Page 17 of Spring Break with a Bass Player
“I’m serious. It’s nice and it’s fun but I don’tneed itto survive. I’ll always have the music, and I’ll keep making music even if it’s in my garage.”
“You know how I love that.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Do you feel better?”
“No,” she sighs, and even though I’m relieved, it’s not enough to erase the last couple of hours. “I thought you would’ve put up more of a fight tonight.”
“Saige, I’ve been fighting for you since the day I fucked up our date.”
I’ve been fighting for months.
“And I’m sorry about that.” I’m not sure if she’s sorry for her or me, but when I don’t answer, she adds, “I’m going to go home.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to…” Her sentence trails off as I set my beer down on the patio and push to stand before leading her toward the gate and holding it open.
Just one thing left to do.
11
SAIGE
“Thanks for walking me home,” I say, pushing my nerves away as Bridger shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and rocks back on his heels.
He’s awkward and unsettled, the lightness in his eyes absent as he looks at me and then looks away. “Sure.”
“Bridger, I?—”
“Listen,” he says, cutting me off, the single word so much heavier than I anticipated, “I appreciate you sharing what you did, but maybe it’s best if we just figure out how to be neighbors—be civil and all that while I’m here.”
While I’m here.
Swallowing hard, I stand a little taller and force myself to say the words. “I don’t want to just be your neighbor.”
He shrugs. “I don’t like games so I’m done chasing you. I don’t want to be the guy you’re constantly wondering about when I’m on stage. I don’t want to defend myself because you can’t get over something that happened in your past. I won’t be some stereotype.” Pulling his hands from his pockets, he drags them down his face, his expression almost pained when he says, “And honestly, Saige, I’m fucking hurt. But that’s my problem. Ithought you’d seemebut you don’t. And it’s fine…and we’re all good so, goodnight, I guess.”
He takes a step back and then another, and my heart hammers in my chest. “Then it’s my turn.”
“Your turn for what?”
“To chase you.” The words sort of tumble out, but I don’t want to take them back.
Bridger snorts. “Why?” He spreads his arms wide. “Why now?”
Closing the distance between us, I resist the urge to touch him, to fist his shirt in my hands and pull him close. “Because I didn’t trust myself and I still don’t know if I do now, but”—I don’t look away—“that’s my problem.”
“Doesn’t that just mean that we’re not right for each other?” he says, his voice low and a little husky. “Why bother if it’s just going to crash and burn?”
I open my mouth and then close it again, blinking hard to keep my traitorous tears at bay, the realization hitting that I’d been too stubborn—too scared—to take a chance on something real with the man in front of me. I’d been a bitch, tonight especially, when all he’d ever been was nice.
“I’m sorry I hurt you tonight. And I’m sorry I didn’t know how to say yes,” I whisper, unable to meet his gaze.I’m sorry I was too cold, too broken and jaded to try again.
“Dammit, don't cry.” He sighs, his hand reaching for me as I swipe the lone tear away, embarrassment joining self-loathing and shame in the pit of my stomach. He shouldn’t see me like this.
“I’m not.”
“Saige.”
