Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
And my ridiculous heart scampers. Maybe Bridger’s calling to say he can’t stand being away from me. That he meant to say he’s wild for me. That he’s not scared—he’s bold and brave.
But when I grab the device, my shoulders fall. Hope is having a field day, smacking me tonight.
I pick up. “Hi Dad,” I say.
“Poppet, why didn’t you tell me you quit?”
I knew this was coming, and I should have gotten ahead of this one. Add that to my list of mistakes. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t want to bother you when you were away with Vivian or take away from your celebration tonight.”
“What happened? Was someone mean to you?”
My heart squeezes. I can’t believe that’s where he went first—to defend me from schoolyard bullies that don’t exist.
Times like this, it’s hard to hate him.
I’m not even sure I do hate him. Hate is too strong a word. I’m frustrated. Conflicted, disgusted.
But right now, I’m none of those things. I’m just his little girl. He’s only ever put me on a pedestal. If he knew that Bridger put me on a desk this afternoon, he’d be so disappointed in me.
A fresh, sharp pain corkscrews up my body.
If my father knew what I’d done, he’d cut me off. And I don’t mean financially. He’d excise me from his life.
I’d be an orphan, for all intents and purposes. I’ve already lost one parent and even though my relationship with my living parent is more complicated than a ten thousand-piece puzzle, do I want to lose him too?
Maybe Bridger saved me from a future I’m not ready to handle.
With my stomach roiling, I say, “I’m really sorry. I just realized that I want to work in the art world after all.”
I feel better than I’d thought I would for saying something to him that’s wholly true. Maybe, after all the lying by omission tonight, I need to just tell the truth, so I unspool more of it. “I learned so much while I was there at Lucky 21. I’m so grateful for the opportunity you made possible. But I realized how much art calls to me, and I want to work in a gallery. I truly didn’t want to bother you while you were prepping for your wedding. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Harlow, you could never disappoint me,” he says, warmth in his tone, like a hug. “I just wish you had told me. I would have helped you.”
There was nothing he could have helped with. There’s no point in saying that though. “Thank you,” I say. “How did you find out?”
He chuckles. “Isla told me on the phone a few minutes ago.”
My radar beeps. “On a Saturday night?”
“She was calling about something in the script. She’s also working on a show of her own, and she wants me to look at it. It better be brilliant. I don’t want to waste my time on drivel,” he says.
He goes on for ten minutes about writing skills, and talent today, and storytelling.
Clearly, he’s not bothered at all that I quit. Part of me wishes he were. It would be easier to let righteous rage fuel me.
Instead, I’m twisted up in knots.
When he says goodbye, I feel lonely once again, with only The Ultimate F Boys for company.
I wallow on the couch. Wishing I knew what to do next. Wishing I didn’t feel so foolish. As Brayden says brazenly to the camera that no woman can ever pin him down, a knock on the door startles me.
I turn off the show, then pop up and peer through the peephole.
My breath catches. Bridger’s on the other side. And he’s drenched.
36
TEN TIMES
Bridger
I’ve been pacing back and forth outside her apartment. Debating whether to knock.
Wondering if she’d even want to see me. This thing with Harlow is completely uncharted territory. I don’t have the map to navigate it.
I should have handled that moment in my office so differently when she confessed she was scared, then when she asked what we were doing.
My bright answer? I’m not sure.
But I know this much.
I should have insisted Harlow leave with me.
I should have told her that yes, this is terribly risky, but she’s worth the risk.
I should have said I’d figure something out.
Even though I have no answers to anything…except for the too-fast, too-frantic beating of my heart.
No answers…except I walked around the block ten times in the pouring rain, trying to talk myself out of showing up, figuring she’d be with friends, she wouldn’t want a visitor, she was over this thing already.
No answers except…
She swings the door open, her eyes narrowed, her brow knit. “What are you doing here?”
I take that on the chin. Her defenses are all the way up, and I deserve that. But I can’t let her go. I just can’t. Without thinking, I ask, “Should I have said something to him? Tonight? Did you want me to?”