by Becky Monson
“Huh?” I say, taken aback. Actually, that’s an understatement for how I’m feeling. I’m utterly confused.
“Justin wrote a play,” she says again. I still don’t understand.
“You wrote a play?” I say, looking at him like I have no idea who Justin is at all.
“I did,” he says, nodding his head, looking away. “I’ve written several, actually.”
“But . . . how?” I’m so confused. I feel like I’ve been shoved into a dream sequence. I did not see that coming.
“But that’s not the best part,” Ashley says, her smile practically reaching her forehead. “He’s a finalist for the Samuel French Festival.” She wiggles around in her seat, too excited to sit still. Justin pulls her into him, holding her tightly. Her excitement about his accomplishments gives Justin a look of pride I’ve never seen on his face before.
I, on the other hand, am trying hard to stifle my what-the-hell face, because seriously. What the hell?
“Wow, really?” My brow furrows. I work to make an effort to wrap my brain around it, because it’s getting enormously obvious that I can’t bring myself to accept it. I shake my head, closing my eyes briefly.
“Is it that hard to believe, Bridge?” Justin scoffs, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, kind of,” I say and he lets out a frustrated sigh. “I mean, it’s kind of like me telling you I’ve been . . . uh . . . raising gerbils on the side and I’ve been doing it for years and you had no idea.”
“But you don’t like rodents of any kind,” Ashley interjects.
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at Ashley. “It’s just so random. Although,” my finger goes to my chin, contemplatively, “I guess you did make us go to those terrible artsy movies and plays all the time. But honestly, that was the only sign.”
“My taste in movies and plays is not terrible,” he says, looking appalled.
“Uh, yeah. It is.” I say, unapologetically.
“Do you think so, babe?” He turns to Ashley.
“Of course not,” she says sincerely, but I suspect she’s lying. She has to be.
Justin. My and Ashley’s Justin—well, more Ashley’s now, but that’s beside the point. Our Justin is a playwright?
I start to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Justin asks, clearly peeved.
“Sorry,” I say through giggles that suddenly morph into near-hysterical laughter. Neither Ashley nor Justin is joining me. It’s awkward.
Justin flagrantly gives me the middle finger and then adds a comment that would make Gram’s toes curl.
“No, sorry,” I say, trying to calm myself. I take a deep breath. “It’s just . . . so not expected. I mean, I sincerely had no idea. How did you keep this to yourself for so long?”
“No one knows. Well, except for you two.” He looks at Ashley and then me. “Besides, you’re always caught up in some guy drama, and Ash was always auditioning.”
“Hey, I’m not always caught up in some guy drama,” I say defensively. Justin and Ashley both regard me with the same disbelieving face.
“Whatever, you guys. Hey, wait . . . oh my gosh.” My eyes go wide with realization, as I focus them on Justin. “So that’s what you’ve been doing with your time? We’ve always wondered.” I point back and forth between Ashley and me.
“What did you think I was doing with my time?” Justin asks, slight suspicion in his tone.
“Well, we,” I start, but then a wide-eyed you-better-shut-up glance from Ashley stops me. “We just never knew,” I quickly recover.
“Well, now you do,” he says.
“Yes, I guess we do. It’s really amazing, though, Justin.” I reach across the table and put my hand on his, my attempt at an olive branch. He gives me a small, thin smile.
“It really is,” Ashley says, beaming up at him as he looks at her. He pulls his hand out from under mine, reaches up to her face, and caresses it lightly. Then his hand goes under her chin. Lifting it, he kisses her briefly. He looks sincere, thoughtful even. It’s going to take me a bit to get used to this. Justin in love or lust or whatever is going on here, and Justin as a playwright. My world feels completely turned upside down.
“So, what’s it about?” I ask, looking down at my empty plate. I scarfed down my burger. I was so hungry. Also, it was a good place to keep my eyes to avoid the lovefest across from me.
Justin and Ashley look at each other, doing that talking without talking thing again.
“Justin, what’s the play about?” I ask again, wondering why they both suddenly look a little shell-shocked.
“It’s . . .” Justin trails off. A hand goes to the back of his neck, and he rubs it self-consciously.
What’s their deal?
“It’s just based on something from Justin’s past,” Ashley says, and Justin nods agreeing.
I eye them both suspiciously. I’m no mind reader, but I wouldn’t even need one to tell me they’re hiding something.
“I’ll let you read it,” Justin says. Ashley looks up at him with wide, skeptical eyes.
“What’s going on?” I say, my eyes on Ashley.
“Look, Bridge, it’s no big deal. I’ll send it to you, okay?” he says and then gives Ashley a comforting look, as if to say everything will be fine.
I, at least, thought it was a comforting look. Maybe it was a sensual look because they start kissing, and I go back to averting my eyes.
This is all going to take some serious time to get used to.
CHAPTER 37
“Hey, Bridge,” Ian says as he spots me walking into the coffee shop where he asked me to meet him. He stands and gives me a quick hug. Try as I might, I am unable to hold myself back from sniffing him. He smells wonderful.
My heart is literally going into overdrive. I almost said no to meeting up with him, but then the fear of not knowing what he might say—what he might be thinking—seeped in.
“Hey,” I say, feeling sheepish . . . and utterly girly.
“How are you?” he asks, smoothing down his tie. He looks amazing in his charcoal-gray, pin-striped suit with a blue, collared shirt that makes his eyes a more blue-green color. My heart speeds up a little more. I’ve got on a pink racer-back shift dress and espadrille wedge sandals. A little less of a friend-like outfit, but I didn’t know what to expect today.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” my mouth says, not even answering his question like my brain was preparing to. Apparently, my mouth wants to forgo small talk and get right down to the nitty-gritty. I take a seat in the chair across from him.
“Um, yeah,” he mutters. He seems nervous.
I look up at his face, and for a moment our eyes meet, and I feel my breathing start to sharpen. Ian is what I want. He is home for me.
“Bridgette,” he says, breaking the trance. “I need to apologize to you.”
“You do?” That was not exactly how I expected him to start the conversation. That’s what I was going to say if he seemed sour when I saw him. I was prepared to apologize for my text and tell him I was tipsy – anything to cover my butt. But maybe . . . no, I shouldn’t let my mind go there. I need to hear him out first.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” He looks down at his hands. “You were right.” He looks back up at me.
“You’re sorry I’m right,” I say, confused.
“No.” He shakes his head, a small smile appearing on his face. “I mean, you were right. About the friend thing.”
“Oh,” I say as my heart plummets rapidly. I know immediately this is not going to go as I had, in my heart of hearts, hoped it would. I’m a fool for even letting my mind wander there.
“It was really selfish of me, and I’m sorry,” he says, not making eye contact with me. “I was just so glad to have you back in my life that I was holding on to whatever I could. But I see now it can’t work.”
“Right.” I chew on my bottom lip, feeling a mixture of emotions right now. Without warning, tears sting my eyes.
“You and I weren�
��t meant to be just friends, Bridge. And I need to commit to what I have with Maureen. I can’t do that with you around.” He looks down at his hands twiddling in his lap.
“Okay,” I say, the tears flowing now. I grab a napkin from the holder, which was conveniently on the table, and wipe my eyes and nose. “Sorry,” I apologize for my tears.
“Me, too,” he says, a closed-mouth, sorrow-filled smile on his lips.
“And now,” I look downward as shameful feelings wash over me, “I’m really sorry for the text,” I say.
“What text?” he questions, and my eyes go back to his. He isn’t being facetious. He’s serious.
“You never got the text I sent?” I ask, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness at the same time. Sadness because it means he doesn’t know.
“No.” He shakes his head. “What did it say?”
“What did it say?” Oh, crap. I need a lie. I’m so not good at lying on a whim. I need preparation for my lies. I start to chew on my bottom lip but stop myself.
“Bridge?” He looks at me inquisitively.
But I can’t tell him. Not after what he just said to me. It would be wrong.
“Oh,” I say and bat a hand, “it was nothing.” I can tell by the look on his face that he knows I’m lying. I really needed more prep.
“Bridge,” he prods, tilting his head to the side.
“Really, it’s nothing,” I say, forcing a smile through the tears. “And I’m glad you realized I was right.” I give him a little know-it-all smirk, trying to lighten the mood in any way possible so I don’t start blubbering.
“Yes, you always did love being right.” He smirks back.
“Still do.”
“Well, I wish this time you weren’t,” he says, remorse in his voice.
“Me, too,” I say, tears beginning to spill.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad that I got to see you again.” His lips form into a small, very sad smile.
“Me, too,” I say. It seems to be all I can say right now. But I need to keep my answers quick and precise. I’m literally on the verge of a blubber-fest, which I’ll promptly be having as soon as I leave this coffee shop. I can guarantee it.
He stands up, and I follow suit. I’m having major déjà vu right now. It’s not hard to remember why. Ian and I just had this conversation. I thought it was goodbye then, but here we are once more. This time, it has a definite finality to it.
We walk out of the café and stand together on the sidewalk. It feels wrong. It all feels wrong. I want to tell him. I want to tell him to pick me and then promise we would be happy together, because we would be. But the words don’t come out of my mouth.
“I guess I’ll see you when I see you,” I say.
“Well, I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“Right, we’re catering your rehearsal dinner,” I say, a forced forgetful tone to my voice, even though I’ve known for some time. “Well, no worries there. I’ve requested to have it off.” I smile, feebly.
“You don’t have to do that, Bridge,” he says, his head tilting slightly to the side. “We can be in the same room, can’t we?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I shrug and then let out an uncomfortable laugh.
“I’m gonna miss you, Bridge,” Ian says, pulling me into a hug.
That nearly unnerves me, but I hold the sobbing in. Tears are streaming down my face, but I’ve managed to limit them to just a handful. Waterfalls threaten to fall at any moment.
“Me, too,” is all I can get out.
We stand back and look at each other, and then without words, we turn and walk away. This time, I don’t look back.
The crying, which had already started, now morphs into a full-on hysterical fit. I walk as far as I can go before I feel like my knees will buckle in a ridiculous, dramatic fashion. I know it’s absurd. I know I’m being over-the-top, and yet, I don’t care. I spot a bench and sit down, my face falls into my hands. And I blubber.
I’m probably a spectacle right now. I’m heartbroken in a way I’ve never been before. I know I thought I was this heartbroken with Adam, but this feels different. It feels like my heart is literally falling apart. With Adam, it felt like my heart had been crushed. This time, it feels like it’s being ripped apart, and Ian is taking some of it with him.
I don’t think I will recover from this, ever. Well, I know I will, because that’s what I do, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to recover from Ian.
CHAPTER 38
I’m not sure how I got here. Well, I know exactly how I got here, but I’m not sure how I let myself get to this point.
Currently, I find myself hiding in a rather tall bush, Ashley squished next to me (there’s not much room in this thing), and we are, well, we’re spying. It’s true. It’s Ashley and Bridgette: super spies.
The only problem is, we kind of suck at it.
To onlookers, this might appear pretty bad. But luckily for me we are not in a touristy part of town, and the locals, if they see us, truly couldn’t care less that Ashley and I are spying from a bush, and frankly, they’ve seen worse. This is Manhattan, after all.
In Manhattan—an island that is thirteen-ish miles long with a population of around 1.6 million people—it seems highly illogical one would randomly run into the same person twice in any amount of time. And yet, here we are … spying … on Serene, no less.
How did we get here? Well, it’s pretty simple, actually. Ashley and I were eating ice cream at our normal café. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks, what with her new understudy gig, and her new . . . Justin. The girl barely has time to sleep. So I was thrilled when she called me to meet up. I had yet to fill her in on my last visit with Ian. I mean, of course I had told her bits and pieces through text, but I hadn’t had the chance to give her every painstaking detail like I’ve so badly needed to. I tried to make Gram sit down and analyze it, but she was not having any.
I was just telling Ashley the part about my last gut-wrenching, heartbreaking, tear-streaming, hug with Ian, when I spotted Serene. She was sauntering past the café, dressed completely in black—black blouse, black leggings, black four-inch heels (no joke). She was wearing dark sunglasses, and tucked under her arm was a black clutch. Her long, black hair and her ensemble were doing nothing to negate the witch thing.
I stopped midsentence when I saw her, of course—as most creatures probably do when they see her.
“Oh, my gosh,” I said.
“What is it?” Ashley asked, following my eyes and looking out the window from the booth we were sitting in.
“It’s her,” I said, not taking my eyes off Serene.
“Her, who?” Ashley asked, still confused.
“Serene,” I said, turning back to Ashley.
Her eyes went wide. “You mean Serene-Serene? The model-witch? Where?” She maneuvered herself so she could see where I was looking.
“I don’t see her,” Ashley declared, after looking in vain in the direction I was.
“How can you not see it?” I said, feeling slightly pleased with myself for referring to Serene as an “it.”
As chance would have it, Serene had stopped not far from us to answer a call, apparently the call was too important for her to continue walking. I guess Serene was not one to be able to walk and talk at the same time – go figure.
“Oh,” Ashley said as she spotted her. “So that’s Serene.” Her face registered the same look most give when their eyes happen upon the model-witch. “I mean, I guess I saw her before—that time in the café with Justin—but I couldn’t see her face, since she was making out with some guy.”
We both stared at Serene, watching her as her conversation looked to get a little heated. Abruptly, she hung up her phone, and thrusting it back into her purse, she started walking again.
“I wonder where she’s going?” I said, mostly thinking aloud.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Ashley said, a mischievous look on her face
.
“How’s that?” I asked, feeling curiosity mixed with a bit of skepticism.
“We should follow her, of course,” she said, sliding out of her booth in a hurry.
“What? Wait . . . no. We can’t do that,” I said, sliding out of my booth and chasing after a quick-moving Ashley.
“Ash, we can’t follow her,” I said, grabbing her by the arm to try to slow her down. It didn’t work, though. The girl was on a mission.
“Why not?” she asked, pulling her arm away and picking up the pace. I scrambled to follow.
“Seriously, Ash, what’s the point?” I questioned, pulling up alongside her. Meanwhile, I still had an eye on Serene. She was just about to cross 20th.
“The point,” Ashley said, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me in the direction of Serene, “is for you to get some proof. You said yourself you wished you could show Adam some proof, right?”
I nodded. It was true. I didn’t have Ian, and I didn’t want Adam, but I’ll be damned if I lost my Dubois family. They were . . . well, family, after all.
“Then, let’s go.” She kept her hand on my arm and we started across 20th, keeping a good distance from Serene, which was not hard because she did have a fairly good head start.
“Wait a second.” I stopped us both after we crossed the street. “There’s no guarantee we will even get proof,” I said, realizing this was probably a lost cause.
“We won’t know unless we try,” she said, grabbing me by the arm yet again and guiding me down the street in the direction of the model-witch.
We followed her for about eight blocks (not long blocks, thank goodness), and then, ducking behind a trashcan, we saw her walk into a rather large-looking brownstone house. We found a tall bush across the street where we set up camp, camera-phones ready to catch her in the act.
And that is how we came to find ourselves hiding in a bush.
“This is ridiculous,” I say for the fiftieth time, even though I’ve got my eyes trained on the door, ready at any moment to see her make her escape . . . or just leave, whichever.