“He’s a hothead,” I tell her. “He has issues.”
“Your lady parts know he could take care of you. Take care of the parts, for sure. But take care of you, too.”
“He’s barely scraping by. He’s all messed up, and even money won’t help. He can’t take care of anyone.” I think of what happened the night he ran off, how he didn’t even look at me or say goodbye, and I give Phoebe my capping argument. “He’s selfish. Only thinks of himself.”
“You’re wrong,” Phoebe says.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I thought you knew about his scar?”
I nod. “So he got in a bar fight. So what? That’s not anything worth celebrating. In fact, it’s exactly what my dad thought happened the other night, and I defended him. It doesn’t say he’s not selfish. It proves he’s a brute.”
Phoebe’s expression says that something isn’t adding up. Her eyes squint down.
“What did Bridget tell you about Brandon’s scar?”
“I told you. Got into a fight. Some guy had a knife.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
Phoebe sits back. She crosses her arms. “So she was too embarrassed to tell you.”
“What?” I say.
“He got that scar defending his sister from her boyfriend, Keith, who beat her nearly to death. He got it the last time Keith came around, after he’d put Bridget in the hospital. The time, Riley, that she needed him most.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Brandon
“YOU’RE SUCH AN IDIOT.”
I turn to Bridget. She’s looking back at me with a matter-of-fact expression, as if she’s just informed me that two and two make four. And worse, she’s gloating because I thought two and two made five, and now she’s about to be a bitch because she was right.
“I liked it better when you couldn’t talk.”
“I still sound like a frog.”
“I’ve never had a frog insult me.”
“Oh, come on,” Bridget says. “Odds are it’s happened. You’ve just never noticed.”
It’s been a week and a half since her surgery. I’m sure she’s still not supposed to talk beyond necessity, but giving Bridget medical reasons not to be judgmental isn’t a great strategy. She doesn’t trust doctors more than any other authority figures and thinks they’re out to get her.
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Really? That’s the argument you’re going to make?”
Bridget winces. She touches her hand to her throat, as if she can soothe the pain or discomfort or whatever she’s feeling from the outside. I push a glass of water toward her. It hits a crack in the table and almost spills down her front. If I’d pushed harder, it would have then we’d need to abandon this discussion to get paper towels. I should have pushed harder.
“Drink.”
She does. Then she looks back up at me. I suppose Bridget has bedroom eyes the same as she says men tell her she has a bedroom voice, but as the only guy her age who isn’t interested in Bridget’s bedroom, they’re just insulting.
“I was right to force you two together. You’re good for each other.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous!” she blurts, actually standing. She touches he throat and winces again.
“Shh,” I soothe. “Please. Shut your fucking mouth.”
Bridget punches me in the arm. “Why did you come here to talk to me?”
“So I could undo your surgery.” It’s worth saying for joke value, but only barely. Part of me is sure that I really am harming Bridget by encouraging her to speak, but that’s not how it works. I’ll just slow her recovery. Because apparently, I want more of this.
“A girl comes into your office then storms out when things get real. So you come here and want to tell me about it.”
“I wanted your opinion on how to handle her, seeing as her father controls my promotion.”
“Mmm-hmm. You wanted my opinion on what you should do to get her back.”
“There’s no ‘back.’ We were never together.”
“You were together,” Bridget says.
“Oh. I see. You mean the night we hooked up then couldn’t look each other in the eye? The night we had to have you come and give us a jump, right before I blew it with Mason?”
“But you didn’t blow it with Mason, did you? You’re back on track, right?”
“That’s not the point, Bridget.”
“And why are you back on track?” She affects surprise. “Because Riley went to bat for you? Told her father how great you are?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Sure it is. Tell me honestly that you haven’t been thinking about it. About how she told her father all about you.”
I meet Bridget’s eyes. I want to lie, but she’ll see through me like always. Of course I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it since I left work, and on the drive over to Bridget’s. But my thinking has nothing to do with Riley. It has everything to do with the promotion that, it turns out, is back on the table. I’m happy that Mason has come around, no matter the reason. And I’m happy that Riley is willing to move on and put that unfortunate night behind us. Yes, she seemed a little upset when she left, but she was probably just embarrassed. We’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. It’s all okay again.
Bridget nods. “I knew it.”
“You didn’t know anything.”
“Before dinner, you wouldn’t shut up about her. Now, you can’t stop thinking about her.”
“She’s cute. But that’s all.”
Bridget gives me something like an evil eye. The kind of look that stands on its own. She won’t bother to repeat that I’m an idiot because given this look, she might as well be holding up a sign.
“Stop pretending you know me better than I know myself,” I say, annoyed. “I didn’t come here to have you judge me.”
“You like her, Brandon. Just admit it.”
“I like her,” I say.
“Not like that.”
“Then like what?” I decide to play dumb, but it’s not much of a stretch. There are shades of meaning here that I get fine, but that I can maybe make Bridget feel ridiculous for presuming I’ll automatically get.
Bridget stands and takes another sip of her water. Her dark-brown hair is back, and two loose strands hang on either side of her face. Her hands go to her hips, and now she looks like the mother we never had, or at least as I understand such things from TV.
“You need a woman in your life.”
“I have women.”
“You need a sensible woman. Someone to ground you.”
“Maybe you’re the one being an idiot. Is your argument seriously that I should ignore all of the girls I’ve dated, and might date, and focus instead on the single woman who will collapse all that I’ve worked for?”
“You don’t know that. And stop being an asshole. She’s not like the others, and you know it.”
That much is true. But whatever I feel when I look at Riley — when I think of Riley — seems arbitrary. Why would she be worth more notice because of the way her dress swirled around her legs that morning on the open land? Why would the first look she gave me, in Mason’s office, be worth more than any other look anyone has ever given me? Why do I dream about her when I’ve had many discussions worth dreaming about? Why do I want so badly to ask about what happened with her mother? I get the gist, and the gist is plenty given the way our relationship would unfold in a reasonable world. So why do I want to know more? It can’t be pleasant. It can’t be a happy story. If I ask Riley to tell me, I know she’ll cry. So why do I want her to cry, and why am I so eager to be the one to comfort her when she does?