The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)

-SCARLET-

WHEN I SAW Bridger again on Tuesday, he was pale and quiet. “Are you okay?” I asked him during Calculus.

“I feel off,” he said. “Though it might be nothing.”

But then, after music theory, he was still looking peaked. “I don’t think I can do lunch,” he said. “My head is killing me.”

“I have ibuprofen in my room,” I offered. “Do you want a couple?”

He sighed. “You know, that would be great.”

Bridger climbed the Vanderberg stairs at half his usual speed. He sat on my bed, and I brought him a cup of water and two pills. “You look exhausted,” I said as he swallowed them. “If you put your head down for a few minutes, I promise not to jump you.”

His smile was weak. “I shouldn’t be here, Scarlet. There’s a 24-hour bug going around. I wouldn’t want you to catch it. Christ…” his eyes closed. Even as I watched, he grew paler. “Fuck a duck,” he said. Then he stood up and strode purposely out of the room. I heard the bathroom door open and shut. He didn’t return right away, although I heard the plumbing groan as he flushed the toilet a couple of times.

Eventually, he walked slowly back into the room, his face a gray color.

“You poor thing,” I said. “Is there anything I can get you?”

He shook his head. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” I said. “But you don’t look like somebody who’s ready to dash out of here. Give yourself a minute.”

He nodded, miserable. “I’ll just rest for a sec.” He slumped onto my bed, his head at the wrong end, his knees tucked up as if someone had punched him in the gut. He was the picture of misery.

“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” I said, taking my laptop into the common room.

Our suite was quiet that afternoon. So when Bridger began to snore, I could hear him. I lost myself in some research for my history paper until his watch began to beep. But unlike every other time, he didn’t shut it off. I got up and tiptoed to the threshold of the bedroom. He lay there asleep, his strong chest rising and falling while the timer complained.

There was no way that boy was going to make it to work — not in that state. I just couldn’t make myself wake him. And as I stood there hesitating, the alarm gave up too, silencing itself.

I went back to my homework. But thirty minutes later there was a groan from the bedroom. I heard a rustle, and then Bridger sprinted through the common room and into the bathroom again. Once more came the probable sounds of abdominal dismay, the flushing and washing and spitting. When he came back in, I opened my mouth to ask him if there was anything I could do. But that’s when he looked at his watch. “Shit!” he cursed. He stumbled back into my bedroom and fumbled with his backpack.

“Bridger,” I started. “You can’t go to work like that.” I stood in the doorway watching him saddle up. “Your hands are shaking.”

“No choice,” he said. He rose to his feet unsteadily.

When he came to the door, I was in his way. Putting my hands on his chest, I made him look me in the eye. “Stop,” I said. “Give yourself a break.”

“Let me go, Scarlet.” The cold sound in his voice was nothing I’d heard before. “I’m so very late, and it’s not okay. I have to run. Literally.”

Chastened, I moved out of the way. “Can I drop you anywhere at least? My car is just across Chapel.” I didn’t expect him to take me up on it. But I had to offer, if it was so effing crucial that he get to work. I’m the one who let his alarm go off without waking him.

He surprised me. “Could you? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

I grabbed my keys off the desk and plucked my coat off the chair. “Let’s go.”

“This is your car?” Bridger asked.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“You drive a brand new Porsche Cayenne with a turbo engine? In Harkness?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice testy. “But only if you tell me where to drive it.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Make a right. Please.”

The tone he took made me want to cry. He’s just grumpy because he’s sick, I coached myself. And stressed out about work.

There was no way for me to explain to Bridger that the car was just another farce in my life. I’d overheard my parents’ lawyer advising them to put assets in my name. In New Hampshire, I’d driven an aging Toyota Camry. But when my mother told me which car they’d picked out for me to keep at school, I wasn’t exactly shocked. The Porsche was a way for them to hide something like seventy thousand dollars from the families who would eventually sue my father in civil court.

I could either explain this to Bridger, or merely let him think I was ridiculously wealthy and out of touch.

Is it all that surprising that I chose the latter?

Bridger’s face was still a ghostly color as he directed me toward a distant corner of town. We were in a residential area, where old wooden houses sat close together. Some of their porches sagged under the weight of time, while others had been spiffed up within the last century.

“Just let me out here, thanks,” Bridger said stiffly.

“Bridge, there’s nothing here,” I complained. “Except these houses. And that school.”

Oh.

The school.

Bridger put his hand on the door, but I accelerated. I followed the U-shaped driveway of the elementary school, remembering the little girl with the pink bike helmet. When I came to a stop in front of the glass doors, Bridger opened the passenger door and got out without a word. At that moment, one of the doors opened up and the little girl with the chestnut ponytail came flying out.

He shut the car door behind him, but I could still hear their voices. “I’m sorry I’m late!” he said, his arms wide. She ran to him, and I saw his body sway from the impact as she flew into his midriff. He steadied himself.

“Everyone else was gone!” the little girl said. “Mrs. Rose waited with me.”

“I’m so sorry, Lulu. I’m not feeling well, and I fell asleep.”

“Oh NO!” she said. “You got it too?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry.”

“You can throw up on my shoe, and then we’ll be even.”

“If I throw up on both your shoes, do I win?”

She giggled, and tugged on his hand. “I’ll get my bike.”

When she skipped toward the bike rack, Bridger turned around. He mouthed thank you into the window of her car, and gave me a little wave. Slowly, he walked toward the little girl, who was putting on a bike helmet. I took my foot off the brake and idled the SUV around the school’s drive circle. At the stop sign, I braked again, and put on my blinker. Even though there was nobody coming, I waited.

A minute later, the little girl rode up to the corner and stopped. One foot on the ground, she turned back.

I watched in the rear view mirror as Bridger walked toward the corner, his gait painfully slow. He forced a smile onto his face, but his misery was evident. When finally he approached, I put my car in park. Then I pressed the button which automatically raised the tailgate door of my overpriced car. I gave the horn one minuscule beep.

He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me. Then he limped over to the car. I lowered the passenger side window. “Bridger, put the bike in the back.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re being a dumbass.’

He leaned on the door of my car, not because he wanted to but because he needed the rest. “I don’t take help from people,” he said. “Even you, Scarlet. But I have good reasons.”

“I’m sure they’re excellent,” I hissed. “But unless you want her to watch you pass out on the sidewalk, get in the damned car.”

His eyes slid closed from exhaustion. When they opened again, he turned to the little girl. She’d been watching us the entire time. “Come here, Lucy,” he said. “My friend is going to give us a ride.”

“Let me get it,” I said, hefting the bike. Bridger was done arguing. He opened the back door, and after the little girl climbed in, he slid in next to her.

“I’m so sorry, Lulu,” he said as I got back behind the wheel. “You must have been freaking out.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Mrs. Rose told me some knock-knock jokes.” Her voice sounded little, reminding me of a Muppet. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Home,” Bridger said.

“Which is…?” I asked.

“Beaumont House,” he said stiffly.

“Seriously?” I swiveled around to face him.

He gave me one sad nod and then looked out the window.

No freaking way. He was keeping a child in the dormitory? That broke about ten different rules. I stole another glance into the rear view mirror.

He had leaned back, his head against the headrest, his eyes screwed shut. “Homework?” he inquired.

“Just a math sheet. And spelling words for Friday.”

“That’s it?” He squirmed uncomfortably against the leather.

“Yup!”

“God is merciful. How was the day?”

“Gregory pinched me, but then he got caught! And Mrs. Rose made him write ‘I will not pinch’ on the board. And it was library day, and I got an American Girl book out. A new one.”

“Awesome,” he said.

The drive was only a few minutes long, but that was long enough to break my heart into pieces listening to the two of them.

“Did you like the bananas on your peanut butter sandwich?” he asked.

“Yep. What are we going to call that one?”

“The… monkey nutter?”

“Hmm…” she considered. “Maybe. I’ll have to think about it.”

Bridger wouldn’t look me in the eye when I got the bike out of the back.

“Hope you feel better,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said stiffly.

“Let me know, okay?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked slowly toward the courtyard gate, where the little girl waited, still wearing her pink bike helmet.

That night, I was supposed to be working through a problem set for statistics. But my head was swirling with questions about what I’d seen.

Lulu had to be Bridger’s sister, or maybe his niece. They looked so much alike. From the looks I’d snuck at her, she would be about eight or nine years old.

As manly as Bridger was, it seemed unlikely that he’d conceived a child at age twelve.

My phone buzzed at ten-thirty, and I was relieved to see that the text was from Bridger. You still up? He asked.

I dialed him. “Hi,” I said carefully when he answered.

“Hi,” he whispered. No wonder his voice was always hushed when I spoke to him at night. Because he wasn’t alone in the room.

“She’s your little sister,” I guessed.

“Yes, she is.”

He didn’t volunteer anything more, but I wasn’t ready to let it drop. “You don’t drive a forklift at night, do you? You’re home with her.”

“You have it all figured out.” His voice was so soft that I almost couldn’t hear. “Well, go ahead. Tell me I’m a prick for lying to you.”

My eyes were instantly hot. “I’m not going to say that. You told me you had good reasons, and now I know it’s true. You’re afraid of getting caught by the college.”

“Scarlet, It’s not just the college. My life is a house of cards. It’s her school, and most of all child protective services. I don’t have custody.”

My heart contracted. “Where are your parents?”

“Our dad died three years ago. And Mom is indisposed.”

“Indisposed to take care of her daughter?”

“Indisposed to stop manufacturing crystal meth on her dining table.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

“Exactly.” His voice in my ear was warm and lovely, in spite of our depressing conversation.

“So you took her in.”

“No other choice,” he said. “It was either me or child protective services. And I’m not sending her away.”

“She’d go to a foster home?”

“Right. And some of them are… I shouldn’t really talk about this right now.”

I blew out a breath. “Is your stomach feeling any better?”

“I’ll live. Haven’t thrown up for about four hours.”

“Oh, Bridger. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“You know…” He probably just wanted me to drop it. But I couldn’t help myself. “I wouldn’t have told a soul.”

He sighed into the phone. “I know that, Scarlet. That’s not why I didn’t tell you. With you, I just don’t want to be that guy. That guy with all the issues.”

That made me suck in a breath. Because I’d done exactly the same thing — made exactly the same choice. He didn’t know a thing about me, because I didn’t want to be that girl.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Does that make sense?”

“It makes more sense than you’ll ever know,” I said.

I didn’t know if I’d see Bridger in class on Thursday, but he came in right on time, flopping into the seat next to mine. Wordlessly, I put my hand on his lap, palm up. And he took it, stroking my thumb with his.

“You take her to school in the morning?” I asked quietly.

He nodded. “She starts at eight thirty, which is why I gave myself nine o’clock classes every day of the week.”

“She’s so cute,” I said, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, she is.” He squeezed back. “What are you up to this weekend?”

“I’m writing my psychology paper. And probably watching some fascinating reruns of Dancing with the Stars. You?”

“I’m doing a bunch of chemistry homework. And attending a fascinating puppet show at the public library.”

As always, it was a struggle to tear my eyes away from his handsome face when the professor began class at the front of the room.

“I’m sorry to keep asking questions,” I said later, picking at my salad in the student center.

“Fire away,” he sighed. “Like I said, I didn’t want to be that guy. But I am that guy. And it’s a relief not to lie to you anymore.” He took a bite of his burrito.

I love you, I thought, watching him, happy to see him eating again. Out loud I said “so, what brought about The Most Pointless Night Ever?”

He laughed. “That is an excellent question. Okay, so Lucy was invited to a birthday party, and she was so excited. And I got her over to the other little girl’s house right on time, with a wrapped gift — just like you’re supposed to.”

He flashed me one of his killer smiles, and my heart melted a little more, just thinking about this hunky guy wrapping up a nine-year-old’s party gift.

“…But when I got there, the mom says, ‘where’s her sleeping bag?’” Bridger put a hand to his forehead. “It was supposed to be a sleepover. And I’m totally on the spot, because I didn’t read the invitation carefully. And the mom is like ‘never mind, she can use one of ours, she can borrow pajamas.’ So I looked like an ass. But then all of a sudden I was alone for the night.”

I shook my head, as if I could erase the whole debacle. “Could we bribe that mom into giving another slumber party?”

“Believe me, I had the same thought.” His green eyes flashed at me.

“How do you keep your grades up?” I asked.

“That’s actually the easy part. Because I’m home every night in a silent room from eight o’clock on. I have a clip-on light I use on my books, or I work on my computer.”

“What’s the hard part?”

He shrugged. “Hiding her. If I didn’t have to hide her, nothing would be all that difficult. And the money. Feeding her isn’t expensive, but when the spring term ends, I’ll have to find us some place to live.”

“There must be people in your entryway who have noticed that she’s around all the time.”

“Oh, there are,” he said, swigging back some milk. “The guy across the fire door from me is the only one who knows the whole truth. He’s propped the door open a couple times when I’ve had to run out at night, babysitting for me.”

“That’s handy,” I said. Fire doors were a strange feature of the Harkness dorms. They were unlocked, wooden doors connecting one room to another, so that every room had two means of egress.

“The guys on my floor — there’s three of them — they’ve seen her in the bathroom too many times not to notice. I tell them ‘she’s visiting,’ but they’re probably not stupid. Luckily, nobody seems to care.”

“It’s not like she’s throwing loud parties.”

His smile was rueful. “I actually make her be quiet. Even if she’s singing some happy little third grade tune, I tell her to keep it down. It’s like she’s in prison.”

I felt a pit in my stomach. “How long can you keep this up, Bridger?”

From the exhaustion on his face, I knew I’d asked the toughest question. “As long as I need to. If I lived off campus, I wouldn’t be afraid to be caught all the time. But I have a full ride at Harkness, and that pays for the dorm, not an apartment.”

“And there’s no such thing as a part-time student here.”

He shook his head. “No such thing. So, I already did the math on transferring to UConn. But it would cost so much more. You might not know this, but nobody does financial aid like Harkness. And they give me the full package, because they get to check a box next to my name under ‘local success story.’ Seriously, they care about that. The city keeps track of how many locals they let in.”

I could only shake my head. “You amaze me. You have so much more on your shoulders than most people.”

“Don’t be too impressed. If the wrong administrator wanders by my dorm room while she’s singing along with Frozen, I could be out on the street.”

I put my hand on his wrist. “What can I do to help you?”

He winced. “Nothing, Scarlet. It’s my mess to deal with.” He reached across the table, catching my hand in his larger one. “Just be with me, okay?”

“That’s easy.” I squeezed his hand.