She’s laughing at me.
Figures.
I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She’s covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She’s laughing so hard that her body is shaking.
I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I’m not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel, I can’t stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter.
She finally looks at me. She’s no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. “You’re insane, Warren.” She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I’m not smiling is making her uncomfortable.
“Why am I insane?”
“Because,” she says. “Who throws that big a fit over holding someone’s hand?”
I don’t move a muscle. “You do, Bridgette.”
The smile slowly leaves her face, because she knows I’m right. She knows that she’s the one who made a big deal out of holding hands. It was me who wanted to show her how easy it was.
We both look down at our hands as I slowly pry my fingers away from hers and release my grip. The light turns green as I grab the steering wheel and press on the gas. “You sure do know how to make a guy feel like shit, Bridgette.”
I give my full attention back to the road and rest my left elbow on the window. I cover my mouth with my hand, squeezing the stress out of my jaw.
We make it three blocks.
Three blocks is all it takes for her to do the most considerate thing she’s ever done for me since the moment I met her.
She reaches to the steering wheel and takes my hand. She pulls it to her lap and slides her fingers between mine. She doesn’t stop there, though. Her right hand slides over the top of my hand and she strokes it. She strokes my fingers and the top of my hand and my wrist and back down to my fingers. She stares out her window the whole time, but I can feel her. I can feel her speaking to me and holding me and making love to me, all in the motion of her hands.
And I smile the entire way to my sister’s house.
• • •
“Is she older or younger than you?” Bridgette asks when I turn off the ignition.
“Ten years older.”
We both exit the car and begin walking toward the house. I didn’t ask her to come with me, but the fact that she didn’t wait in the car is proof that another wall has been torn down between us.
I walk up the steps, but before I knock on the door, I turn and face her. “What do you want me to introduce you as?” I ask her. “Roommate? Friend? Girlfriend?”
She glances away and shrugs. “I don’t care, really. Just don’t make it weird.”
I smile and knock on the door. I immediately hear tiny footsteps and squealing and things falling and shit, I forget how crazy it is over here. I probably should have warned her.
The door swings open and my nephew, Brody, jumps up and down. “Uncle Warren!” he yells, clapping his hands. I open the screen door, set the package my mother sent for my sister on the floor and immediately swoop Brody up. “Where’s your mom?”
He points across the living room. “In the kitchen,” he says. His hand meets my cheek and he makes me face him. “Wanna play dead?”
I nod and set him down on the carpet. I motion for Bridgette to follow me inside, and then I fake stab Brody in the chest. He falls to the floor in a dramatic display of defeat.
Bridgette and I both stand over him as he writhes in pain. His body convulses a few times and then his head falls limp to the carpet.
“He dies better than any four-year-old I’ve ever seen,” I say to Bridgette.
She nods, still staring down at him. “I’m in awe,” she says.
“Brody!” my sister yells from the kitchen. “Is that Warren?”
I begin walking in the direction of the kitchen and Bridgette follows me. When I round the corner, Whitney has Conner on her hip and she’s stirring something on the stove with her other arm.
“Brody’s dead, but yeah, it’s me,” I say to her.
As soon as Whitney glances at me, cries come from the baby monitor next to the stove. She sighs, exasperated, and motions for me to come to the stove. I walk over to her and take the spoon from her hands. “It has to be stirred for at least another minute, then remove the burner from the pan.”
Figures.
I slowly tilt my head in her direction, giving her a sidelong glance. She’s covering her mouth with her free hand, trying not to laugh, but she is. She’s laughing so hard that her body is shaking.
I have no idea what she finds so funny, but I’m not laughing with her. And as much as I want to turn away and punch the steering wheel, I can’t stop watching her. I watch the tears form at the corners of her eyes, and I watch her chest heave when she attempts to catch her breath. I watch her lick her lips as she tries to stop herself from smiling so much. I watch her run her free hand through her hair as she sighs, coming down from her fit of laughter.
She finally looks at me. She’s no longer laughing, but the residue is still there. The smile is still on her mouth and her cheeks are still a shade pinker than normal, and her mascara is smudged at the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, keeping her focus on me. “You’re insane, Warren.” She laughs again, but only for a second. The fact that I’m not smiling is making her uncomfortable.
“Why am I insane?”
“Because,” she says. “Who throws that big a fit over holding someone’s hand?”
I don’t move a muscle. “You do, Bridgette.”
The smile slowly leaves her face, because she knows I’m right. She knows that she’s the one who made a big deal out of holding hands. It was me who wanted to show her how easy it was.
We both look down at our hands as I slowly pry my fingers away from hers and release my grip. The light turns green as I grab the steering wheel and press on the gas. “You sure do know how to make a guy feel like shit, Bridgette.”
I give my full attention back to the road and rest my left elbow on the window. I cover my mouth with my hand, squeezing the stress out of my jaw.
We make it three blocks.
Three blocks is all it takes for her to do the most considerate thing she’s ever done for me since the moment I met her.
She reaches to the steering wheel and takes my hand. She pulls it to her lap and slides her fingers between mine. She doesn’t stop there, though. Her right hand slides over the top of my hand and she strokes it. She strokes my fingers and the top of my hand and my wrist and back down to my fingers. She stares out her window the whole time, but I can feel her. I can feel her speaking to me and holding me and making love to me, all in the motion of her hands.
And I smile the entire way to my sister’s house.
• • •
“Is she older or younger than you?” Bridgette asks when I turn off the ignition.
“Ten years older.”
We both exit the car and begin walking toward the house. I didn’t ask her to come with me, but the fact that she didn’t wait in the car is proof that another wall has been torn down between us.
I walk up the steps, but before I knock on the door, I turn and face her. “What do you want me to introduce you as?” I ask her. “Roommate? Friend? Girlfriend?”
She glances away and shrugs. “I don’t care, really. Just don’t make it weird.”
I smile and knock on the door. I immediately hear tiny footsteps and squealing and things falling and shit, I forget how crazy it is over here. I probably should have warned her.
The door swings open and my nephew, Brody, jumps up and down. “Uncle Warren!” he yells, clapping his hands. I open the screen door, set the package my mother sent for my sister on the floor and immediately swoop Brody up. “Where’s your mom?”
He points across the living room. “In the kitchen,” he says. His hand meets my cheek and he makes me face him. “Wanna play dead?”
I nod and set him down on the carpet. I motion for Bridgette to follow me inside, and then I fake stab Brody in the chest. He falls to the floor in a dramatic display of defeat.
Bridgette and I both stand over him as he writhes in pain. His body convulses a few times and then his head falls limp to the carpet.
“He dies better than any four-year-old I’ve ever seen,” I say to Bridgette.
She nods, still staring down at him. “I’m in awe,” she says.
“Brody!” my sister yells from the kitchen. “Is that Warren?”
I begin walking in the direction of the kitchen and Bridgette follows me. When I round the corner, Whitney has Conner on her hip and she’s stirring something on the stove with her other arm.
“Brody’s dead, but yeah, it’s me,” I say to her.
As soon as Whitney glances at me, cries come from the baby monitor next to the stove. She sighs, exasperated, and motions for me to come to the stove. I walk over to her and take the spoon from her hands. “It has to be stirred for at least another minute, then remove the burner from the pan.”
