by Becky Monson
Heavens, poor Ashley. I can only imagine what she was stuck watching for two (or more) hours. Justin’s movie-picking skills are horrid, but his theater-picking skills border on tortuous. For me they are, at least. One time, he made me and Ashley sit through a two-hour, one-act, one-person play about a woman experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m pretty sure I had PTSD by the end of it.
“Anyway, it was her, I know it was. And she was not with Adam,” he says, spinning his sign around. Someone honks a car horn while driving by.
“So what? It could have been her brother or something.”
“Does Serene make out with her brother?”
“What? She was making out with this guy?” My eyes bug out of my head. I pull a flyer back from a man who was just about to grab it. Oops.
“Yep, it was an all-out snogging.”
“They were having sex in the café?” The pictures going through my head right now are not pretty. How would that even be possible? With everyone around?
“No, that’s what the Brits call making out.” He shakes his head like that’s something I should know.
“Oh . . . well, that makes so much more sense . . .” I trail off in thought.
When Gram watches the BBC, she is always appalled at how everyone is snogging each other. Well, she’ll feel much better about that when I tell her what it actually means. Not that her concern ever stopped her from watching the BBC, mind you.
“You don’t seem that shocked,” he says, looking confused, the sign twirling furiously.
“I don’t know. I guess because I didn’t see it with my own eyes, it’s hard to believe, you know? It’s dark in that café at night. Maybe you were mistaken?” This is not that farfetched. Once Justin swore he saw Gwyneth Paltrow walking down 5th. He even took a picture to prove it. He showed the picture to Ashley and me, but it wasn’t her. So I’m not sure I can totally trust him on this one.
Justin shakes his head. “I don’t think I was mistaken. It was her. It had to be. So, what are you going to do about it?”
I shrug my shoulders. “What can I do? I have no proof. I wasn’t there to see it myself.” I go back to handing out flyers and immediately being rejected by the next person who walks by.
Silence lands on the conversation as Justin spins and dances around (he’s a pretty terrible dancer, if you ask me), and I continue to get rejected as I try to pass out flyers.
“You wanna grab coffee after we’re done with this torture?” Justin says, breaking the lull in the conversation.
“Can’t,” I say quickly. There can be no one-on-one with Justin until I know what I will say to him. Well, no intimate one-on-one time. We are alone, working. But obviously, he has not found this to be the appropriate place, or he would have said something.
Now I need an excuse for why I can’t have coffee with him. Think, Bridgette, think.
“I still need to talk to you, you know.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me. He just keeps his eyes on the street in front of him.
“I, um, have to help Gram with something,” I lie. I don’t even know if Gram is home.
“What does she need help with? Does she need you to read smut books to her? Are her eyes going bad?” He swings the sign at me and hits me lightly on the arm with it. I roll my eyes. “Come on, Bridge. Just come have coffee with me.”
I exhale loudly. I can’t put this off anymore, can I? I guess I’ll just bite the bullet and hope everything turns out okay.
My heart sinks. I truly hope what we have isn’t eventually ruined by all this.
~*~
“So,” Justin says, tapping the side of his coffee cup with his hand.
“So,” I echo, not sure what else to say. This is already awkward. Oh, gosh, I hate this.
We look like a pair of idiots, still in our work uniforms. Thank goodness we are in New York City. They’ve seen weirder. Even still, we keep getting the odd glance every now and then.
He leans in with a serious look on his face. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something, and it’s been on my mind for a while now.”
“Justin,” I start talking, hoping to ward him off. Maybe I can make the blow easier. “I think before you say . . . uh . . . what you are going to say, I think you should really think about it. I mean, I’m pretty sure I know what you’re going to tell me, and I just want you to think about it.”
“You know what I’m going to tell you?” He looks shocked.
Honestly? Men are so dumb sometimes.
“Well, I’m pretty sure I do. And I don’t want it to change everything, you know?”
“You think it will change everything?” He motions his hand between us. His gesture speaks volumes. No words needed.
Oh, gosh, Ashley was right. I was hopeful that she wasn’t, but she was right.
“Justin,” I say and grab his hand. I mean it only in a friendly way. I hope he can understand that. “I’m pretty sure the feelings aren’t reciprocated.” I look down at the table, unable to meet his eyes.
“They’re not?” He lets go of my hand and rakes it through his hair. His eyes dart around the room, a feeling of embarrassment settles on us.
I so hate this.
“No. They’re not.” I look up to meet his gaze. He looks dumbfounded, confused.
I start to think back at our relationship and wonder if I’m this horrible person who has led him on, led him to think there was more there. Sure, I held his hand when we were at Adam’s dinner. But that was all fake. At least it was for me. I’ve always downplayed all other flirting, never engaging.
“Wow,” he says after a brief pause. “I’m a total idiot.” He looks so sad. “All this time I thought she liked me, too.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Justin. I wish I could tell you otherwise—wait, did you say ‘she?’”
“Yes . . . she. Ashley.” He shakes his head, not understanding me.
I close my eyes. Now I’m the total idiot. I look up at Justin who still looks so confused.
“You like Ashley?”
“Yes, of course. Who else would I be talking about?”
I start to giggle a little at how ridiculous this all is. I mean, I have some ego, don’t I? But if it weren’t for Carla and Ashley putting thoughts in my head, I would have never . . . Wait, why did Ashley think he liked me?
“I’m glad you think this is so funny,” Justin says, looked irritated.
“No, sorry.” I try to stifle a giggle. “It’s not funny.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because,” I say through more giggles, “I thought you liked me.”
“You? Why would I like you?” He looks totally appalled at the thought.
My giggling suddenly stops. “Well, geez, sorry I’m so unlikeable,” I say sarcastically.
“It’s not that. It’s just . . . you and me?” He motions between us again, “I mean, it wouldn’t make any sense.”
“I know, right?” I nod my head, agreeing. “That’s what I told Ashley.”
“Wait, Ashley thinks I like you?” He leans back in his chair.
“Yes, she got it in my head, actually. I was sure she was wrong, but she kept saying how obvious it was. I mean, you do blatantly flirt with me, so I guess I can see why.”
“I flirt with you because it’s easy, and it means nothing.”
“Yes, I get it. I’m unlikeable. You’ve said that already.”
“Stop. You know what I mean.” He rolls his eyes.
“Then why don’t you flirt with Ashley?”
“It’s too hard for me. It means more.” He looks down at his hands in his lap.
“Wait, you flirt with me because you don’t like me, but you don’t flirt with Ashley because you do like her?” I squint my eyes at him, trying to make sense of this. “Geez, Justin, this isn’t fifth grade.”
“I know,” he says, dramatically laying his forehead on the edge of the table in defeat. “I’m an idiot. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to se
e if you would feel Ash out. See if she feels the same.”
“Are you serious?” I give him a you-must-be-crazy look. “Wait, I’ve got an idea.” He looks up at me, very attentive. “Why don’t you write her a note, and I’ll bring it to her during gym class.”
“Bridgette, help me. Please? I’m inexperienced in this area. The last girl I liked—really liked—was years ago, and it would’ve never worked out, anyway. I have no idea what I’m doing.” He looks like a sad, little puppy dog, a puppy dog that I would like to slap some sense into.
“Please?” he pleads further.
I let a breath out through my lips, long and dramatic. “Okay, fine. I’ll ‘feel her out’ and see what I can find out.”
“Really?” His eyes brighten up.
Wow, this conversation certainly has not gone the way I had thought it would. It’s better, but somehow not better, at the same time.
“Yeah, sure. In the meantime, would you work on growing a pair? I mean, this whole thing is a little ridiculous.” I smirk at him.
He smiles brightly. “Thank you, Bridge. I owe you one.”
“Well, you did suffer through the Adam thing. So I suppose I can help you with this.” I roll my eyes.
“Actually, that was more fun for me. So I still owe you,” he says, the left side of his lip lifting up in a half-smile. I respond with another roll of my eyes.
So now I get to play the role of matchmaker, or at least matchmaker of the grammar school variety: “Do you like this boy? Check yes or no.” And I thought I was done with this phase when I went to middle school. How silly of me.
~*~
I spend the subway ride home contemplating my life and where I’m heading. I make a mental checklist, and it’s quite depressing. I am most definitely not where I thought I would be at this point. I’m not working at my dream job, and I’m not dating my dream guy. I’m an optimistic person, but I’m not seeing any of this change for a while. Well, hopefully the dream job will happen soon. Catering manager isn’t exactly an event planner, but it’s a step closer.
My phone beeps.
I don’t want to not be friends.
Ian. Butterflies immediately start twirling around immediately in my stomach. I let out a deep breath. I thought the last time we spoke was goodbye. I didn’t want it to be, to be honest. I guess he didn’t, either. Anyway, it’s not that I don’t want to be friends; it’s just that I don’t think we actually can. It’s one of those things like treading on thin ice. I can foresee it not ending well.
I finally text back, after deleting and rewriting about ten times.
Me too. But I don’t think any other way will work.
I contemplate telling him that maybe we should delete each other’s number, but truthfully, I don’t want to. Having his number in my phone makes me feel connected to him still, as silly as that may sound.
I slump back in my seat, waiting for my phone to beep again. Staring at it, willing it to make a sound.
It beeps after what seems like an hour—but was most likely only thirty seconds.
I heard my mom told you we set a date.
Oh, gosh . . . not Ian. Adam. I haven’t heard from him in so long, it almost seems like a stranger is texting me. A stranger I once thought I loved.
I text back quickly.
Yes, congrats.
I nearly added an exclamation point to the end of my text but decided against it. I’m not really excited. Why should I pretend to be?
I hope you’ll be there.
Not him, too? What is the deal with men? Why would they think their ex would want to see them get married? How is that fun for me? Men are all totally clueless, at least the ones in my life are.
I don’t even know what to text back, so I just leave it. Maybe my silence will be his clue that I don’t want to be there to see him marry the supermodel-witch.
My phone beeps.
We can be friends, can’t we? We can figure it out.
Oh, geez, now Adam is back to the friend thing? No wait—that was from Ian. This is complicated on so many levels.
I text Ian back.
I really don’t see how.
I tap on my phone, waiting for a response. He doesn’t text back. I guess it’s good. Maybe he realizes I’m right and is going to let it go, which is for the best.
My phone beeps. Guess I was wrong . . .
Please come, you’re part of the family.
Back to Adam. Really? How do I gently say via text that I would rather eat chili peppers on the hottest day of the year in the Sahara with no water, than go to his wedding?
I’ll try. I may have to work.
So, the solution to that problem is to lie. I mean, I don’t know the schedule this far in advance, so it’s not a total lie. But I’m not going to try to go to Adam’s wedding, not even a little. Actually, just now, I’ve declared September twenty-first a wedding-free day for Bridgette.
I think that’s the best plan.
CHAPTER 26
University of Connecticut, Senior Year, Spring
“Are you okay?” Ian asked as we snuggled on the couch after attempting to study. We were basically tangled up, legs intertwined, arms wrapped around each other, my head nestled into his neck.
“Sure,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“You just seem distant,” he said, running his fingers through my hair. It was one of my favorite things ever.
“Sorry, just got a lot on my mind,” I said, nuzzling my nose into his neck.
I really did have a lot on my mind. My stupid mind was running away with itself, like it often did.
By this time, Ian and I had been together for a little over three months. At first it was weird and new and exciting. But soon we settled into us, and it’s been pretty smooth sailing. Well, it should have been, at least.
For me, it felt like we were moving much too fast. I suppose that’s what you do when you start dating your best friend. The getting-to-know-you portion was done long ago. But it wasn’t just the moving fast part, it was also the feeling part. I had never felt like this before. Not with anyone I had ever dated, not even Brandon. Things had moved slowly and in a normal manner with Brandon and there was comfort there, comfort in the slowness of it.
There was comfort with Ian, too, especially in the fact that he knew me so well and that I could always be myself. But it was the future that scared me. Sure, sometimes I envisioned a future with Brandon when I was dating him, but only because it was the natural progression of things, like logically that was where things were supposed to go. With Ian, the future was real, and it was feeling very near for some reason, nearer than I was comfortable with. I wanted it, but I didn’t want it, at the same time.
What I did know, as I was wrapped up in Ian’s arms and his breath started to slow as he drifted off, was that I loved him (even though we’d yet to say it out loud). This was real love, not love that came from a natural progression. It was mad, passionate love … and it was freaking me out.
CHAPTER 27
“Oh, Bridgette, darling,” Carla takes a dramatic drink of her wine, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” It’s not just a saying in this case; her eyes actually do look sore.
“It’s great to see you, too,” I say. “How are you?”
“Not fabulous.” She bats a hand at me and takes another drink. Here it comes. “I really think life, as I know it, is over.” Her eyes instantly well up.
“Oh, Carla.” I put my hand out and grab hers, squeezing it. “Does this have to do with Adam and his,” I swallow hard, “fiancée?” I know I’m basically over Adam, but it still hurts a little to say it. I’m like a child who doesn’t want a toy, but doesn’t want anyone else to have it, either.
“Do you want to know what that witch did now?” she asks. I don’t answer because she will tell me, regardless. “She,” Carla cuts off, her eyes welling even more with tears, “she got him to throw out the prenup.”
“A prenup?” I don’t know why this piece of i
nformation takes me by surprise. I guess I never thought of it as an option. Of course, Carla and Frank would want to protect themselves and their business. I wonder if I would have had to sign a prenuptial agreement if it had been me. I’m guessing I would have. And I would have signed it, without question. I would never do anything to hurt Adam or his family, but if they needed it in writing, I wouldn’t have even batted an eye before signing.
“Yes, she refused to sign it—said their love was enough and something about how it’s not ‘true love’ when there’s a prenup.” She spits out the words “true love.”
“Oh, wow,” I say, having no other words to say to that. “What are you going to do?” I ask.
“What can I do?” She takes another gulp of wine. “She’s out to take everything, I just know it.”
I’m not about to challenge a mother’s intuition, but it does seem a little farfetched. I mean, Serene could actually love Adam. Also, I was with Adam for two years, so I’m pretty sure he’s smarter than that. Although, he is marrying someone he just met . . .
“Sorry, Carla,” I say. It’s the only appropriate response. Plus, essentially, this is none of my business. But I’m grateful she still makes it my business. I do miss being a part of the family and am thankful for what I still have. When I think about it, my biggest loss was really them, not Adam.
“So, do you think you can come?” she asks, shaking off the last part of the conversation with her tone.
“Come to what?” I ask, pulling my brows in toward each other.
“The wedding,” she says flatly.
“Oh, right, that. Adam told me he wanted me there, but I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head in quick little movements.
Actually, I do know. There’s no way I’m going to any weddings that day.
“Please come, dear Bridgette. I need you there as moral support for me,” she says, pleading with her tone.
