She side-eyes the empties on her tray before giving us a considering glance, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Probably not a bad idea,” she smirks. “Kitchen is open until eleven.”
“Thanks, Randi.”
She smiles and saunters away, heading to where Benson is working behind the bar with an unfamiliar bartender, clearly showing him the ropes as they set drinks on a new tray for Randi.
When we arrived, we ordered a couple of beers as I started detailing the past weeks for Bridget, telling her everything that has happened from the moment we walked into Esther and Joseph’s home on Thanksgiving. Her expression grew more somber with each word until she suddenly stopped me to order us three shots of tequila—each.
An hour has passed,and I’m not sure if I’m warm or numb, but my lips feel decidedly loose. Across the table from me, Bridget is swaying. Or at least, I think she is.
It’s either that or the bar has been relocated to a boat.
“So, what did he tell you about Paisley?” she asks, tugging her beer closer.
I shrug diffidently, eyes sliding away to scope out the different people littering the bar. It’s not crazy busy yet, but I know that will change as the night wears on.
At one end of the bar, Randi and another server, Sheryl, are gossiping, while the new bartender—Gavin? Bevin?—chats up a lady sitting on a stool in front of him. Benson disappeared out back almost thirty minutes ago because, for being a bar owner, he really doesn’t have much tolerance for people.
The front door opens, catching my attention as an older couple walks in. Their arms are looped around each other, wide smiles on their faces, and I feel an ache throb in my chest. I wonder if coming to Benson’s is a routine Saturday night for them, or if it’s a special occasion.
“Gracie?” Bridget taps the table with her fingers, and I pull my eyes back to her.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “I knew she was Nick’s sister, but Braxton never talked about her.” I shrug helplessly.
“You didn’t ask him about what you overheard?”
A bitter chuckle leaves me before I can stop it. “A normal person would have heard that and immediately confronted him.”
“Not everyone.” Bridget reaches across the table, taking my hand.
I duck my head, shame curling through my stomach, mingling uncomfortably with the alcohol. “I think I was…I don’t know. Scared, I guess.” I sip my drink, grimacing at the taste of the beer after tequila.
“Of what?”
“Of what Braxton might say. Or if he would lie.” A bead of condensation runs down my glass, and I follow its path with my finger. “He hasn’t lied to me before…Although, now I’m wondering if that’s true. I’m doubting everything now, and I hate it.” I peek at Bridget through my lashes. “Do you think I’m a coward?”
“I think you’re guarded,” she says. “I think you’ve got this hard, protective shell, and the moment you think you might be hurt, you duck back inside.” She scrunches her mouth to the side, eyes narrowing. “Maybe he was just shocked. Four years is a long time to go without seeing someone.”
I chew on my bottom lip, knowing she’s just trying to help me move past this, but I don’t begrudge Braxton his past. Our experiences make us who we are, and I also have a history, just like the next person. The difference is how I would’ve handled my past waltzing back in the door.
“If it were just a shock, he wouldn’t have been acting so distant since it happened.”
Bridget pulls in a long breath through her nose. “Everything he’s doing is very out of character for Braxton. The house thing? I don’t get it. You guys have been talking about buying a place together for months.”
I huff in aggravation. “He was the one who organized the viewing for the house, and now…” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat, hating that I’m letting it all get to me again. I feel like I’ve spent most of the week gaslighting myself into believing that I’m overthinking everything and reading more into his behavior than I should.
He didn’t want her that close to him.
He didn’t hesitate before he said he loves me.
He doesn’t realize that lying by omission is still lying.
It’s just all in my head.
My eyes are burning when I look up, meeting Bridget’s sympathetic ones. “That house is everything I’ve dreamed of since leaving my parents’, wishing for a place of my own. Ahome. And now it’s slipping through my fingers.He’sslipping through my fingers. And I don’t understand why. We were good, Bridget, and now…”
She leans across the table, saying fiercely, “So go alone. You don’t need him to go see that house, and maybe that’s what will open his eyes—realizing just how much you don’t need him.”
I purse my lips, shaking my head. “I can’t afford it on my own. And going to see it without him, knowing that? It’d be like torturing myself with things I can’t have.”
