She pulls her hand from mine and I immediately glance up at her. She's staring straight at me. "You were smiling too much," she says.
What?
I reach over and grab her hand again and pull it back to me. "I was smiling because I like holding your hand."
She yanks her hand back. "I know. That's why I don't want you to hold it."
Goddamit. She's not winning this one.
I reach across the seat again, swerving the car in the process. She tries to shove her hand beneath her legs so that I can't grasp it, so I pull at her wrist instead. I release the steering wheel and reach across with both hands now, steering with my knee. "Give me your hand," I say through clenched teeth. "I want to hold your damn hand." I have to grab the wheel to steer us back into our lane. Once we're no longer in danger of crashing, I slam on the brakes as I pull over to the side of the road. I throw the car in park and lock the doors so she can't run. I know how she works.
I lean across the seat and pry her hand away from being tucked against her chest. I grab her wrist with both hands and I pull her toward me. She's still trying to fight me by pulling her hand away, so I release her and look her directly in the eye. "Give. Me. Your. Hand."
I'm not sure if I just scared her a little, but she relaxes and allows me to grab her wrist. I put her wrist in my left hand and I hold up my right hand in front of hers. "Spread your fingers."
She makes a fist instead.
I pry open her fist, then force our fingers to intertwine. I hate that she's being so resistant. She's pissing me the hell off. All I want to do is hold her damn hand and she's making such a big deal out of it. We're doing everything backward in this relationship. Couples are supposed to start out holding hands and going on dates. Not us. We start out fighting, end up screwing, yet we apparently haven't even made it to the point where we can hold hands. If things continue at this rate, we'll probably move in together before we even go on our first date.
I squeeze her hand until I know she can't pull away from me. I scoot back to my seat and I put the car in drive with my left hand and then ease back onto the road.
We drive the next several miles in silence, and she occasionally tries to ease her hand from mine, but each time she does it I squeeze a little tighter and get even more agitated with her. She's gonna hold my damn hand whether she likes it or not.
We hit a red light and the lack of movement outside the car and the lack of conversation inside the car shifts the mood tremendously, thickening the air with tension and . . . laughter?
She's laughing at me.
Figures.
I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She's covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She's laughing so hard that her body is shaking.
I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I'm not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel, I can't stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter.
She finally looks at me. She's no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. "You're insane, Warren." She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I'm not smiling is making her uncomfortable.
"Why am I insane?"
"Because," she says. "Who throws that big a fit over holding someone's hand?"
I don't move a muscle. "You do, Bridgette."
The smile slowly leaves her face, because she knows I'm right. She knows that she's the one who made a big deal out of holding hands. It was me who wanted to show her how easy it was.
We both look down at our hands as I slowly pry my fingers away from hers and release my grip. The light turns green as I grab the steering wheel and press on the gas. "You sure do know how to make a guy feel like shit, Bridgette."
I give my full attention back to the road and rest my left elbow on the window. I cover my mouth with my hand, squeezing the stress out of my jaw.
We make it three blocks.
Three blocks is all it takes for her to do the most considerate thing she's ever done for me since the moment I met her.
She reaches to the steering wheel and takes my hand. She pulls it to her lap and slides her fingers between mine. She doesn't stop there, though. Her right hand slides over the top of my hand and she strokes it. She strokes my fingers and the top of my hand and my wrist and back down to my fingers. She stares out her window the whole time, but I can feel her. I can feel her speaking to me and holding me and making love to me, all in the motion of her hands.
And I smile the entire way to my sister's house.
*
"Is she older or younger than you?" Bridgette asks when I turn off the ignition.
"Ten years older."
We both exit the car and begin walking toward the house. I didn't ask her to come with me, but the fact that she didn't wait in the car is proof that another wall has been torn down between us.
I walk up the steps, but before I knock on the door, I turn and face her. "What do you want me to introduce you as?" I ask her. "Roommate? Friend? Girlfriend?"
She glances away and shrugs. "I don't care, really. Just don't make it weird."
I smile and knock on the door. I immediately hear tiny footsteps and squealing and things falling and shit, I forget how crazy it is over here. I probably should have warned her.
The door swings open and my nephew, Brody, jumps up and down. "Uncle Warren!" he yells, clapping his hands. I open the screen door, set the package my mother sent for my sister on the floor and immediately swoop Brody up. "Where's your mom?"
He points across the living room. "In the kitchen," he says. His hand meets my cheek and he makes me face him. "Wanna play dead?"
I nod and set him down on the carpet. I motion for Bridgette to follow me inside, and then I fake stab Brody in the chest. He falls to the floor in a dramatic display of defeat.
Bridgette and I both stand over him as he writhes in pain. His body convulses a few times and then his head falls limp to the carpet.
"He dies better than any four-year-old I've ever seen," I say to Bridgette.
She nods, still staring down at him. "I'm in awe," she says.
"Brody!" my sister yells from the kitchen. "Is that Warren?"
I begin walking in the direction of the kitchen and Bridgette follows me. When I round the corner, Whitney has Conner on her hip and she's stirring something on the stove with her other arm.
"Brody's dead, but yeah, it's me," I say to her.
As soon as Whitney glances at me, cries come from the baby monitor next to the stove. She sighs, exasperated, and motions for me to come to the stove. I walk over to her and take the spoon from her hands. "It has to be stirred for at least another minute, then remove the burner from the pan."
"You mean remove the pan from the burner?"
"Whatever," she says. She pulls Conner off her hip and walks toward Bridgette. "Here, hold Conner. I'll be right back."
Bridgette instinctively holds out her hands and my sister shoves Conner at her. Bridgette's arms are outstretched, as far from her body as she can get them. She's holding Conner under his armpits, staring at me wide-eyed.
"What do I do with it?" she whispers. Her eyes are filled with terror.
"Have you never held a kid before?" I ask in disbelief. Bridgette immediately shakes her head.
"I don't know any kids."
"Me a kid," Conner says.
Bridgette gasps and looks at Conner, who is staring right back at her with just as much terror and fascination. "It talked!" she exclaims. "Oh, my God, you talked!"
Conner grins.
"Say
cat," Bridgette says.
"Cat," Conner repeats.
She laughs nervously, but is still holding him like he's a dirty towel. I remove the pot from the burner and turn it off, then walk over to her. "Conner's the easy one," I tell her. "Here, hold him like this." I pull him around to her hip and wrap her arm behind him, securing him against her waist. She's trading nervous glances between Conner and me.
"He won't shit on me will he?"
I laugh and Conner giggles. He slaps her chest twice and kicks his legs. "Shit on me," he says, still laughing.
Bridgette's hand clamps over her mouth. "Oh, my God, he's just like a parrot," she says.
"Warren!" Whitney yells from the top of the stairs.
"I'll be right back."
Bridgette shakes her head and points to Conner. "But . . . but . . . this . . ." she stutters.
I pat her on top of her head. "You'll be fine. Just keep him alive for two minutes." I scale the steps and Whitney is standing in the doorway to the nursery. She's wiping her neck with a rag.
"He pissed in my face," she says. She looks so frazzled. I want to hug her, and I would if she weren't covered in infant piss. She hands me the baby. "Take him downstairs while I jump in the shower, please."
I lift him out of her hands. "No problem."
She begins to head to her room, but pauses right before I make it back to the stairs. "Hey," she says. I turn and face her. "Who's the girl?" she signs.
I love that she signs this, so Bridgette has no chance of hearing her ask. Having a family that is all fluent in sign language definitely comes in handy.
"Just my roommate," I sign back to her, shrugging it off. She smiles and walks into her room. I walk down the stairs holding the baby against my chest. I step over Brody, who is still playing dead on the floor. When I make it to the doorway in the kitchen, I pause. Bridgette has sat Conner on the kitchen island. She's standing right in front of him so that he doesn't fall and she's holding up her fingers, counting with him.
"Three. Can you count to three?"
Conner touches his finger to the tips of hers. "One. Two. Twee," he says. They both start clapping and he says, "Me now."
Bridgette begins to count his fingers this time. I lean my head against the doorframe and watch her interact with him.
I don't know why I've never spent time with her outside of the bedroom before this. I could add up all the things she's done to me at night, and I'm positive I wouldn't trade today for all of that combined.
This is the Bridgette that I see. The part of her she gives to me. And now that I'm watching her, I see that she's very capable of giving it to others who deserve it.
"Do you stare at all your roommates like this?" Whitney whispers in my ear. I spin around, and she's standing behind me, watching me watch Bridgette. I shake my head and look back at Bridgette. "No. I don't."
As soon as I say it, I regret saying it. Whitney will be texting me within the hour, wanting to know all the details. How long I've known her, where she's from, if I'm in love with her.
Time to leave.
"Ready, Bridgette?" I ask, handing the baby back to Whitney.
Bridgette glances up at me and then back to Conner. She actually looks a little sad that she has to say goodbye.
"Bye, Bwidjet," Conner says to her with a wave. Bridgette gasps and turns to face me.
"Oh, my God! Warren, he said my name!"
She turns back to Conner, and he's still waving. "Shit on me," he says.
Bridgette immediately picks him up and sets him down on the floor. "Ready," she says quickly, walking away from him and toward the front door.
Whitney is pointing at Conner and looking at me, "Did he just say . . ."
I nod. "I think he did, Whit. You need to watch your language around your kids." I give her a quick kiss on the cheek and head for the front door.
Bridgette is standing over Brody, looking down at him. "Seriously impressive."
He's in the exact same position we left him in. "I told you he dies better than anyone I know." I step over him and hold the front door open for her. We walk outside and she doesn't even flinch or pull away when I slide my hand through hers. I walk her to the passenger side door, but before I open it, I turn her to face me and I press her against the car. My hand touches her forehead and I wipe away a wisp of hair.
"I never thought I wanted kids," she says, glancing back at the house.
"But you do now?"
She shakes her head. "No, not really. But maybe if I could have Conner. At that age, for like a year, maybe two. Then I'd probably get tired of him and not want him anymore, but a year or two out of my life might be fun."
I laugh. "So why don't you kidnap him and bring him back when he's five?"
She faces me again. "But you would know it was me who took him."
I smile down at her. "I would never tell. I like you better than I like him."
She shakes her head. "You love your sister too much to do that to her. It would never work. We'd have to kidnap someone else's kid."
I sigh. "Yeah, you're probably right. Besides, we should probably kidnap a celebrity's kid. That way we could get ransom out of it and never have to work again. We could give the kid back, take the money, and spend the rest of our lives having sex all day."
Bridgette smiles. "You're so romantic, Warren. No other guy has ever promised me a kidnapping and ransom."
I tilt her chin up so that her mouth is positioned closer to mine. "Like I said, you just haven't met the right asshole." I press my lips to hers and kiss her, briefly. I keep it PG in case Brody has come back to life and is watching us.
I reach behind her and open the door. She walks around me to climb inside, but before she does, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek.
To Brody or anyone else watching, that was just a kiss on the cheek. But knowing Bridgette like I know her, that was a whole lot more than just a kiss. That was her saying she doesn't need anyone else.
That kiss on the cheek means we're official.
That kiss on the cheek means I have a girlfriend.
Chapter Ten
"So you think it's official because she kissed you on the cheek?" Sydney says, confused. She doesn't get it. She's like everyone else and sees Bridgette at face value, which is fine. Bridgette gives people a pretty rough face value, and that's Bridgette's right.
I stop trying to explain to Sydney my relationship with Bridgette. Besides, I kind of like that no one gets it. And even though we had this really crazy, non-sexual experience with the hand-holding and the cheek kissing the other day, it hasn't affected us in the bedroom. In fact, last night we moved past the slow and steady streak we've been on and played out a fantasy of mine that involved her Hooters uniform.
"You should try to get a job at Hooters," I tell Sydney. I know she's been looking for work, and even though it doesn't seem up her alley, the tips really are good.
"No thanks," she says. "I wouldn't be caught dead in those shorts."
"They're actually very nice shorts. Soft. Stretchy. You'd be surprised. And last night when Bridgette was pretending she was serving me a platter of hot wings, I reached down and . . ."
"Warren," Sydney says. "Stop. I don't care. How many times do I have to tell you I don't care about your sex life?"
I frown. Ridge doesn't really like to hear about it, either, and I can't tell Bridgette because she's a part of the story and it would just be redundant. I miss Brennan. He always listened.
Bridgette's bedroom door opens, and I watch as her eyes search the living room for me. I can see a hint of a smile, but she's good at making sure I'm the only one who sees it.
"Good morning, Bridgette," I say to her. "Sleep well?"
Her eyes fall on Sydney, who's seated next to me on the couch again. She looks away, but not before I see a flash of hurt on her face.
"Screw you, Warren," Bridgette says, turning her attention toward the refrigerator.
Still, after holding hands and kis
sing my cheek, she thinks I'd ever mess with another girl?
I watch her as she slams stuff around in the kitchen, angrily. "I don't like how she's up your ass all the time," Bridgette says. I immediately turn to Sydney and laugh, because for one, she still thinks Sydney can't hear her, and two, I can't believe she just said that to me. If that isn't her laying claim to me, I don't know what is.
I love it.
"You think that's funny?" Bridgette says after spinning around. I quickly shake my head and lose my smile, but she throws her hand in Sydney's direction. "The girl obviously has it bad for you, and you can't even respect me enough to distance yourself from her until I'm out of the house?" She turns her back to us again. "First she gives Ridge some sob story so he'll let her move in and now she's taking advantage of the fact that you know sign language so she can flirt with you."
I don't know who to feel worse for, Bridgette or Sydney. Or myself. "Bridgette, stop."
"You stop, Warren," she says, turning back around to face me. "Either stop crawling in bed with me at night or stop shacking up on the couch with her during the day."
I knew it was coming, but I hoped I wouldn't be here when it finally did.
Sydney reaches her breaking point and slaps her book against her thighs. "Bridgette, please!" she yells. "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Christ! I don't know why you think I'm deaf, and I'm definitely not a whore and I'm not using sign language to flirt with Warren. I don't even know sign language. And from now on, please stop yelling when you speak to me!"
I'm scared to look at Bridgette. I feel torn, because I want to high-five Sydney for finally standing up for herself, but I want to hug Bridgette because I know this has to be hard for her. I suddenly feel like the prank was the worst prank in the history of pranks.
I glance up just in time to see a flood of hurt wash over Bridgette's face. She marches to her room and slams her door.
This is going to be impossible to fix. Sydney just single-handedly ruined my entire relationship with that outburst.
Okay, it wasn't all her. I played a huge part in it, too.
My chest hurts. I don't like this. I don't like the silence, and I don't like the fact that I'm about to have to go make this right. I put my hands on my knees and begin to stand. "Well, there goes my chance to act out all the role-playing scenes I've been imagining. Thanks a lot, Sydney."
She pushes her book off her lap and stands up. "Screw you, Warren."
Maybe Not Page 8