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

-BRIDGER-

MY PHONE VIBRATED around nine thirty. As silently as possible, I rose from my desk and tiptoed into an uncomfortable position on the closet floor. Sealing myself into a makeshift phone booth, I answered Scarlet’s call. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she breathed. “Can you talk?”

“Quietly,” I said. “I’m in my closet.”

I heard her laugh through the phone, and the sound of it made me ache from missing her. “Sounds cozy.”

“Yeah, it’s terrific. But I need to talk to you, and she’s asleep, so…”

“How are you, Bridge?” she cut in.

“Not good, because you have me worried. What do your father’s people want you to do?”

She sighed. “It’s nothing illegal. They want me to testify, and I don’t want to. And I’m supposed to sit in the courthouse when the trial starts after New Year’s.”

“You don’t want to go, do you?”

“No.” Her voice was low.

“Scarlet, did they ask you to lie?”

I could hear her hesitation coming through the ether. “I can’t talk about this with you. It isn’t as bad as you think, though. As long as I show up exactly when they want me to, and smile on cue, it will all be okay.”

But there was something evasive in her voice. “Nobody should lean on you for anything. I don’t like it at all.”

“Do you trust me, Bridger?”

Well, shit. “Of course I do. But…”

“Then you need to let me handle this.”

“It feels like you’re keeping things from me. Bad things.”

“Bridge…” her voice cracked. “I can’t talk about this.”

There was a long silence on the phone. It was the sound of two people moving away from each other, and it made my chest ache. “Scarlet?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you choose your new name?”

“Oh, Bridge,” she sighed. “I love that you asked me that.”

“Tell me.”

She sniffled. “The Scarlet Letter is one of my favorite books. The main character is so brave, and everyone hates her anyway.”

“Wow.”

“It’s a tad melodramatic.”

“No, it’s awesome,” I told her. “But… what was the woman’s name in the book? She wasn’t called Scarlet.”

“She was Hester Prynne. But I just couldn’t do that to myself. Hester is just so… not sexy.”

Even as stressed out as I was, I laughed. “Hottie, I would have fallen for you anyway. Let’s try it out.” I dropped my voice to a growl. “Oh Hester, baby. Ride me, Hester.”

There was a strangled noise on her end of the line, the sound that laughter made when there were tears in the mix. Eventually, Scarlet said, “I love you Bridger.”

I gave my head a couple of little smacks against the closet wall. Because sometimes there was just no way to win. “I love you, Scarlet. That’s why I can’t stand how you’re handling this. You’re holding it against me. Cutting me off instead of letting me help.”

“That’s not it. I need a little room to maneuver through this crap.”

“That’s not how love works. You’re supposed to share the crappy things as well as the good ones. You said so yourself.”

There was a defeated silence on her end of the line. “But I can’t do that with this.”

“And you can’t tell me why.” I wasn’t going to let it drop. I could wear her down until she told me. I could blow off music theory one more time, remove all her clothes and then make love to her until she knew how important she was to me.

Just as I began to really appreciate the fantasy, she said something even worse.

“Bridger, we’re going to have to take a break while I sort this out.”

“What? No way.”

“I’m sorry, Bridge. I love you, but I need some time.”

The closet seemed to get smaller then. “That makes no sense, Scarlet. I didn’t push you away when you found out about my shitty life.”

“You’re a bigger person than I am,” she said. “Goodbye for now.” These last three words were squeaked out.

“Scarlet, wait…”

She disconnected the call. And I threw my phone into the pitch black of my crappy little closet.

-SCARLET-

The next week was awful. I walked around with red eyes, and The Katies tried to ask me what was wrong. But I couldn’t tell them, because I’d have to lie about our breakup and lie about the reason I couldn’t see Bridger any more.

I was so, so tired of lying.

At first Bridger called frequently, and I didn’t answer. Bridger texted me, and I did not respond. Don’t do this, he wrote. We can figure it all out.

I could picture Azzan sitting at his computer, pulling up a log of my phone’s activity. He was probably sipping a cup of coffee while spying on my life. Maybe our little spat made him chuckle.

That idea cut me right in half.

I didn’t like drama. I wasn’t that kind of girl. And the little voice inside my head was practically shrieking now. Just tell him! Just tell him the problem.

And I considered it. I really did. But if I told Bridger that Azzan was threatening him and asking questions about Lulu, Bridger would want to take my side. That’s the kind of guy he was. Then he’d think it through, and come to the only logical conclusion — he couldn’t. A desperate guy who was hiding an eight-year-old girl could not tangle with a bunch of rich, arrogant defense attorneys who had no moral compass and a whole lot of money on the line.

If I laid it all out, I’d be forcing him to choose Lucy over me. And he’d hate that. And I’d have to listen to him tell me he was sorry.

Thinking about it cost me another entire night’s sleep. While Blond Katie snored off a night of playing quarters at some fraternity, I thought of a way to get Bridger to give up on me.

The next morning, when I got a text from him, my reply was ready. Bridger, I met somebody else. And he has his nights & weekends free.

I sent this little grenade at around ten in the morning. And he neither called or texted after that.

So, I’d won that battle. And lost the war.

If I thought I’d been depressed before, it was ten times worse after that. My heart ached, and my eyes watered, and all because I’d been drained of hope.

My mistake had been to think that I could change my identity the way The Katies changed from ballet flats to stilettos. Now that I knew it wouldn’t work, I no longer felt brave and new. I no longer felt like Scarlet. Instead, it was Shannon who stumbled around campus, trying to focus on my coursework. Friendless Shannon made flash cards for memorizing Italian verbs. She studied in the library while others went to dinner. And she played her guitar on the bed while the others made plans for the Christmas Ball.

There was only one moment during those long, lonely days when Shannon made a welcome appearance. I rarely checked my snail mailbox in Warren Hall, because nobody writes to a girl with a brand new name, not even the J. Crew catalog. But on one of my rare trips to the post office, I pulled out a large envelope with the Harkness College logo on it. The return address said Office of the Dean of Student Services.

Slitting it open, I found a single sheet of paper and yet another envelope inside. The paper read:

Dear Ms. Scarlet Crowley,

Please accept our apology. The enclosed piece of mail stymied us for several weeks, since your name change was not correctly cross-referenced in our records. We have made the necessary correction, and should any more mail arrive for you, we are confident that a delay such as this one will not happen again.

Sincerely,

A.J. Roberts

College Postmaster

I inspected the envelope, which was addressed to Shannon Ellison, Class of 2017. The return address was Massachusetts Department of Children and Families, with the name Ellison scrawled above the printing.

Uncle Brian?

I slit the envelope with my thumb, and drew out another letter, dated September the twentieth, more than two months ago. It was handwritten on notebook paper, the words slanting hard to the right, as if in a hurry to reach the margin.

Dear Shannon — This will sound like a strange sentiment coming from a relative that you barely know, but I’ve been very worried about you. J.P.’s trial is going to be bloody awful. It is my misfortune to know a thing or two about criminal trials. They are long and dehumanizing, and I hope you are not too caught up in the proceedings.

Last year I tried to visit you to offer my support, but your parents weren’t having it. Now that you’re out of their house, I hope we can reconnect. Unfortunately, I don’t have a phone number for you, so I really hope you’ll give me a call. Please let me know if there’s any way I can help. If you feel like you’re in over your head, or if you just want to talk, don’t hesitate to call or write. Any time. —Uncle Brian.

He left me his email, plus work and cell phone numbers. I wasn’t about to call him from my traitorous phone, or even enter his contact information. Still, I tucked that paper into my pocketbook. It was nice to know it was there.