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“Being a personal chef should work to fill the gap in your resume while we wait for the social security stuff to straighten out. It will also allow you to build up some savings, since you’ll have room and board covered.”
“I’m confused. I’d live at your condo too? Does this have something to do with the press? Am I being kicked out?”
“No!” Lori and Ken say in unison.
“You don’t have to move into the condo, but you staying there would offer privacy from the press until everything dies down. I already have protocols set up for my security, and I’d have them apply to you as well. The media will be much better controlled over there.”
She looks like she’s considering it, so I continue, “As long as they don’t get a look at you when we leave, they won’t know what you look like. You’re still using your old name on your documentation and social media, so as long as you’re away from this house, you’ll be free to move around the city unnoticed. And you’ll have some independence.” I hope that last part piques her interest. “It’s only thirty minutes from here, so if you decide you want to come back, you can.”
She nods and looks down at her hands, picking at her fingernail polish, an old habit.
“Can I sleep on it?”
“Take as much time as you need.”
“Honey, we love you. We don’t care where you live as long as we get to see you enough. We have no problem coming to you for a while. This will always be your home, even if you’re not sleeping here.”
* * *
I’m anxious. I got home three hours ago, but I’m restless and can’t sleep after what went down tonight. I’ve essentially forced her to move in with me, placed her between a rock and a hard place. But I can’t bring myself to regret it either. It’s better than her going back to Canada. And sure, she should get more independence and not be dogged by reporters, but the selfish part of me can’t wait to have her all to myself. Her family will come here to visit, but they won’t be here all the time.
After throwing out my proposition, I couldn’t get a read on her. She can be so hot and cold. There’s no way of knowing how she’ll respond. Rolling onto my back, I let out a deep exhale and stare at the ceiling. It’s in her hands now. She’ll let me know what she decides. I roll onto my side and adjust my pillow, unable to get comfortable. This bed feels empty and lonely.
My phone dings and I snag it from the nightstand, fumbling to unlock it.
Bridget: Do I have to cook for all your hookups too?
Holy shit, she’s in.
Me: I mean, if you’re hungry, go for it ;)
Me: Is that a yes??
Bridget: Yes. To the job.
The reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows shows my fist pump lit up by the glowing phone screen.
Me: When do you want to start?
Bridget: Soon. The news vans aren’t moving. Does Wednesday work?
Bridget: It would be nice to drop some things off earlier though. Maybe get a kitchen tour?
Me: Hell yeah.
Me: Leaving for a game tomorrow, but I’ll be back Tues afternoon.
Me: I’ll pick you up and we can take some boxes over.
Bridget: Thanks, Lonan, really. For all of this.
Me: Just trying to take care of what’s mine ??
Bridget: I’m yours, huh?
Me: My house and my diet, conceited.
Bridget: Jerk. You just earned yourself a week of kale.
