Page 121 of Hate You, Maybe
Apparently, he doesn’t want his professional life to overlap with his personal life. And as Mr. Cane’s neurologist, Foster felt like that had been happening and would continue to happen if he stayed together with his daughter.
TLDR: He wasn’t into the happening.
Then, he went on to admit to Loren that he’d been thinking about breaking things off ever since linguini night. So as it turns out, linguini is not the most romantic of the pastas. Why it took the man so long to figure out his feelings, I’m not sure. Treating her father is how they met in the first place.
But future father-in-law + patient = I’d like my ring back.
So Loren and I are both pretty pathetic company for a Sunday night. Her face is swollen from crying. My face is swollen from stitches. And neither one of us is feeling too terrific about love. What we are doing is eating a gallon of butter pecan ice cream straight from the carton with two spoons. And then the doorbell rings.
We both shout, “Not it!” at the same time. But Loren’s heartbreak trumps my headache, so I get the door. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be Dex finally checking in.
It has to be Dex, right?
But it’s not Dex.
“Bridger! Hey.” I reach up to touch the bandage wrapped around my skull. “How are you?”
“Good.” He bobs his head, lifting a couple paper bags in his hands. “I heard you were hurt, and I just wanted to be sure you’re okay. I also brought apple cider donuts and chicken soup. I’m a food-bringer.”
“My hero!” Loren calls out from the couch behind me. “I couldn’t help overhearing!”
Bridger’s face turns tomato red. “I didn’t know Loren would be here,” he tells me in a low voice.
“Well, she is my roommate.”
“Right.” He cranes his neck, trying to see her, but the line of sight’s not great from the porch. “You’re welcome,” he announces to her. “There’s plenty for both of you.”
“Is there enough for three of us?” she asks. “If so, get in here, Bridge. I’m hosting a pity party, and you can be the guy to cheer up the crowd.”
“For the record, I am not pitiful,” I say under my breath. Then I give my head a little shake, just in case Bridger feels compelled to report back to Dex that I’m sitting around the house pining for him. Because I’m not. I just want to be sure he’snot too disappointed about the FRIG. And kind of wondering where we stand. And yes, I may be responsible for the consumption of half a gallon of ice cream in the past twenty-four hours, but that’s not even unusual for me on a weekend.
“She’s right,” Loren says as I usher Bridger into the front room. “I’m the lone pitiful one here. In fact, Sayla got great news yesterday. The performing arts center is going to be renovated after all.”
“Because it was basically destroyed by the storm,” I add.
“Ummm … great?” Bridger says awkwardly. Then he finally gets a good look at Loren. She’s in a bathrobe with a pile of wadded-up tissues in her lap. Her blue eyes are shot through with red, and her hair can best be described as ginger cave girl. “What happened to you?”
She cringes. “That bad, huh?”
“Absolutely not,” he rushes to say. “You’re always beautiful.” As soon as the words are out, he slams his mouth shut.
“It’s all right.” I pat him on the shoulder. “You’re allowed to say Loren is beautiful. Because she is. She’s themostbeauteous princess in all the land. She’s also no longer engaged to be married.”
Bridger startles, gaping wordlessly.
“You heard right,” I say. “Foster Abel has left the building. He is no Prince Charming, I can tell you that.”
“Oh, wow.” Bridger passes me the bag of donuts and soup and moves over to focus on Loren. “I’m … so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She waves the comment away. “I mean, being dumped is awful, don’t get me wrong. But I think a part of me always knew I was trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Being with Foster was just so easy, you know? But we had nothing in common. We were together so often for my dad’s appointments, things just naturally progressed. But were we truly obsessed with each other?”
Bridger and I stare at her, waiting for an answer, but apparently her question is rhetorical.
“No, she was not,” I say on her behalf.
“Anyway.” She tightens the belt on her robe. “I don’t want to rehash all that now. I’m probably still a little bit numb, to be honest. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for me to perform a real autopsy on the end of our relationship. Later, after I’ve had a chance to process the rug being ripped out from under me.”
Bridger slides his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t sound fun.”
