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“Bridgette?” he says, his voice a little shaky. “What happened?”
I stand there, listening intently, being way too nosy. I should get in my car and drive away, pretend like I never saw how anxious he looks, but the decent part of me knows I can’t leave him like this. I really can’t. I mean, we’re barely friends, but what kind of man would I be if I left him here in the middle of the bowling alley parking lot like this?
That’s the kind of shit my parents would do, and I’m nothing like my parents. But I still feel uncomfortable expressing my feelings sometimes. Feelings have no place in my family. I was taught to repress them and stuff them down.
I know that’s not normal. I do. But it is what it is. It’s hard to change now.
I watch Bennet as his hands start to shake, his teeth chattering. Fuck, this is like some kind of trauma response. Who the hell is Bridgette and what the hell is she saying on the other end of the line?
Nothing good, if you ask me. Nothing good at all.
Finally, Bennet hangs up and looks like he’s in a daze, his eyes glassy, his gaze far away.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice a little too sharp because I’m fucking anxious now. He’s always so annoyingly happy and carefree. Nothing gets to him.
Bennet doesn’t even look at me when he murmurs, “My mom…she had a stroke.”
His words come out hushed and broken, and oh my gods, he’scrying.
I don’t know what the fuck to do. I didn’t grow up around criers. My parents are distant and cold and mostly absent. Any time I shed a tear they just glower at me.
My eyeballs are deserts.
“I need to go to Kansas,” he mumbles, just standing there. He looks so lost that I just grab on to his bowling bag and stuff it into the trunk of my car. Strokes are fucking serious. He needs to get out there, like now, and with the way he’s just staring off into the distance and not moving, he won’t make it out until next year.
“Well, you’ll never make it there just standing here like this.” I place my hands on him and push him toward the passenger side of the car. It’s not as easy as it looks, he’s bigger than me, and I really have to put some muscle into it. Good thing I didn’t skip leg day. “In you go.”
Thankfully he doesn’t fight me, just sinks into the seat. It’s a little disturbing, to be honest. I’m used to him teasing me, being ridiculously lighthearted, and always pushing back. This shocked, sad Bennet is…fucking weird.
I hate it. I fucking hate it.
As I drive him across town to his place, I call Carter and ask him to pick up Bennet’s car from the bowling alley. I don’t want Bennet to come home after all of this and find that it’s been towed. That’s one less thing he needs to worry about right now. His focus should be on his mom and that’s all.
Of course, Carter immediately agrees to help, telling me he’ll do whatever needs to be done, even offering to fly out to Kansas with Bennet. But he has Reed and Hannah to care for. Hell, even a new business he’s starting. I’ve got this.
I can manage Bennet. I’m nothing but level-headed.
Most of the time.
“Why don’t you get on your phone and book a plane ticket,” I say as we near his apartment complex.
Bennet just stares at me, his eyes watery.
“What?” he asks, and I repeat myself.
“Get a plane ticket, Bennet. You need to leave ASAP.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, and then I watch as he just shuts down. It’s like his mind can’t handle the stress. He just closes his eyes and sinks further into his seat.
He does not do well in an emergency.
Goddammit.
Well, at least I’m here. I am the best in emergencies. I don’t shut down, I man up. I plan, I prioritize. I make it fucking work. I had to growing up. There was no shutting down in my family. Nope, that shit was not tolerated.
I park the car in Bennet’s parking space and have to practically drag him up to his apartment. Once we’re inside, he stumbles forward, looks around, and then sinks to the floor in a heap.
Well, that’s inconvenient, I think as I move to his bedroom and start packing for him. I’ve been to his apartment a few times, so I know what it looks like. Vinyl floors that look like wood, light gray walls adorned with pictures of his family, a modern kitchen with marble countertops and a ceramic farmhouse sink, and then his bedroom with a king-sized bed and a gallon bottle of lube on the end table. Just sitting there for all to see. Compared to the other parts of his house, this room is more sparsely decorated, probably to keep his private and public life separate. I don’t blame him. There are a lot of weirdos out there.
