“I’m going to tell you something, and I’m going to get in trouble for telling you, but I think it’s worth the risk.”
“Is it about Elle?”
He nods. “She called me today to ask about you. I didn’t tell her we were meeting and I agreed not to tell you this, but this is the second woman in a week I’ve lied to so whatever . . . I’m going to hell.”
My stomach starts flip-flopping and my hands are getting clammy. “Is she okay?” I ask.
“No. To be honest she sounds worse than you. She hasn’t been able to work all week.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Damn.” I realize I feel even lower knowing that she’s bad off, rather than being an asshole and relieved that she’s struggling too. If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what the hell is.
“So what did you say to her?” I ask.
“That she should give you guys a chance.”
“How did she react?”
“She was quiet. And then I reminded her that despite the fact that she told me she was falling in love with you months back, you guys never had the chance to be a romantic couple. Because of circumstances you were always just friends.”
“Wait a minute . . . did you just say that she told you she was falling in love with me months ago?”
He nods and gives me a sheepish look. “At the end of that date we had.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were talking about the Viking when you talked about her being interested in someone else.”
“I promised her. I swore I wouldn’t say anything.”
I press my hand over my forehead and moan. “I can’t believe it . . . I had no idea. I mean, I knew she wanted to sleep with me, but never anything more than that. Oh man, what a mess.”
“Messes can be cleaned up, you know.”
“So how did you end the conversation?”
“Well she told me she was scared to fail again. I told her that sometimes the only way to deal with an issue is to face your fears head-on. Why not do the work so you can be the best version of yourself?”
“Whoa, Patrick, where did you pick up all this stuff?”
“It’s from a book I read last year about conquering your fears. It inspired me. That’s the reason I’m doing stuff like planning trips, and dating someone like Skye. I’m done with being worried of what people think of me, that I’m not good enough for the things I want.”
My mouth drops open. I knew my brother wasn’t a stud, but I had no idea he used to have that much self-doubt. I’m impressed with this new Patrick. “Never sell yourself short, man. You’re the real deal.”
He sits up straight, pulls his shoulders back and gives me a satisfied smile.
“So I told Elle about the book, and she gave me her email so I could gift it to her for her eReader. She promised to read it.”
“I hope she does.”
“I really want you two to figure this out. You’re great together.”
“We are.” The one thing I know for sure is that it always felt so right to be with her.
I study Patrick as we get up to leave. I’m proud of him, and I really appreciate the advice he gave Elle. Now if she only takes it . . .
That night I lie in bed exhausted but amped up. The idea that Elle had loved me from early on, yet kept it a secret is blowing my mind. With each toss and turn in my bed I relive our various adventures through a different perspective.
I still can’t believe that she insisted I take out Melanie, then showed up on my front porch to hear if my high school dreams had finally come true. I try to imagine the heavy feeling in her heart thinking I could be in bed with this woman who had every potential of blowing Elle and my intense connection apart.
Well, that shit didn’t happen. Melanie couldn’t hold a candle to Elle.
No one can.
I keep replaying my conversation with Patrick in my mind, and I can only conclude other that I can’t force the outcome of this situation. Elle needs to figure out if she can handle me.
I think she can. And I know for sure that I want to handle her.
At eight forty-two Sunday night I get a text and I almost drop my cell phone when I see who it’s from. I press on her name so hard that I’m surprised I don’t shatter the screen. There’s no message, only a picture, and when I open it it’s a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. The memory of Elle lying in my arms while we talked about my bridge photographs, and her gesture of sending this, gives me hope.
I wonder if she knows me well enough now to guess that I love the Brooklyn Bridge. I met up with a college friend in Brooklyn a few years ago. We had pizza at Grimaldi’s and then we walked across the bridge toward the Big Apple—the massive expansiveness of it made me feel like a giddy Munchkin headed to the Emerald City. It was one of those experiences you never forget. I don’t think the world had ever felt as big as it did that day.
I spread the image open larger on my screen and study it, trying to figure out if there is significance to why she sent this particular bridge. Does she know it’s grand but under repairs? I’m clueless and it puts me at a loss with what to say. Finally, I realize she’s probably nervous waiting to see if I’ll respond so I reply.
Nice bridge
She texts back immediately. This bridge looks strong and solid and it made me think of you.
I laugh out loud. That’s not a good sign. Maybe she doesn’t know about the flaws.
It’s impressive but it’s under repair for cracks and holes. Being strong and solid doesn’t mean it doesn’t need work. I’m a good example of that.
But I thought you and the Brooklyn Bridge were perfect.
Nope, not even close. How about we pick a shorter bridge so we can get from one end to the other faster?
Shorter?
I do a Google search and bring up an image of a famous bridge in Venice, Italy. I send it to her.
The Rialto Bridge in Venice . . . it’s stone and has survived for centuries. Plus its shops are enclosed so we can take cover, even in a storm.
That’s a really good one, she replies.
I picture her sitting in her house, biting her lip as she taps her screen and it’s a sharp reminder of how much I miss her.
I take a big breath as my fingers glide over the screen’s keyboard.
I liked being your bridge, you know. I miss you, Elle.
I miss you too.
A minute later a picture pops up that she labels, The Bridge of Sighs. I look it up and see it’s actually the Hertford Bridge that links two buildings at Oxford University but is nicknamed after another famous bridge in Italy.
Good thing you picked the Oxford one. The Bridge of Sighs in Venice had a prison on one end, and interrogation room on the other.
Oh no! I picked this one because it’s really short, enclosed—so we’re protected—and it has great style.
That’s my Elle—she’s more focused on the style than ending up in prison.
It’s very inviting.
Exactly . . . I wanted a short, inviting bridge for a reason.
Yes?
I was hoping we could talk in person tomorrow.
Okay. We could do that.
Could you come over after work?
I’ll be there at seven.
I’ll be ready.
I’m not sure what ready means, but I sure as hell am going to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Two