Chapter Fourteen

 

- MASON -

 

I’m lying, of course. I can’t afford to piss her off now. Especially now, with me able to count down the hours till my departure, and not ready to call this quits.

But she’s clung to her fear of driving across this damn bridge long enough.

“Driving across the Bay Bridge is the same as driving anywhere,” I tell her when we’re in my SUV, still in the parking lot, with her on the driver’s side looking sheet-pale and mildly nauseous. “Just stay between the lines and don’t hit anything.”

“I’m not doing it, Mason.”

My shoulders slump. “Why this fear of the Bridge, anyway? You drive across the Navy Bridge all the time.”

She frowns. “Yeah, but the Navy Bridge is short. And it has a break-down lane.”

“When was the last time you needed to pull into a break-down lane?”

“I don’t know. High school, I guess. My engine started smoking once.”

“Well, aside from that one time?”

She only sighs in response.

I pounce. “See? You’ll be fine. Freya, do you really think I’m going to let anything bad happen to you?” I feel strangely protective as I say it, like I really want her to know it’s the truth. She means more to me than she knows, more than I even seem to realize until I pose questions to myself like I find myself doing this morning—like, how am I going to get by without her after I leave?

Her hand feels chilled and clammy as I take it in my own. “You’re going to need to cross a few bridges to come visit me, you know. Especially if you want to avoid DC traffic and come along the coast.”

“Who says I’d want to visit you after this?”

“I do. And there’s a bridge right by Little Creek that will put hairs on your chest, kid. Makes our Bay Bridge look puny.” I give her palm a gentle squeeze.

“Fuck you, Mason.”

“You already did that last night. A few times. Now it’s time to tackle something new—like the Bridge. Turn on the car, Freya.”

After sulking for several minutes, she follows my directions, probably one of the rare instances when Freya actually did as she was told.

“It doesn’t concern you at all that I might drive us right over the side?” she asks, turning onto the small road that leads to Highway 50 West.

“I’m a good swimmer, and my car’s insured.”

“That doesn’t give me much confidence. Besides, I’m not the strongest swimmer.”

“Do you really think I’d ever let you drown?”

She presses her lips together tightly for a moment. “Until ten minutes ago, I never thought you’d make me drive across the Bridge. Now I have no idea anymore what you’d do.”

I watch her methodically flick on her turn signal, glance in her side mirror, and look over her shoulder into her blind spot before she merges into traffic on the highway, just like always. Freya is likely the most responsible driver I know. It defies logic that she doesn’t feel confident enough to drive across the Bridge.

“So why do you have this fear of the Bridge, Freya?”

“Because it’s fucking big, asshole,” she spits out the words like venom.

“Then why don’t you have a problem when I’m driving you across it?”

The sigh she emits sounds nearly painful. “I had a panic attack once,” she mumbles.

“Driving across a bridge?”

“No. On the subway in New York. It was on a school field trip to the Met. It was terrifying. My head was spinning. My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. I got so dizzy the teacher had me put my head between my knees. I needed off that train so badly, but I was powerless. I should have been humiliated, you know? But I wasn’t. I was too terrified to even feel humiliation.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

She shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Growing up in post-9-11 New York, I guess. I was so young when it happened. But I didn’t deal with it well.”

I want to take her hand, but I think she’d wig out on me if I expected her to drive across the Bridge with one hand on the wheel. So I school my hands into submission and keep them on my lap. “Panic attacks are a bitch.”

“Did you ever have one?”

“No, thank God. My SEAL career would come to a quick end if I did, I imagine.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’ve seen you on trains plenty without a problem. How’d this turn into a bridge fear?”

She sucks in her lower lip as she rounds the bend, bringing the Bay Bridge into view in the distance. It’s like I can hear her blood pressure rising in her veins.

“It’s the no-breakdown-lane thing. I just pictured it one day. Had some fleeting thought, wondering what would happen if I had a panic attack while driving across a bridge without a breakdown lane. I mean, seriously—what do I do? Do I stop my car right in the middle of traffic? Do I keep driving even though I’m so lightheaded that I can barely see? What if my hands shake so badly I can’t hold onto the steering wheel?”

“Okay… so, you won’t get that bad.”

“Who says?”

“I do. You’re not a helpless kid on the subway anymore. You’re a smart and capable woman who will take a deep breath and start thinking about that nice boat ride I took you on for your birthday last year.”

“The Schooner.”

“Right. And you’ll remember how relaxed you felt, feeling the bobbing of the waves beneath us, watching Annapolis disappear from view until it’s barely a speck in the distance. And you’ll remember those ospreys in their nests.”

“The babies.”

“Yeah, the babies. And taking selfies at Thomas Point Lighthouse.” I watch her chest rise and fall now, in a slow, more deliberate pattern as we get closer to the Bridge.

“The weather was perfect that day,” she remembers.

“You said it was too hot.”

“I just complain a lot,” she admits.

“At least you recognize it.”

Her grip tightens and I see unease transform her features. “Oh, crap,” she whispers as we approach the Bridge.

“You’re doing fine,” I tell her.

“I’m not doing—”

“What did I get you for your birthday that year?” I ask quickly. I already know the answer, but I need to distract her.

“One top of the boat ride? A second edition Jane Austen.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Best present I ever got, actually,” she says, her shoulders relaxing for a half instant until the Bridge officially parts with the land beneath us. “And I got you a Guinness beer mouse pad for your birthday. What a crappy gift.”

“I love my mouse pad,” I say defensively.

“Mason, you don’t even need it. You have an optical mouse. It was a stupid gift. It sucks to be broke.”

“It was a thoughtful gift. I love Guinness. And you made me chicken parmigiana. There’s no price you can put on your chicken parmigiana, you know.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not just saying that.” I’m watching her eyes as she talks, and they’re fixed on the car in front of us, as though her brain is continually repeating my earlier advice. Just stay between the lines and don’t hit anything.

When we’re at the apex of the bridge, I see her gaze slip to the water below us.

“Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.” The words spill from her like a vocal tic.

“Did I ever tell you I went to the Guinness brewery?”

There’s a pause, and her brow is furrowed as her hands knead the curve of the steering wheel. The armpits of her red t-shirt are dark and wet. And her face looks corpse-like.

Okay, maybe this was a bad idea.

I repeat my question.

“No, I didn’t know that,” she finally answers. “It feels like we’re going too fast, downhill like this. Why is everyone in such a damn hurry?”

Her eyes are dangerously frantic and I watch her tap the brakes lightly.

“I went to Ireland about five or six years ago,” I volunteer.

“I know that.”

Of course she knows that. She knows virtually everything about me.

“I just didn’t know you went to the brewery,” she continues.

“Well, I did. I actually saw those mouse pads, too,” I tell her, hoping the light conversation will soothe her. “But I didn’t buy one. I kind of always wished I had. Back then I actually needed a mouse pad. I had a glass desk and the optical mouse wouldn’t work without something under it. So that’s why I love the one you got me so much.”

Liar. That’s actually not why I love it so much. I love it because she barely makes enough to feed herself and pay her rent from that bookstore job of hers, yet she still thought to get me a gift.

“Do you ever want to go to Ireland?” I say, knowing that she hasn’t been to Europe at all yet.

“Maybe. I’d like to go to Iceland first, though. Track down my roots.”

“We should go there,” I tell her so easily that it stuns me. And what’s odd is that I’d have said the same thing to her yesterday, before we’d slept together. Fact is, I can’t really imagine going on a trip of any magnitude without her by my side.

Even if it’s across the Bay Bridge.

We’re long past the steepest descent and my own heart rate should be returning to normal. But I’m more worried about Freya never speaking to me again once we’re on firm ground.

Or killing me. But I think I’d prefer the latter to the former.