Matt doesn’t say anything and I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m sure he’s thinking it’s about fucking time I quit this. He’s voiced his opinion on the situation many times, but more recently, he’s been coming to Bridgitte’s defense, playing devil’s advocate and I see his point. I’d hate to think she harbored feelings for another guy, that I was her second choice. Knowing what I’m about to do right now would crush her.
Matt drops me off at my hotel and we make plans to meet up later that night for dinner. My hotel is only a few blocks from the beach and with my note stuffed in my pocket, I make my way there. I stop off at a flower stand, picking up a bouquet of daisies just like I did on the day Nora left me on the beach.
The whole scenario is cheesy as fuck and the more I think about it, the more I hate myself for even continuing, yet I don’t turn around.
It’s warm even for August and the beach is crowded, so I quickly stick my note under the bent nail on the tower. I’m sure every year it blows away only seconds after I walk away, but it’s become part of all of this. This time, it’s part of letting go.
I’m looking out at the water as each wave crests and the white foam floods the beach, taking with it the sand and garbage that litter the area. I remember the beach being cleaner, more serene and peaceful. Now it’s cluttered with people and screaming kids, food wrappers and plastic bottles. Or maybe it’s just the way my memory likes to perceive it, like it was more than it was.
I’m angry with myself for standing here once again with nothing but a slip of paper and still clinging to the false hope of ever finding her. What if I did? I’m not even sure what I would do. It’s a fairy tale in my mind, running off and living happily ever after. I barely fucking knew her and we were just kids. I tell myself this all the time, but that nagging thought creeps in, reminding me that there was a reason I met Nora the way I did and why our connection was so intense. It’s a constant back and forth battle. I want to marry Bridgitte and forget Nora. I want to be happy and stop living with this secret.
I mutter a few curse words under my breath, still hating myself, but swearing up and down this will be that last time I stand on this beach with thoughts of Nora cluttering my brain. I’m done.
There’s a little girl building a sand castle just a few feet from the water and I stop in front of her. I hand her the flowers, telling her to use them to decorate the castle and she takes them happily.
“Goodbye, Nora,” I mutter as I head back to the hotel and it’s in that moment I know exactly where I need to be.
I need to be with Bridgitte.
I cancel all my meetings, apologizing to my parents for not making it over to see them and then again to Matt for having to pick me up at the airport, but when I tell him what’s going on, all he can say is, “Good.” He’s wanted me to forget it all and start my life with Bridgitte and that’s exactly what I’m doing.
It’s late by the time I arrive home, well after midnight and I know Bridgitte is probably asleep, but I still call her name and tell her it’s me as I enter the bedroom.
“What are you doing home?” she asks as she flips on the light, her eyes opening slowly as they adjust. She’s confused and sleepy and for a moment she looks as if she might be dreaming it all.
“I missed you,” I tell her, sitting down on the bed next to her and running my hand through her hair.
“I always miss you,” she says, the sleepiness still lingering in her voice. “Now come to bed.”
I turn the light off on her nightstand as I whisper, “I love you, Bridgitte,” leaning down to kiss her good night, but her lips are dotted with images of Nora.
Why can’t I forget her?
Chapter Twelve
A few days later I find myself sitting in a boutique bakery on the north side of the city that took us far too long to get to and with cake prices that cost more than some people’s monthly rent. Bridgitte is next to me tasting cakes as she tries to decide whether she wants devils food, chocolate, mocha chocolate, dark chocolate, chocolate fudge or just some white shit the asshole handing us plates calls “pure white.”
It all tastes the same to me and as much as I’m trying to appease her and enjoy this, it’s boring as fuck. The wedding is still over a year away, but Bridgitte went into planning mode the second I slipped the ring on her finger.
“Here, try this one,” she says, smiling sweetly as she holds up a tiny square of what looks like a heavily frosted sponge. It has a bright yellow hue to it and when I put it in my mouth I nearly gag.
“It’s lemon,” I sputter out, looking around for a glass of water, a napkin, anything to get rid of the taste. “I hate lemon.”
“I didn’t know that,” she says, looking down at the leftover piece on the plate. When she looks back at me, her eyes are turned down and I see the beginning of tears form. I’m being a dickhead. This is important to her and I’m ruining the experience. “We don’t want the lemon,” she tells the man helping us, immediately passing him the plate and shaking her head quickly.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, but I’m not sure what more to say. I can’t tell her why I’m short with her, why I’m always distracted and that the thought of marrying her scares the shit out of me and not for the reasons most people would think. I’m terrified to marry her because what if…
“It’s okay. We can try this another day when you’re not so,” she pauses, trying to find the right words. She’s thoughtful like that. She wouldn’t dare come out and call me an asshole, insensitive or a prick, which is what I deserve. “Distracted,” she adds, plastering on a fake smile to mask the fact that she’s hurt.
I can’t stand that I’ve upset her and the look on her face is killing me. I don’t want to be like this and there are times I wish I could erase Nora from my memory. It would make things so much easier.
“No, no,” I tell Bridgitte, my hand reaching across the small table and lacing my fingers with hers. “Let’s finish this. I’m sorry I wasn’t fully present.”
She gives me a look that says she’s unsure, but eventually she caves and smiles back at me. I wonder how long we can go on like this? Eventually she’ll grow tired of my behavior. I know I would.
But, like the last time something like this happened, we move on quickly, forgetting she puts in far more effort than I do.
We settle on chocolate and to be honest, I can’t taste the difference between any of them, but Bridgitte seems happy.
Walking hand in hand back to the car, the warm August air is humid and electric, with the smell of rain looming. I suggest we stop for a quick lunch before we head back to work, but Bridgitte nixes my suggestion claiming she’s stuffed from all the cake.
I’m not even certain that’s possible given we each ate only four bite-sized pieces, but I’m not going to argue with her. And anyway, she’s so picky it’s impossible to find a place to her liking on such short notice.
The ride back to Bridgitte’s office is slow and tedious. The traffic is brutal even in the middle of the day, and as we ride in silence, I hear Bridgitte begin to fidget in her seat and let out a few suggestive sighs. She turns on the radio and flips through a few stations, but none are to her satisfaction. She turns it off and lets out a long huff before flipping her hair over her shoulder and focusing her eyes out the side window.