by Becky Monson
Ian breathes out slowly. He pauses for a few seconds, looking me in the eyes. My heart speeds up.
“I was going to tell you,” he finally says, “that it didn’t matter if you wouldn’t come to London.”
“Why? Because you were done with us?” Saying the word “us” makes me feel oodles of guilt. We shouldn’t be talking about this. At the same time, I’m glad we are getting this out in the open.
“No, it didn’t matter if you wouldn’t come to London because I wasn’t going to go. Not without you.” He looks up at me, a sad smile on his face.
“That would have been dumb, Ian,” I say, thinking how silly it was that he could throw away his future like that.
“Maybe. But I didn’t want to be away from you. Not for that long.” He closes his eyes and turns his head, a tortured expression on his face.
“So, instead, you went away. That makes so much sense,” I say sarcastically because it makes no sense at all. “You know if you had asked me to wait for you, I would have,” I say and then regret the words immediately. Even though they’re the truth, what good do they do now? It’s too late.
More silence. All of this out in the open isn’t making me feel any better. I actually feel a hundred times worse. If only we had talked back then, we would be in a much different place right now. Maybe a much better place. Or maybe not. Maybe this was our destiny.
“Sorry,” I say into the silence. He looks up at me.
“Me, too,” he says back and looks down again.
“Maybe . . .” I start but then stop.
“Maybe what?” he asks.
“Maybe this was how it was supposed to be?” I say, but it feels like a lie when it comes out of my mouth. I keep going with it, even though. “I mean, had you stayed with me, you wouldn’t have your career. Well, you might have, but it could have been a completely different path. And you wouldn’t have Maureen . . . maybe this is just how it was supposed to be.”
“Yeah,” he says, his head bobbing, pseudo agreeing with me. I can see doubt in his eyes, though.
We sit in silence for a minute. It’s awkward, and I’m not sure what to say or if anything should be said at this point. Not on the Ian-and-me subject, that is.
“Well,” I finally say, setting my sandwich down next to me. I lean back in my seat, not realizing there is no back to the bench. So basically, I fall backwards. “Oomph,” I say as I topple over into the grass behind me.
Crap.
“Bridge?” Ian says, leaning over the bench looking at me. He’s trying to grab my hand, but I’m waving both around like an idiot, trying to get my bearings. He’s finally able to grab a hand to help, but in my struggle to pull myself together, I end up pulling him down and right on top of me.
Double crap.
The nearness of him, his breath on my neck, my pulse—which was already up—moves to a rapid pace. I suddenly can’t find my breath, and I feel Ian struggle for his, as well.
We don’t move. I know we should. My brain is practically screaming it. But I can’t move. Mostly because I’m pinned under Ian and he isn’t moving, but also because I don’t want to. I look at his face, the face that used to be mine, that used to make me feel so safe. And I realize in that moment, I’m still in love with Ian. I knew I loved him, I always have. But this is more than that. I’m in love with him, and I think I’ve known all along. I just buried it deep down to protect myself.
Our faces are only inches away from each other, our lips perfectly aligned. Ian’s eyes flash a darker color, and then his focus moves to my lips . . . He leans in closer. Uh-oh.
“Ian,” I say breathlessly.
Saying his name must have snapped him out of the trance he was in because he shakes his head quickly, closing his eyes. He curses under his breath.
He rolls over, away from me, and quickly begins to stand up. My body instantly feels cold, even in the midday heat.
He rubs his temples. He looks frustrated, angry even. Looking away from me, he reaches out a hand and helps me to standing.
“Um, are you okay?” he asks, his voice struggling.
“Uh,” I say, trying to adjust my shirt back to how it should be and also trying to catch my breath. “Yep, I think I’m okay.”
“Good,” he says flatly. We stand there trying not to look at each other. Ian’s hand moves up to his forehead and he rubs it, wearily.
“I better go . . . back to work,” he finally says.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, my head bobbing quickly.
So, I guess the part where we forget that ever happened has begun.
“Thanks for lunch,” he says, not making eye contact with me.
“Yeah,” is all I say.
Then he turns and walks away, and once again I’m left standing there wondering what just happened.
CHAPTER 34
Later in the week, I find myself feeling very lonely in Gram’s apartment. I haven’t spoken to Ian since our bizarre predicament in the park. I pondered calling him to go out for coffee, but I still don’t know what to do about that whole situation. On one hand, I want to see him because, well, I just want to. On the other hand, I know it would probably be for the best if I didn’t. All this back and forth with him. Maybe my mind and my heart would do better with a clean break. I honestly don’t know if I’m totally ready for that.
After some channel surfing, and a vain attempt to catch up with The Young and the Restless (I couldn’t watch the Ian and Heather and Jessica drama—a bit too close to home), I decide to drag myself upstairs to Margie’s place where Gram and the girls are playing bridge. I need something to get my mind off everything. I doubt it will work, but it’s worth a try.
“Is Gram here?” I ask Margie when she answers the door.
“Sure is,” she says, opening the door wide. She ushers me in with a sweep of her hand.
I walk into Margie’s apartment, which is set up a lot like Gram’s, and is just as old-fashioned. But, like Gram’s place, it has a homey feel to it. I will say that there are doilies. Lots of doilies.
“Look who’s here, ladies,” Margie says as we walk into the living room.
Gram and two other ladies, Evelyn and Barbara, all turn to see who it is. Once they see me, they all start talking in unison, saying hello and asking me question after question. I try to field each query, but they keep talking over each other.
“Well, Bridgette, what brings you here?” Gram asks, after the chatter has settled. She looks slightly concerned. She wasn’t expecting me. Likewise, I was not expecting to come up here, but here I am.
“I thought I would come and see what you ladies are doing.” I knew they were playing cards, so that was kind of a dumb comment. “And also to check up on Gram,” I say, pointing to the wine glass sitting to her left. That was not something I was expecting to find, but I’m glad I did.
She looks down at the glass and then back up at me, a sheepish just-been-caught look on her face.
“Oh, that’s mine,” Evelyn declares, and I roll my eyes. Evelyn isn’t even sitting next to Gram.
“Gram, you’ve got to be kidding. Does she drink every time she’s playing cards with you?” I ask, looking around the room.
“Not all the time,” Barbara pipes in. “Just . . . most of the time.”
Gram shoots Barbara a look, and Barbara immediately stares down at her cards.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Gram stares me down with squinty eyes. “I can have a drink every now and then. It’s good for the heart.” She puts a hand up to her heart for emphasis.
I roll my eyes again. I’m going to let it slide in front of her friends, but we will be discussing it later when we get home. Why do I suddenly feel like a parent?
“So, what brings you up here?” Margie asks, holding out the wine and an empty glass, silently asking me if I would like some. I decline.
“I was lonely downstairs, so I thought I would come up and check out the fun going on here.”
“We’re playing hand and fo
ot,” Evelyn declares, nodding toward the table.
“I thought this was bridge night,” I say confused.
“It is, but we like to mix it up every now and then, so tonight we’re playing hand and foot,” Margie says.
“Hmm. Sounds interesting,” I say, not having the slightest clue what hand and foot is. It sounds like the name of a disease.
“Do you wanna play?” Margie asks. “It’s a four-person game, but I can sit out. I’m sick of beating these ladies, anyway.”
“Oh, please, you haven’t won a game in over a year,” Gram says.
“That’s not true,” Margie says, but then looks as if she’s trying to remember when the last time she won.
“Um, I’m okay not to play,” I say, looking at Margie. “I don’t know the game, anyway.”
“You sure?” Margie asks.
“Yes, totally,” I say. I grab an empty chair and pull it up to the table next to Gram. The ladies resume their card game.
“So, if you don’t want to play, then what brings you here?” asks Evelyn.
“Evelyn, don’t be rude,” Barbara says and winks at me. “Can’t you see the girl needs to talk?” She points the cards in her hand at me, but then, realizing everyone just saw her cards, she quickly pulls them back.
“What do you need to talk about?” Margie asks, keeping her eyes on the game.
“Um, well,” I say. I didn’t come up here to talk, but apparently, I’m giving off a need-to-talk vibe.
“So spill it, sister,” Evelyn says, extra sass in her voice. She’s definitely the snarky one of the group, snarkier than Gram, even.
“Well, I . . .” I trail off.
“Gotcha some man trouble?” Margie prods.
Gram snorts and I nudge her with my elbow. “Does she ever,” Gram says, ignoring my nudge. She looks at me. “May I?” she asks.
“By all means,” I say, sarcastically giving her my permission to tell the ladies about my man drama.
So while they continue their game, Gram proceeds to tell the ladies about the past few months of my life, from breaking up with Adam, to running into Ian, and all of the drama that’s gone along with it.
“Well, if you ask me, it sounds like you’ve been dealt quite a bit there, missy,” Evelyn says, as she lays some cards on the table and gives a triumphant look.
“Did you win?” I ask, seeing the others’ faces after she lays down the cards.
“Oh, no,” Barbara says. “Not even close. She just got us another red pile,” she smiles.
“Oh,” I say, not having a clue what she’s talking about.
“So, what are you going to do?” Margie asks.
“Me?” I ask.
“No, Barbara,” Evelyn says, pointing to Barbara. “Of course she means you; the rest of us ain’t got nothing exciting to do. What you’re seeing now is as exciting as it gets.” She gives me a disdainful glance. “We’re just trying to live out our days until we kick it.”
“Well that sounds lovely,” Gram states.
“It’s the truth,” Evelyn says. “So let us live through you, Bridgette. Tell us what you’re going to do.”
“What can I do?” I slouch back in my seat. “Adam doesn’t believe me.”
“Oh, who cares about Adam. He’s a lost cause.” Evelyn says. “Besides, your Gram never liked him.”
I turn to look at Gram and catch her shooting daggers with her eyes at Evelyn.
“Gram?” I ask, confusion in my tone. “You didn’t like Adam?”
“Oh.” Gram bats a hand my way, trying to dismiss it as not that big of a deal.
“Gram,” I say flatly.
“Okay, fine. No, I never liked him. I thought he was smug, unfriendly, and he never treated you like you deserve.” She reaches her hand to my back and rubs it slightly.
I sit there for a few seconds, contemplating.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I ask, feeling a little hurt.
“Would it have made a difference?” She gives me a thin smile, taking her hand away from my back. “Besides, it wasn’t my decision to make.”
“Yes, but . . .” I trail off not knowing what to say. She’s right. It wasn’t her decision to make, and even if she had said something, would it have made a difference? Probably not. It might have only proved to put a rift between us. She’s a smart one, my Gram.
“So, what are you going to do about Ian?” Margie asks.
“There’s nothing I can do. He’s getting married,” I say with a shrug.
“Psh,” Evelyn says, scrunching up her face. “He’s not married yet.”
“You should tell him,” Barbara says.
“Tell him what?” I ask, looking at all the ladies as they give agreeing nods.
“Tell him you still love him,” Margie says.
Wow. These ladies are good. I didn’t even say I was still in love with him. I’ve never even admitted it to Gram. Am I that transparent? And if I am, why doesn’t Ian see it? Of course he’s a man, so that would explain it.
“I can’t,” I say after a tiny pause. “I can’t be that girl.”
“Well, hell, if I wasn’t that girl, I’d be in a very different place right now,” Gram says, and my eyes widen instantly.
“Gram, what are you talking about?” I ask, completely stunned by this declaration.
She turns to me. “Your grandfather was engaged to marry someone else before I snatched him away.”
“What? How do I not know this?” I ask, looking at all the other ladies in the room who apparently don’t know this story, either. The game has completely stalled.
“Yep, Lorraine McCleary was her name, and she was a mean little thing. We were arch rivals in high school. She snatched your grandfather up so fast he didn’t even see it coming. And it wasn’t long after graduation that they were engaged. But I had different plans.” She looks at me, her pointer finger directed in my face. “I knew your grandfather and I were supposed to be together.”
“So, what did you do?” Evelyn asks, impatience in her voice.
“One afternoon, I gathered all the courage I had, and I walked over to his house, down on Nantucket Street.” She looks around the table as she tells the story. “I walked right up to the door and then . . . I completely chickened out and turned around to go.”
“Oh, geez,” Barbara says. “How stupid could you be?”
“But,” she says, pointer finger out again, “as I was leaving, guess who was driving up the road?” She turns to me, giving me one nod, “Your grandfather. He got out of the car, and I just stood there, totally tongue-tied.”
“Then how did you tell him?” Evelyn asks, the frustration oozing from her tone. Evelyn apparently does not like stories. She only wants the punchline.
“After we stood there looking at each other, I finally gathered myself together and I told him. I told him he shouldn’t marry Lorraine, that she was mean and rotten, and I caught her smoking behind her daddy’s truck.”
“The horror,” Margie exclaims, and I stifle a giggle.
“Yep. I told him everything that was wrong with that girl, and then I said ‘Leo, I can’t let you marry her.’ And he asked me why not. And then I said, ‘Because you should marry me.’” We were all silent at this point, waiting to find out what his answer was, which was silly because we already knew the answer. This was my Pops we were talking about.
“What did he say?” Evelyn asks.
“He didn’t say anything. He took me in his arms, and he kissed me, and that was that. We were married five months later,” Gram says, with a simple dip of her chin.
“Wow,” I say, “how did I not know this story?” It feels weird that I wouldn’t know any of this about my Gram and Pops.
“Well, you never asked,” she says simply.
“So, what do you think?” Margie says, turning her attention back to me.
“Um . . . well . . . it’s not that simple,” I say, thinking of how different the times are. If I did something like that now,
Maureen could have my face all over social media in an instant with a caption that says, “whore.”
“Sure it is,” Barbara says. “You’re the one who’s making it too hard.”
“And isn’t it not fair to him anyway?” Evelyn says. “He should know how you feel and make the decision himself.”
I nod my head, not to concede, but to make them think that I do. I don’t know if I can bring myself to say it, to tell Ian that I should have told him I loved him that night, and that I still do. I just don’t know if I have it in me. And even if I did, would he say it back? Would he want to leave what he has with Maureen, for me?
“Now, what I really want to know is,” Evelyn says to me as she starts the game back up. The other ladies fall into place. “Which one of your two fellows has the nicest hiney?” She follows that up with a little double eyebrow lift.
Oh, dear. This seems innocent enough—a little pervy perhaps—but I have a sinking suspicion answering that question would lead me down a road I most certainly don’t want to travel.
“Well,” Gram says, before I have a chance to talk. Thank goodness for Gram. She can get me out of this. “I don’t really remember Ian, but I’ll tell ya, even though I didn’t like him all that much, that Adam had a nice one.”
“Gram!” I say louder than I intended. So much for being saved by Gram. I really should have known better.
“What? You think just because I’m ancient, I don’t notice a good butt when I see one?” She scrunches her face, pulling her eyebrows together.
“Don’t hold back, tell us about it,” Evelyn says. All eyes are off the game and now on Gram.
“Well, it was just nice and round, you know? One of those ones that looks like they’d be pretty firm. I often had to hold myself back from sneaking a pinch—”
