Then her eyes land on my belly, the one I’ve been hiding for far too long, the one I’m not willing to hide anymore. Because this baby is mine. Because this baby is Bridger’s. The same man who whispered my name with the reverence of a falling star the moment he saw me stick my head through a doorway I shouldn’t have looked through without permission. The same man who stood tall after finding out I’m carrying his baby when he never saw a future with children involved.
He's my strength in this moment and I soak it up.
Because I can see the wheels of hatred and violence chugging along in my mother’s mind.
As she parts her lips, I brace. Bridger’s body goes rigid, but it’s not in fear, it’s in preparation. If I fall, he’ll have to step in.
“Oh,” my mom’s voice is a mockery of glee and understanding, “I get who he is now. Is he your little bastard’s father?” For a few seconds, my heart races, but then it calms into something steady, something true and strong. She taps her chin like she’s pondering where to slide the knife in next without realizing her ability to make me bleed is waning with every word, with every look, and with every moment Bridger lends me his solid presence. “You know, it’s so unfair. Men donate one sperm to the cause, but it’s women who carry the burden. At least if you were marrying Eric, like you were supposed to, the burden would be worth it.”
In a sense, she’s not wrong, but she’s not saying it to champion for where women stand in the world. She’s doing it to point out that I’m not special. She’s doing it to point out that it’s all just part of the game and I’m about to lose.
I tilt my head to the side like I’m sizing up my prey. Because I am. My tone borders on sweet, but it’s lethal and I know it, “Is that what you did? Did you carry the burden as you grew me from nothing but two cells and the hope for a boy? A boy you couldn’t give him, which means you’ve been paying for it for 28 years? Because from where I stand, I wasn’t the burden. You were. You still are. And I wouldn’t touch Eric Prescott even if the entire human race was dying. I’d chalk it up to fate’s plan and call it a day. He’s slime, but you know all about slime, don’t you?”
My mom’s jaw hits the floor, but I’m done. I’m beyond done.
I turn and start up the stairs, knowing Bridger has my back and won’t let anything happen to me. We’re not even halfway up when mom screeches like a fucking banshee, her heels tapping on the marble at a pace which shouldn’t be possible for a womanwho has more than likely been drinking since the moment she cracked open her eyes this morning.
“No,” barks Bridger, the hatred in his voice reverberating along the gilded chandeliers and gold-plated frames.
I look over my shoulder to find my man standing behind me on the next step down like a sentry. It’s unnecessary for me to see the way his eyes blaze with warning at my mom because I can feel it coming off of him. He’s coiled tightly and ready to strike without a care for who it is, only knowing they pose a threat to me and our baby.
“You will turn your gin-soaked ragged ass right around and find some laughter-sucking sitting room to pout in,” Bridger’s voice is sharp and glacial.
“W-who do you think you are?” My mom’s sputtered question has me fighting the smile that wants to break free.
Now is not the time to laugh and smile. Now is the time to make a clean getaway.
“I’m the father of your grandchild,” he puts emphasis on the word like it should mean something, but I know it doesn’t. At least not to her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper knowing Bridger will hear me, “our child doesn’t need a grandmother who never cared about me in the first place.”
Bridger gives a curt nod while keeping his focus on my mom. He snarls, “Don’t follow us. We’ll pack and be gone before your buzz can wear off.”
She scoffs, “I’ve only had one drink.”
“Sure,” Bridger deadpans and turns to follow me.
I hear my mom huffing and puffing on the stairs, but she doesn’t follow us. As much as I want to break down the moment I step inside my room, I can’t. Not yet. Not when I’m still in this house of horrors.
After everything is packed up and I’m safe, then I can mourn the loss of any possibility of maintaining a relationship with my family. But maybe I really can have the one I’ve been offered instead.
Bridger’s hands land on my shoulders as he whispers, “Are you okay?”
I lean back against him, taking solace in the way his chest holds me up.
“No,” I admit, “but I will be.”
He leans down and kisses my neck, his beard tickling my sensitive skin there. “Yes,” he rumbles against my skin, “you will because I’ll make sure of it.”
And damn it if I don’t fall for this man with his words. Because I have no doubt that he will make sure I’m okay. While he stands beside me and we celebrate this pregnancy and our baby together.
After a few breaths and when I know I won’t start crying, I step away from him and head into my closet with him right behind me. The glare he shoots me when I go to grab my suitcases makes me grin. When I do, his eyes soften.
We work together to pack everything I want to take with me. When all is said and done, I fill up three suitcases and two duffel bags. That’s it; it only takes five bags. It strikes me as sad, but I know I never felt comfortable here.
“I should have moved out a long time ago,” I muse.
“Maybe,” Bridger says as he wraps his arms around me from behind. This time he doesn’t hesitate to place his large palms on my baby bump. “But maybe you didn’t leave because I always needed you to come home.”
