I stare at her a moment, wondering why she would think I’m okay with that. I realize I was also a Tori at a very short point during mine and Ridge’s friendship, but as mad as I am at Hunter and as mad as Maggie must have been at Ridge, there are few betrayals on earth that hurt worse than the betrayal of your very best friend. She’s the person I shared my life with. A home with. All my secrets with. And the entire time we lived together, she was betraying me on a daily basis.
I don’t want coffee with her. I don’t even want to be outside chatting with her, acting like she didn’t break my heart with ten times the strength that Hunter ever could.
I shake my head. “I don’t think coffee is a good idea.” I choose to walk around the back of her car so that I don’t have to get even closer to her. Before I head for the stairs, I look up at her. “You really hurt me, Tori. More than Hunter ever could have. But I still think you deserve better than a man who doesn’t even bother to come down and help you carry up groceries.”
I walk away and run up the stairs, away from her, away from that smelly car, and away from the sad reality that she still hasn’t found happiness yet. I wonder if she ever will.
I walk inside the apartment, and Brennan is on the couch with his guitar. He nods his head toward Ridge’s room. When I open the door to Ridge’s bedroom, he’s lying across the bed on his stomach, hugging a pillow. I walk over to him, but he’s asleep. I know he’s had a long twenty-four hours, so I don’t bother waking him. I let him rest.
Brennan is at the table now, playing the song he and Ridge just wrote. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. There’s only enough left for one glass. Bridgette and I really tore through their stash. Ridge is probably going to start keeping the wine in a Windex bottle.
“Sydney?”
I turn toward Brennan, and he’s hugging his guitar, his chin resting on it. “I’m really hungry. Do you think you can make me a grilled cheese?”
I laugh as soon as the question comes out of his mouth. But then I realize he’s serious. “You’re asking me to make you a sandwich?”
“It’s been a long day, and I don’t know how to cook. Ridge always cooks for me when I’m over here.”
“Oh, my God. How old are you? Twelve?”
“Transpose those numbers and you’ve got your answer.”
I roll my eyes and open the refrigerator to take out the cheese. “I can’t believe I’m making you a sandwich. I feel like I’m disappointing every female that has ever fought for our equality.”
“It only counts against feminism when you make your man a sandwich. It doesn’t count if it’s just a friend.”
“Well, we won’t even be friends if you think you can ask me to cook for you every time you visit your brother.”
Brennan smiles and turns back toward his guitar. He starts strumming it to a tune I haven’t heard from him before. Then he starts to sing.
Cheddar, swiss, provolone. That is where I feel at home.
Slap that cheese on some bread. I like it more than getting head.
Grilled cheese,
Grilled cheese,
Grilled cheese from Sydney.
Blake. Not Australia.
I’m laughing at his impressive improv abilities, even though it was a terrible song. He’s obviously just as talented as Ridge is. He just suppresses it for some reason.
He sets his guitar on the table and walks over to the bar. He grabs a paper towel and places it in front of him. I guess that’s the extent of his sandwich prep.
“Do you even have trouble writing lyrics? Or do you pretend you can’t write because of your guilt?”
“What would I have to feel guilty for?” Brennan asks, taking his seat at the bar.
“Just a hunch, but I think you hate that you were born with the ability to hear, but Ridge wasn’t. So you pretend you need him more than you actually do. Because you love him.” I flip the grilled cheese over. Brennan doesn’t respond right away, so I know I have him pegged.
“Does Ridge think that, too?”
I face him full-on. “I don’t think so. I think he loves writing lyrics for you. I’m not telling you to stop pretending you don’t know how to write lyrics as well as he can. I’m just saying I understand why you do it.”
Brennan smiles, relieved. “You’re smart, Sydney. You really should consider doing more with your life than just making sandwiches for hungry men.”
I laugh and pick up his sandwich with the spatula. I drop it on the paper towel in front of him. “You’re right. I quit.”
He takes a bite, right as the front door opens. Bridgette walks in holding a sack, wearing her Hooters uniform and a scowl. She sees us in the kitchen and nods, then walks to her room and slams the door. “Did she just nod her head at you?” Brennan asks. “That was an oddly nice gesture that didn’t include a middle finger. Does she not hate you anymore?”
“Nah. We’re practically best friends now.” I start to clean the kitchen, but Bridgette yells my name from her bathroom. Brennan raises an eyebrow, like he’s worried for me. I walk toward her bathroom and can hear a lot of commotion. When I open the door, she grabs my wrist and pulls me inside and then slams the door shut. She turns toward the counter and begins dumping out the contents of her sack into her sink.
My eyes go wide when I see five unopened boxes of pregnancy tests. Bridgette starts frantically ripping into one and hands me another. “Hurry,” she says. “I have to get this over with before I freak out!” She pulls a stick out of the box and then grabs another one to open.
“I think one is enough to indicate if you’re pregnant.”
She shakes her head. “I have to be sure I’m not pregnant or I won’t sleep until I have twelve periods.”
I have two of the tests open, and she rips a third one open, then grabs a mouthwash cup from next to the sink and rinses it out. She pulls down her shorts and sits on the toilet.
“Did you even read the instructions? Are you supposed to pee in an unsanitized cup?”
She ignores me and begins peeing in the cup. When she’s finished, she sets it on the counter. “Dip them!” she says.
I stare at her cup of pee and shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
She flushes the toilet and pulls her shorts up, then shoves me out of the way. She dips all five sticks into the cup at once and holds them there. Then she pulls them out and lays them all on a towel.
This is all happening so fast, I’m not sure I’ve had time to process the thought that we’re about to find out if Bridgette is going to be a mother. Or whether Warren is going to be a father.
“Do either of you even want kids?” I ask.
Bridgette shakes her head adamantly. “Not even a little bit. If I’m pregnant, you can have it.”
I don’t want it. My idea of Hell is having a child comprised of pieces of Warren and Bridgette.
“Bridgette!” Warren yells, right before the front door slams shut. Bridgette cringes. The bathroom door swings open, and I suddenly don’t feel like I should be in here anymore. “You can’t text me something like that in the middle of my study group and then ignore me when I call you back!”
Warren…in study group? I laugh, but my laughter causes both of them to turn their glares on me. “Sorry. I just can’t picture Warren in a study group.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s a mandatory group project.” He turns his attention back on Bridgette. “Why do you think you’re pregnant? You’re on the pill.”
“Pickles,” she says, as if that’s a good explanation. “I stole three pickles off my customers’ plates tonight and I hate pickles. But all I can think about are pickles!” She turns back toward the pregnancy tests and picks one up, but it hasn’t been long enough yet.
“Pickles?” Warren says, flabbergasted. “Jesus Christ. I thought this was serious. But you craved a fucking pickle.”
Warren is stuck on pickles, but I’m still stuck on the idea of Warren in a study group. “When do you graduate?” I ask him.
“Two months.”
I don’t want coffee with her. I don’t even want to be outside chatting with her, acting like she didn’t break my heart with ten times the strength that Hunter ever could.
I shake my head. “I don’t think coffee is a good idea.” I choose to walk around the back of her car so that I don’t have to get even closer to her. Before I head for the stairs, I look up at her. “You really hurt me, Tori. More than Hunter ever could have. But I still think you deserve better than a man who doesn’t even bother to come down and help you carry up groceries.”
I walk away and run up the stairs, away from her, away from that smelly car, and away from the sad reality that she still hasn’t found happiness yet. I wonder if she ever will.
I walk inside the apartment, and Brennan is on the couch with his guitar. He nods his head toward Ridge’s room. When I open the door to Ridge’s bedroom, he’s lying across the bed on his stomach, hugging a pillow. I walk over to him, but he’s asleep. I know he’s had a long twenty-four hours, so I don’t bother waking him. I let him rest.
Brennan is at the table now, playing the song he and Ridge just wrote. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. There’s only enough left for one glass. Bridgette and I really tore through their stash. Ridge is probably going to start keeping the wine in a Windex bottle.
“Sydney?”
I turn toward Brennan, and he’s hugging his guitar, his chin resting on it. “I’m really hungry. Do you think you can make me a grilled cheese?”
I laugh as soon as the question comes out of his mouth. But then I realize he’s serious. “You’re asking me to make you a sandwich?”
“It’s been a long day, and I don’t know how to cook. Ridge always cooks for me when I’m over here.”
“Oh, my God. How old are you? Twelve?”
“Transpose those numbers and you’ve got your answer.”
I roll my eyes and open the refrigerator to take out the cheese. “I can’t believe I’m making you a sandwich. I feel like I’m disappointing every female that has ever fought for our equality.”
“It only counts against feminism when you make your man a sandwich. It doesn’t count if it’s just a friend.”
“Well, we won’t even be friends if you think you can ask me to cook for you every time you visit your brother.”
Brennan smiles and turns back toward his guitar. He starts strumming it to a tune I haven’t heard from him before. Then he starts to sing.
Cheddar, swiss, provolone. That is where I feel at home.
Slap that cheese on some bread. I like it more than getting head.
Grilled cheese,
Grilled cheese,
Grilled cheese from Sydney.
Blake. Not Australia.
I’m laughing at his impressive improv abilities, even though it was a terrible song. He’s obviously just as talented as Ridge is. He just suppresses it for some reason.
He sets his guitar on the table and walks over to the bar. He grabs a paper towel and places it in front of him. I guess that’s the extent of his sandwich prep.
“Do you even have trouble writing lyrics? Or do you pretend you can’t write because of your guilt?”
“What would I have to feel guilty for?” Brennan asks, taking his seat at the bar.
“Just a hunch, but I think you hate that you were born with the ability to hear, but Ridge wasn’t. So you pretend you need him more than you actually do. Because you love him.” I flip the grilled cheese over. Brennan doesn’t respond right away, so I know I have him pegged.
“Does Ridge think that, too?”
I face him full-on. “I don’t think so. I think he loves writing lyrics for you. I’m not telling you to stop pretending you don’t know how to write lyrics as well as he can. I’m just saying I understand why you do it.”
Brennan smiles, relieved. “You’re smart, Sydney. You really should consider doing more with your life than just making sandwiches for hungry men.”
I laugh and pick up his sandwich with the spatula. I drop it on the paper towel in front of him. “You’re right. I quit.”
He takes a bite, right as the front door opens. Bridgette walks in holding a sack, wearing her Hooters uniform and a scowl. She sees us in the kitchen and nods, then walks to her room and slams the door. “Did she just nod her head at you?” Brennan asks. “That was an oddly nice gesture that didn’t include a middle finger. Does she not hate you anymore?”
“Nah. We’re practically best friends now.” I start to clean the kitchen, but Bridgette yells my name from her bathroom. Brennan raises an eyebrow, like he’s worried for me. I walk toward her bathroom and can hear a lot of commotion. When I open the door, she grabs my wrist and pulls me inside and then slams the door shut. She turns toward the counter and begins dumping out the contents of her sack into her sink.
My eyes go wide when I see five unopened boxes of pregnancy tests. Bridgette starts frantically ripping into one and hands me another. “Hurry,” she says. “I have to get this over with before I freak out!” She pulls a stick out of the box and then grabs another one to open.
“I think one is enough to indicate if you’re pregnant.”
She shakes her head. “I have to be sure I’m not pregnant or I won’t sleep until I have twelve periods.”
I have two of the tests open, and she rips a third one open, then grabs a mouthwash cup from next to the sink and rinses it out. She pulls down her shorts and sits on the toilet.
“Did you even read the instructions? Are you supposed to pee in an unsanitized cup?”
She ignores me and begins peeing in the cup. When she’s finished, she sets it on the counter. “Dip them!” she says.
I stare at her cup of pee and shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
She flushes the toilet and pulls her shorts up, then shoves me out of the way. She dips all five sticks into the cup at once and holds them there. Then she pulls them out and lays them all on a towel.
This is all happening so fast, I’m not sure I’ve had time to process the thought that we’re about to find out if Bridgette is going to be a mother. Or whether Warren is going to be a father.
“Do either of you even want kids?” I ask.
Bridgette shakes her head adamantly. “Not even a little bit. If I’m pregnant, you can have it.”
I don’t want it. My idea of Hell is having a child comprised of pieces of Warren and Bridgette.
“Bridgette!” Warren yells, right before the front door slams shut. Bridgette cringes. The bathroom door swings open, and I suddenly don’t feel like I should be in here anymore. “You can’t text me something like that in the middle of my study group and then ignore me when I call you back!”
Warren…in study group? I laugh, but my laughter causes both of them to turn their glares on me. “Sorry. I just can’t picture Warren in a study group.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s a mandatory group project.” He turns his attention back on Bridgette. “Why do you think you’re pregnant? You’re on the pill.”
“Pickles,” she says, as if that’s a good explanation. “I stole three pickles off my customers’ plates tonight and I hate pickles. But all I can think about are pickles!” She turns back toward the pregnancy tests and picks one up, but it hasn’t been long enough yet.
“Pickles?” Warren says, flabbergasted. “Jesus Christ. I thought this was serious. But you craved a fucking pickle.”
Warren is stuck on pickles, but I’m still stuck on the idea of Warren in a study group. “When do you graduate?” I ask him.
“Two months.”
