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“I’m sorry,” I bit back. “Did you just cast the first stone, preggo?”
She balked aloud and punched my shoulder. “Please. This is not even in the same ballpark, buddy.”
I sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Bridge.”
She sat up even straighter. “Too bad, Spence,” she began, but the banker returned, saving me from any immediate beatdown.
“Here you go,” Kelli said, sitting down. “You’re all set,” she continued, handing me an envelope. Her hand lingered on mine and I tried not to pull away too abruptly.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling.
“If you visit the teller station on the far right, she’ll be able to count your cash out for you.”
“Thanks again,” I said.
I got up and Bridge followed me to the station. The teller greeted us and began to count out the cash. I nodded when she laid down the last hundred. She tucked it into another envelope and handed it over. I placed both envelopes in the inside pocket of my coat. We left and got into our vehicles. Bridge followed me to one of the upscale dealerships off the highway and I’d never been more grateful for the silence. I was starting to feel I was in over my head.
seemed to ease her mind a bit.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We wait.”
Chapter Nine
Christmas morning went by in a blur. My dad wasn’t there, and my mom was picking up on our strange vibes. She didn’t dwell on them too much. I think she figured it was residual emotion from Bridget’s ordeal and didn’t ask too many questions. That, or she didn’t want to face what she thought our dad made Bridge do. Yeah, I was disappointed, but either way it worked out in our favor.
The night before, August called and filled me in on the plan. His grandparents lived in Bitterroot, Montana, and would be expecting us within the week, if we could get away. They had a trailer prepared for us and knew our predicament. They were willing to host us for however long we needed. I felt grateful.
I’d searched the distance between Los Angeles and Bitterroot and come up with a freaking nineteen-hour drive. It was going to be a bitch to drive a nauseous Bridge for that long, not to mention that once we arrived there wasn’t going to be much for us to do. I shit you not, Bitterroot consisted of a fire station, post office, school, and a single Exxon. I am not screwing with you. Bridge better believe how much I love her since I’m doing this crap for her.
My mom and dad would be leaving the day after Christmas for some party my dad’s lawyer’s firm was having in New York City. It was also supposed to be riddled with some sort of business deal that I had no interest in hearing about, but I did know they were leaving early the twenty-sixth, three-in-the-morning kind of early, and on his private jet to make it in time to check into their room and attend whatever bullshit meeting my dad had scheduled. They would attend the party that night and return the twenty-seventh around five in the evening our mom told us. We had thirty-nine hours.
Thirty-nine hours.
I stayed up until two in the morning waiting for them to leave, and then I went into survival mode. I’d already packed two bags and hidden them under my bed, and Bridge had done the same. Since we’d graduated junior high, my mom stopped employing live-in help to reduce the temptation my dad had with “messing” with our nannies and occasional maids. (Like I said before, douche.) So, Bridge left a note on their entrance door letting them know they could have the next two days off and wished them a Merry Christmas, which allowed us thirty-nine clear hours to erase our existences as we knew them...at least until Bridge’s baby was born.
“Bridge,” I said quietly at her door around four in the morning.
“Yeah,” her sleepy voice rang out.
“You ready?”
“As ready as I’m ever going to be.”
She opened her door for me and was dressed, though her hair was wet.
“Where are your bags?” I asked, checking the room.
“In my closet.”
I made my way through her room to the closet and took in just how many clothes she was leaving behind. She only had a single bag of clothing.
“What in the hell, Bridge? This isn’t going to last you.”
She met me inside.
“None of my shit fits me anymore. None of my jeans will even button. It’s infuriating. It’s, like, I’m not showing really but the buttons refuse to close.”
