This Summer Will Be Different(29)
“He’s still here, closer to Miscouche.”
“Is he cute? Single?”
“Mmm . . .” she says. “I think he’s divorced. Big guy. Beard.”
“You could be describing a third of the men on this island.” I look at her out of the corner of my eye. “Are you thinking of looking him up?”
“God no,” she says. “We have nothing in common. And I doubt Miles would be thrilled about me getting in touch with my high school boyfriend days away from when we’re supposed to get married.”
“Supposed to?”
“Bad choice of words.” She sits up and starts the car, the Mustang’s thundering engine putting an end to our conversation.
I’d like to tackle her and force her to talk, but I know Bridget, and if I come on too strong, she’ll go on the attack.
Our last fight wasn’t that long ago. It was one of the few evenings recently where it was just the two of us, with no wedding-related crafting or planning involved. I’d brought a homemade caramelized onion and Brie dip to her condo, along with a fresh baguette and wine. Bridget refused to let any of it pass her lips, despite the fact that the dip was a personal triumph. She poured herself a vodka-soda, saying something about photographs and “feeling confident,” and I scoffed. Bridget never needed help feeling confident. I launched into a tirade about unrealistic body standards, and as I scolded her, her face turned crimson. When Bridget gets mad, she looks like a pissed-off angel, and sometimes it’s cute enough that it takes the steam out of my anger, but not that night.
“If you have to be a stick to walk down the aisle, I’m never getting married,” I announced, with my hands on my hips. Not that I was looking to get married. My aunt’s independence appealed to me far more than my parents’ humdrum coexistence.
She pointed her finger at me. “You’re never getting married because that would mean you’d have to care about someone more than you care about your job.”
I’d stared at her in stunned silence, the statement sitting between us like a grenade. Despite my preference for casual relationships, I have had one long-term boyfriend. Carter. Who dumped me a year ago precisely because of my work.
Bridget apologized quickly. “I didn’t mean it,” she said, roping her arms around me. “I’m sorry. Carter was a potato. And you’re right—diets are dumb, and I miss carbs. Let me try some of that dip.”
But the truth of what she said about Carter stuck with me. I’d like to think he broke up with me because he wasn’t secure enough to be with a career-minded woman, but some of the things he accused me of rang true. I was always running late. I was always on my phone, checking In Bloom’s social media. I canceled plans if a venue had accidentally broken the centerpieces or if the bouquets had unexpectedly wilted.
Bridget started eating bread and cheese again after our fight, but it was one of the few times I’ve managed to change her mind. Usually our arguments end with me frustrated and saying a variation of, “I don’t even know what we’re mad about anymore.”
I don’t want to go down that road with Bridget now, but I can’t ignore that there’s something wrong. I’m nervous that the weekend will come and go, and I’ll still be on this island without answers.
“If there’s a problem, it might help to get it off your chest,” I say to Bridget now. “I won’t judge. I won’t tell you what to do. I hope you know you can talk to me about anything.” I realize she doesn’t like getting advice from anyone ever, but sometimes it feels specific to me.
Bridget’s distracted, her attention on the road, so it surprises me when she says, “I know, Bee. I trust you. More than anyone.” But she doesn’t say anything more.
My guilt fills the silence that follows. I’m such a hypocrite. There are things I haven’t told her, too.
* * *
? ? ?
I text with Lillian, my contact at Cena Restaurant Group, on the way to Shack Malpeque until Bridget reaches across and takes the phone from my fingers.
“Your phone has been attached to your hand all morning. Unplug for a little while, okay?”
I was trying to set a new time for our meeting about the contract next week. This is a big opportunity that’s on the line, and I’m worried I’ve started my relationship with Lillian on the wrong foot. Besides, Bridget’s one to talk. She’s been messaging all day, too. Presumably with Miles.
Bridget finds the last parking spot at Shack Malpeque. The restaurant looks over a bay that shimmers blue like it did the day I met Felix. There’s a boat out at the mussel floats, two farmers inspecting the ropes. The parking lot is full, and so is the patio that looks over the water. But unlike the bay and the boats, it wasn’t here five years ago, and the building is less shack-like than it used to be. It’s had a fresh coat of sea blue paint, and there are window boxes planted with red impatiens.
But stepping inside is like traveling through a time portal. Suddenly I’m twenty-four, Bridget has missed her flight, and I’m fresh off an argument with my parents about leaving my PR job to work for my aunt.
Bridget takes my elbow, snapping me back to reality. “Oh good. There are spots at the counter.” She points to the row of stools where Felix is working.
His head is tipped down and his hair topples over his forehead. With every twist of his knife, his forearms flex. And just like that, I’m thrown into the past again. When he glances up, his eyes find mine. For a fleeting slice of time, Felix looks at me almost like he did back then, with fire in his eyes, and my heart thuds happily in my chest. But then Bridget pulls out a chair, and the flame is extinguished.