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Tom sighed, picking up his untouched mug. “Has he been a terror?”

“He’s been sad,” she said honestly. “He’s been heartbroken. I wish I could help. I feel like there’s a giant crack in our lives and I don’t know how to fill it.”

“You can’t, Mags. And you’re right, there is a crack.” He looked wistfully at the hallway. “I was trying to give him some space, but I think it only made him angrier.”

Maggie sipped her tea. “You should go talk to him. Don’t look at me like that,” she added at Tom’s raised eyebrows. “You know how he is. He’d hold his breath until he faints if he thought it would mean he won an argument. Go break down his door and scream at him.”

“I would never scream at him,” Tom said softly, fiddling with the mug again. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Tom.” He looked up, and Maggie covered his twitching hand with hers. “Go talk to him. You’re both miserable and it hurts me. Don’t you care about my feelings?” She hoped her grin was cheeky; she was feeling rather wretched at the moment and wasn’t in full control of her expressions. Tom stared at her blankly, then lifted his gaze to the ceiling. Maggie could see a vein throbbing in his neck; big, brawny, iron-strong Thomas Murray did not cower from many things, but he absolutely hated confronting Bridgers. It would have been amusing if Maggie hadn’t been so terrified that they were truly going their separate ways.

“Please,” she added.

Tom scrunched his mouth to one side and let out a huff of a sigh. With a grunt, he pushed the chair away from the table and headed down the hall slowly, pausing in front of the door to his and Bridgers’ room. He hesitated, then lifted his hand and knocked twice. “Can I come in?”

Maggie leaned over, watching, until she heard a murmured reply and Tom opened the door. “Bridgers, put the pan down,” he said irritably as he shut the door behind him.

She sat at the table, drinking her tea, then finishing Tom’s. She washed the mugs. She ground the coffee for the morning. She hung the rags up to dry. Then she crumpled her pride into a ball and tossed it in the corner, quietly trotting over to the door to eavesdrop.

She folded herself onto the floor, trying to position herself ready to flee if needed. The floorboard creaked slightly as she lowered, and she winced at the sound. The soft murmurs from Bridgers’ room became more distinct as she leaned closer to the gap below the door.

“…didn’t think you even knew what you wanted anymore.” Tom’s soft timbre rumbled through the air, and Maggie could picture him sitting on the edge of the chair, big hands folded over each other. “You’re always so angry, Bridge, and you were never angry before. Not like that.”

Bridgers was silent.

“So, I didn’t know what to do,” Tom continued. “You wanted to keep me here, locked up like some sort of prisoner.”

“I didn’t,” Bridgers said quietly. “I didn’t want that.”

“You acted like you did,” Tom argued, his voice not rising. “You would get so cross and quiet when I went out, when I tried to make friends. You wouldn’t talk to me, Bridgers. You always talk to everyone.” Tom’s tone had taken on a thin quality, and it occurred to Maggie that he was crying. “Do you know how awful it is to be the only one you aren’t talking to?”

“I didn’t want to upset you, so I didn’t say anything.” Bridgers sounded small. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could have said something,” Tom said harshly, his voice getting thicker. “You just withdrew and it felt as if you didn’t want me here anymore.”

Now Bridgers was crying—Maggie could hear the quiet, calming breaths he took when he was weeping. “I always want you here,” he said, stilted. “I’m sorry, I was afraid you would …” He sniffled, and the mattress groaned—Tom sitting down on it.

“Afraid I would what?”

A long, shaky breath was drawn.

“I would what, Bridge?”

“Find someone else.” His reply was almost inaudible.

The room went quiet aside from the occasional thick inhale. “Why on earth would I want to find someone else?” Tom’s voice was devoid of any sadness now; he sounded utterly bewildered. “What have I ever done to make you think I wanted to leave?”

“You did leave!” Bridgers protested, and Maggie, in her shameful, eavesdropping position, had to agree. “We had some trouble and you left, Tom. You left me and Maggie, and God knows what you were doing out there.” Bridgers was babbling now, nearly hysterical, and he abruptly quieted as the mattress creaked loudly. His sobs were muffled, and Maggie snuck a look under the door. Two sets of legs were sitting next to each other on the bed, Bridgers’ smaller foot resting on Tom’s. The rhythmic sound of a hand running up and down a back; quiet kisses pressed to foreheads.

“I needed some time. I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry I left.” Tom drew in a deep breath. “There isn’t anyone else, Bridge. There’s never been anyone else, not since I met you. I’m sorry you didn’t know that. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you enough. But we can’t be a band of two forever, love. We need more people. Maggie is most likely going to marry that butcher”—her heart shot into her throat—“and we can’t be so isolated. It isn’t good for either of us, and it isn’t good for us together.”

Bridgers released a shuddering breath.

“God knows I love you more than air, Bridge, but we need to work on it. I’m as married to you as I would be to any woman I wed in a church, and I’m not giving you up easily, but we need to work on it.”

They stopped talking as Bridgers’ crying lessened until he was taking slow, deep breaths.

“I love you more than air, too.”