.”
May clapped her hands and beamed at Bridget proudly as if already taking credit for whatever great ideas she might present. “Perfect. So should I tell them we’re a go for that first weekend in August?”
“Um . . .” How could she ask for more time without appearing incompetent? But, then again, how could she not ask for more when this had all just been sprung on her last week?
“Great. It really helps to have a date nailed down.” May didn’t seem to have a worry in the world. Well, of course she didn’t, since she would hardly lift a finger to help with any of the planning or administration.
“No problem,” Bridget answered, even though it was actually a huge problem. She loved the shelter, loved the animals there, but could definitely do without this particular person in her life.
That night, she told Wesley all about the shelter, their Date-a-Rescue event last Valentine’s Day, and the fact that she needed to put together a new one fast. She kept her feelings about May to herself, though.
They kept up a constant stream of chatter during their runs together now, and Bridget found that she enjoyed it even more than simply focusing on his footfalls and her heartbeats. Despite an awkward start, he’d become the one person to whom she most enjoyed telling about her day—probably because he had no expectations of h
er and she had none of him. That made things so much easier.
“Whoa,” Wesley said, summing up the situation perfectly in just that one word. “All that seems like a lot to handle in such a short span of time. Is this May person helping you put the fundraiser together once you come up with the plan?”
“She thinks she is, but nothing she does is ever actually helpful. And it’s not a fundraiser so much as an adoption event.” Okay, so maybe she would share her May rage just a little bit. It felt good to express her unhappiness, as if by stating it aloud her problems became lighter, less daunting.
“Well, maybe it should be. I mean, you said the part that took so much time before was putting together all the adoption profiles and date cards. What if instead of doing all that work again with this new batch of animals, you focused on raising awareness and funds?”
Hmm. She liked that, provided May would go for it. “What were you thinking?”
“Get people to the shelter. Get them talking about it. Do something fun that people will enjoy taking part in even if they’re not looking to add a new pet to the family.”
“Like a silent auction?” she asked, warming to the idea even more.
“Yeah, or a charity race.” Wesley lifted his knees higher as he ran to animate his point.
Bridget groaned, but it quickly turned into a breathy laugh. “People do those all the time.”
“Yeah, and I bet it’s because they work.”
“My mom and I were supposed to participate in one. It was the next thing on our bucket list before she . . .”
“Got it,” Wesley said when her words trailed away.
Bridget pumped her legs faster, pulling ahead. She needed the extra burn in her muscles to take the focus off the fissure in her heart.
Wesley caught up easily and pulled to her side, never an easy task considering their canine running mates. “You need to do this,” he said. “For your mom.”
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