Yeah, okay, I think I might be a little buzzed.
Sydney: Glad Maggie is feeling okay. And Bridgette is not so bad, actually. It’s weird. Like we’re in another dimension.
Ridge: Wow. Is she having a legitimate conversation with you like a normal human?
Sydney: Normal is a stretch. But yeah. She’s mostly giving me advice about you. ;)
Ridge: That’s unsettling.
Sydney: Good. I want you to feel unsettled until I see you tomorrow.
Ridge: Don’t worry, I do feel unsettled. I feel a lot of things. I feel guilty because I left you alone. Worried that you’re sad. Lonely because I’m here and not with you. But mostly I feel grateful because you make difficult situations so much easier for everyone involved.
I bring my hand to my mouth and trace my smile. I love that he says exactly what I need to hear.
Sydney: I love you.
Bridgette: Tell Ridge goodbye. This is my time.
I glance up at Bridgette, who is looking at me with severe boredom. I laugh.
Sydney: Bridgette says I can’t talk to you anymore.
Ridge: Better do what she says. No telling what the consequences are. I love you. Goodnight. I love you. Goodnight.
Sydney: You said that twice.
Ridge: I mean it even more than that.
I close out the texts, still smiling, and then place my phone face down on the bar. Bridgette is pouring herself another glass of wine.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” she says.
“Sure.” I hop off the bar and grab the wine from her, then turn and refill my glass.
“Does he…moan?”
I spin around at that question. “Excuse me?”
Bridgette waves her hand, dismissing my shock. “Just tell me. I’ve always wondered if he makes noises during sex since he can’t hear anything.”
I choke out a laugh. “You wonder what my boyfriend sounds like during sex?”
She tilts her head and glares at me, rolling her head. “Oh, come on. Lots of people wonder that about deaf people.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m confident most people don’t wonder that, Bridgette.”
“Whatever. Just answer the question.”
She’s not going to stop. My face and neck feel flushed, but I don’t know if it’s because of all the wine or if it’s because she just asked such a personal question. I take a long drink and then nod. “He does. He moans and grunts and sighs and I don’t know why, but the fact that he’s deaf makes all his noises that much more of a turn-on.”
Bridgette grins. “That is so hot.”
“Don’t call my boyfriend’s sex noises hot.”
She shrugs. “You shouldn’t have made it sound so hot, then.” She spends the next several minutes looking up images of Jason Mamoa. And even though I’ve seen them all, she holds up her phone and shows me each one like she’s doing me a favor.
The doorbell eventually rings, and Bridgette suddenly looks happier than I’ve ever seen her look. She rushes toward the door with starved excitement, like she didn’t just eat an entire plate of Alfredo pasta two hours ago. “Grab money for a tip, Syd. I don’t have any.”
She is perfect for Warren. Absolutely perfect.
It’s the first time I’ve been to Maggie’s house since the night we broke up. It’s a little weird, but it could be worse. Warren has always had this magical ability to make sure he’s weirder than any situation ever could be. And that’s exactly what’s happening right now. He just raided Maggie’s freezer and refrigerator and is standing in her kitchen, dipping soggy microwaved fish sticks into chocolate pudding.
“You eat some of the grossest stuff,” Maggie says, opening her dishwasher.
I’m sitting on Maggie’s couch, watching them. They’re laughing, making jokes. Maggie is cleaning her kitchen as Warren messes it up. I stare at Maggie’s wrist—at the hospital bracelet still attached to it—and try not to be upset that I’m here. But I am upset. I’m annoyed. If she’s well enough to sneak out of a hospital and clean her kitchen, what am I even doing here?
Maggie grabs a paper towel and covers her mouth with it while Warren beats her on the back a few times. I noticed in the car that she was coughing a lot. Back when we were dating and I’d notice she was coughing, I would put my hand on her back or her chest to feel how bad of a cough it was. But I can’t do that anymore. All I can do is ask her if she’s okay and trust that she isn’t downplaying her health.
This coughing fit lasts for an entire minute. She probably hasn’t used her vest at all today, so I stand up and walk to her bedroom. It’s in the chair by her bed. I grab the vest and the generator it’s attached to, and walk it to the couch to hook it up in the living room.
She’s supposed to use it two to three times a day to help break up the mucus in her lungs. When a person has Cystic Fibrosis, it causes their mucus to thicken, which then causes blockage to major organs. Before these vests were invented, patients relied on other people to do manual chest percussions, which meant beating on the back and chest several times a day to break up all the mucus.
The vests are a lifesaver. Especially for Maggie because she lives alone and has no one to administer chest percussions. But she’s never used it as much as she should, and that used to be a huge point of contention between us. I guess it still is, because here I am, hooking it up, about to force her to use it.
After I get it hooked up, Maggie taps me on the shoulder. “It’s broken.”
I look back down at the generator and power it on. Nothing happens. “What’s wrong with it?”
She shrugs. “It stopped working a couple of days ago. I’ll take it in Monday and trade it in.”
Monday? She can’t go an entire weekend without it. Especially if she’s already coughing like she is. I sit on the couch to try to figure out what’s wrong with it. Maggie walks back into the kitchen and says something to Warren. I can tell by his body language and the way he looks over at me that she said something about me.
“What did she say?”
Warren looks at Maggie. “Ridge wants to know what you just said.”
Maggie glances over her shoulder at me and laughs, then faces me. “I said you haven’t changed.”
“Yeah, well, neither have you.”
She looks offended, but honestly, I don’t care. She’s always tried to make me feel guilty for worrying about her. Clearly nothing has changed and my concern still annoys her.
Maggie seems irritated by my response to her. “Yeah, it’s kind of impossible to stop having Cystic Fibrosis.”
I stare at her, wondering why she’s in such a shit mood. Probably for the same reason I am. We’re having the same arguments we’ve always had, only this time there isn’t a relationship between us to fall back on and cushion our feelings.
I’m annoyed that she left the hospital, but now that she’s so unappreciative of us being here trying to help her, my anger is starting to build. My girlfriend was crying because I was leaving her, concerned about us, and now Maggie’s scolding—mocking—me even though I came. For her.
I can’t sit here and have this conversation. I stand up and unplug the generator, then carry everything back to her bedroom. Maggie and Warren can eat their sacrilegious combination of fish sticks and chocolate pudding, and I’ll be in the other room, continuing to try to repair a vest that literally aids in keeping her alive.
I’m not even all the way into her room when I turn around and see that she’s following me. I set the generator on the table next to the chair and sit down, pulling the table closer. I turn on the lamp next to the chair. Maggie is still standing in the doorway.
“What is your problem, Ridge?”
I laugh, but not because anything about tonight is funny. “What did you eat this morning before you passed out from low blood sugar?” Maggie’s eyes narrow. I’m asking her this because she probably can’t even remember. Hell, she probably didn’t even eat. “Have you even checked your glucose levels since
you ate half of a King Size Twix bar?”