“I do have some ultrasound pictures. They’re at my parent’s house where I’ve been living. I started a baby book when I found out I was pregnant, and I put them in there. It’s one of the few things I don’t want them to throw away.”
Bridger scowls and shakes his head. “You said you have 48 hours to clear your stuff out?”
I sigh and look out the window again, hating this conversation because it’s just a reminder of what my parents value, at least my dad, and it sure as fuck isn’t me or their grandchild.
“Yeah,” my voice breaks and I swallow hard before admitting, “I should have never moved back into their house after law school, but I just thought…,” my words trail off as tears fill my eyes.
He squeezes my thigh and pushes, just like I did with him, “You just thought, what?”
“That maybe they’d be proud of me, and we could be a real family,” I huff, the heartbreak clear to hear in my voice. “I don’t know why I thought it could ever happen, but I’ve always done what my father expected of me, I guess expecting something from him, or my mom, was too much.”
The weight of Bridger’s hand on my thigh grounds me and I find myself covering his hand with mine and giving a squeeze. It’s a silent action filled with gratitude I hope he can feel.
“You don’t need them, Avery,” there’s so much conviction in his tone. “If you let them in, you’ll have a whole family at your back.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye and blurt, “Have you let them in?”
He stiffens but then forces himself to relax. “No,” he grunts, “not really, but I’m trying.”
“Then I’ll try too,” I murmur.
He nods, but before he can say anything else, he’s pulling into the driveway of a gorgeous home. It’s not overly large, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find three or four bedrooms inside. It’s all clean lines and glass. From the outside it looks more like an architectural sculpture than a house.
“Wow,” I breathe out and look over at Bridger. I swear that blush is back, but I bite my tongue to stop myself from commenting on it. “Your house is gorgeous.”
Honestly, gorgeous is an understatement. It’s a lot more modern than I was expecting. And it’s clear from one look that it’s well maintained.
“Come on,” he murmurs softly, “I’ll give you a tour.”
The only thing I can do is nod and climb out of the car. After standing, I take a moment and rub my hand over my belly. “I think we might be home, peanut,” I whisper.
Bridger’s eyes are soft when he steps up next to me and places his hand at the small of my back. My entire face heats up from embarrassment. I’ve taken to talking to my baby when I’m alone. Not only have I read about it helping with bonding by hearing your voice, but it’s become a huge comfort to me as well. Going through this alone, so far, has taken its toll on me and my mental wellbeing. Not like it was stellar before, considering my parents, but talking to my little peanut has kept me grounded and focused when it would have been all too easy to spiral.
“You are home.” His hand comes down to hover over my belly like he’s asking permission. It’s sweet and makes me melt forthis man who, clearly, doesn’t let his emotions out to play very often. I take his hand and put it on my baby bump and watch in fascination as his shoulders relax. There’s reverence in his tone, “Both of you.”
I quickly reach up and wipe away the few tears that have fallen. “Sorry,” I sniffle, “today has been a lot.”
“I think tonight calls for relaxing, take-out of whatever you’re craving, and a foot rub.”
There’s a little twinkle in Bridger’s eyes as he lays out the perfect fucking evening. I let out a groan of approval that has the corners of his mouth tipping up. It’s pretty damn close to a smile and makes me feel victorious in a way that is intoxicating.
The moment he unlocks the front door, and I step inside, the fear and chaos of the day lessens. The baby moves and I press my hand to my bump. It’s almost as if my little peanut approves of being here, at least it’s what I’m going to take it as.
“Come on, Sweetheart, let me give you a tour,” Bridger gently prods me.
All I can do is nod and allow him to lead me around. The kitchen is a dream. It’s all black and white with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. I could see myself cooking in this kitchen. The island is perfect for decorating cookies or doing a school project. I can almost see the fridge covered in art filled with colorful squiggles or stick figure families.
Bridger leads back to the living room where there’s a huge black sectional that I’m not sure I could get out of if I were to crawl in too deeply. The coffee table has a glass top which I’m already side eyeing. There’s no way he’s ever thought about babyproofing this place.
Even though the walls are all white, there is enough art hanging around so that it doesn’t feel overly stark. I can’t tear my eyes away from one painting of an angel ascending into sunset lit clouds while darkness wraps around her ankles and tries to pull her back down.
Without realizing it, I step away from Bridger and stare at the painting. It’s huge, but it also feels intimate in a strange way.
“This is beautiful. Who’s the artist?”
I feel Bridger step up next to me, but I can’t look away from the art. Silence stretches between us, and I glance toward him to find him rubbing the back of his neck.
“I painted it,” he almost sounds embarrassed.
