Page 87 of Booked for the Holidays
I’m a little out of the game, but I distinctly remember there being an excitement.
A thrill.
A spark at the possibility ofmaybeandmore.
There was none of that tonight.
I’m too old and too tired to settle foralmost. If it’s not a “home-run at the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded” kind of perfect, I don’t need it. I don’t want it.
While I sat there and listened to her yoga routine, her wine preferences, and what she does for work, my mind kept drifting elsewhere. It wasn’t on the woman three feet away from me. It was six miles away, in a craftsman house, with a dog, a young girl, and a pretty brunette, wondering what sort of trouble they were getting into. If they were having fun, and if they missed me like I think I missed them.
I cut the evening short after ice cream, politely turning down the offer for a drink at her condo. As I park in the driveway and unbuckle my seatbelt, I take a deep breath.
Climbing out of my car, I amble up the front steps, turning the key in the lock as quietly as possible. The lights are all off when I push the door ajar, darkness throughout the living room and kitchen greeting me.
“Bridget?” I call out. I shut the door behind me and walk inside, frowning.
I flip on a switch, finding nothing amiss or out of place. Scanning the room, I head for the hallway. I peek inside Mac’s room, and it’s empty. The bathroom and behind the shower curtain are too.
I’m about to head back to the kitchen and give Bridget a call when my attention catches on my bedroom door. It’s cracked, and through the small sliver of space I can make out a couple of shapes. I approach it slowly, pushing the barrier fully open.
I stop in my tracks at the sight. My heart catches in my throat, working its way up from my chest. My feet can’t move another step.
Bridget and Mac are on my bed, under the covers. The television on the wall flickers silent images. My daughter’s head rests on Bridget’s shoulder, curled on her side. They’re breathing in unison, synchronized chests rising and falling. Ziggy is at the foot of the mattress, not bothering to open his eyes at my arrival.
A single, lonesome word repeats itself in my head loudly, persistently, as I stare. An unrelenting bastard that doesn’t give up.
Happiness.
This is exponentially more soul-crushing than the kiss on the cheek I got from—fuck. What was her name again?
It doesn’t matter. I’ll never need to remember it.
I’m torn between wanting to take a photo, desperate to preserve this memory forever or down eight shots so I never have to remember this happened. Because it. Fucking.Hurts.
So goddamn bad.
I tread closer. The antiquated hardwood floorboards creak under my feet. The sound is magnified in the silent space and Bridget’s eyes flutter open, blinking sleepily at her surroundings. I freeze again, trying to avoid startling or alarming her while she gets her bearings. A few moments, stretching for longer than I've been alive, is what it takes to break the fog of slumber. She sits up, more aware, adjusting her position on the pillows to not disturb Mac.
“Hey,” she rasps.
I hold up a finger and hustle to the kitchen. A cup, filled with water, marched down the hall and thrust into her hand. She takes a sip and I sit on the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” I answer quietly.
“Do I have drool all over my face?”
My eyes drop to her mouth—that mouth—and I smile. “Everywhere. You heathen.”
“How was your night? What time is it?”
“Past 10. How’d Mac do?”
A thoughtful smile and a tender look down at the sleeping girl. “Great. We ate pizza. Made ice cream sundaes and watched a movie. We talked about why you were late to the bookstore this morning.”
“She’s upset with me, isn’t she?”
“Upset with you?” Bridget asks. She adjusts her position on the pillows and—shit. She’s wearing one of my shirts. An old soccer jersey, tattered and torn from years of wash. She has no right to look so damn good in a faded white scrap of clothing.
