Page 12 of Wicked Sinner

brIDGET

"You're being weird," Jenny announces from her perch at my kitchen counter, watching me stir a pot of spaghetti with more focus than pasta has ever deserved. "Like, weirder than usual weird."

"I'm not being weird," I lie, not looking up from the stove. "I'm just… concentrating."

"On noodles? Bridg, it's literally the simplest thing in the world. You put the pasta in, you wait, you drain it. You don't need to stare at it like you're trying to divine the secrets of the universe."

I finally glance up at her, forcing a smile. "Maybe I'm just trying to make sure it's perfect. You're my guest, after all."

"Since when do you care about being the perfect hostess? I helped you take care of your dad, remember? I’ve seen you at your worst." She hops down from the counter and comes to stand beside me, her dark eyes studying my face with the kind of knowing that comes from fifteen years of friendship.

"Seriously, what's going on? You've been off all week. "

I bite my lip. She’s right, and I know it. But I don’t want to talk about it.

"I'm fine," I insist, turning back to the stove. "Just tired. Work's been crazy."

It's not entirely a lie. Work has been crazy, but not in the way she thinks.

I've been distracted, unfocused, making stupid mistakes that I never make.

Yesterday I spent five minutes looking for a wrench that was in my hand the entire time.

The day before that, I forgot to tighten the lug nuts on Mrs. Peterson's Honda and nearly sent her rolling down the street with three wheels.

Those are the kinds of mistakes I don’t make. The kind I can’t afford to make, if I want to keep my dad’s shop going. And there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with fixing cars. I couldn’t live with myself if I made a mistake that actually hurt someone.

I’ve got to get it together. But I can't concentrate on anything. My mind keeps wandering to places it shouldn't go, to thoughts I don't want to think, to possibilities that make my stomach churn with anxiety.

"Bullshit," Jenny says bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've known you since we were twelve, Bridget Lewis. I know when you're lying."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You've been distracted all week. You barely touched your lunch when I came by on Tuesday. You cancelled our movie night on Friday with some lame excuse about burning your hand, which I can see isn’t true—”

“It was a little burn. It healed—”

“And now you're acting like making spaghetti and jarred sauce is some kind of culinary challenge." She looks at me flatly. “Bridg. C’mon. Who can you talk to if not me?”

I glance at the simple meal I'm preparing—spaghetti with store-brand marinara sauce, the kind of dinner that costs less than seven dollars and can feed two people. It's not fancy, but it's what I can afford right now. What I can always afford.

"Maybe I just wanted to make sure you had a good meal," I tell her, reaching for the colander. "You work double shifts all the time. I bet you live on hospital vending machine food."

"Nice deflection, but I'm not buying it." She leans against the counter, her expression softening slightly. "What's really going on? You know you can tell me anything."

The thing is, I do know that. Jenny has been my best friend since middle school.

We’ve gotten each other through every stage of life, through breakups and graduations and job challenges.

She helped me with my father and held me when I cried after his death.

She helped me figure out the paperwork to keep the shop running, listened to me vent about difficult customers and mounting bills without ever making me feel like a burden.

She's the one person I should be able to tell about this. But every time I think about saying the words out loud, my throat closes up.

Because saying them would make it real. And I'm not ready for it to be real.

"I'm just stressed about money," I say instead, which is also true. "The shop's been slow lately, and I've got that stack of bills on my desk that keeps getting higher."

"Is that all?" She doesn't sound convinced. "Because you've been dealing with money problems for years, even before your dad passed, and you've never been this… I don't know, secretive about it."

"I'm not being secretive," I protest, draining the pasta with more force than necessary. "I'm just… processing things."

"What things?"

"Just… things." I grab two plates from the cabinet, focusing on the mundane task of serving dinner. "Can we just eat? I'm starving."

It's another lie. I haven't been hungry in days. The thought of food makes my stomach turn most of the time, which is ironic considering how much I used to love eating. But Jenny doesn't need to know that.

We sit at my small kitchen table, and I force myself to take a few bites of pasta. It tastes like cardboard, but I chew and swallow anyway, trying to look normal. Trying to pretend that everything is fine.

"Remember when we were sixteen and you thought you might be pregnant?" Jenny says suddenly, and I nearly choke on my spaghetti.

"What?" I manage to get out, my voice higher than usual.

"You were sort of dating that guy… what was his name? Jake something. And you were convinced you were pregnant because you were three days late." She laughs, shaking her head. "You were so freaked out, but you were too embarrassed to buy a test. So I did it for you."

"I remember," I say quietly, my heart hammering in my chest. I remember that day vividly—the panic, the fear, the relief when the test came back negative. I remember promising myself I'd never be that careless again.

"You were so paranoid," Jenny continues, oblivious to my discomfort. "You made me go to three different drugstores so no one would recognize us. And then you made me wait outside the bathroom while you took the test."

"It was negative," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, but you were so convinced it would be positive. You kept saying 'what if, what if, what if' until I wanted to shake you." She takes another bite of pasta, still smiling at the memory. "You were so relieved when it was negative that you cried for like an hour."

"I wasn't ready to be a mother. And my dad would have been so disappointed. I was scared." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. Weirdly defensive.

"You were sixteen. Of course you weren't ready." She pauses, studying my face. "Are you worried about that because of… what was his name? The guy from a few weeks ago?"

Caesar. Just hearing her reference him makes my chest tight. I've been trying not to think about him, but it's impossible. He's there in my thoughts constantly, like a song I can't get out of my head. One that I want to get out of my head more than ever, now.

"His name was Caesar." I’m surprised by how easily his name falls from my lips. "And no, I'm not worried. I’m not thinking about him at all."

Another lie. I think about him all the time. I think about the way he looked at me, the way he touched me. I think about his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he filled me so completely that I thought I might die from the pleasure of it.

And I think about the way he left without a word, without asking for my number, without any way for me to get in touch with him. Not that I want to. Especially now that I’ve looked into who Caesar Genovese actually is.

"Are you sure? Because you got this look on your face when I mentioned him..."

"What look?" Now I know I sound defensive, but I can’t help it.

"The same look you get when you talk about your dad. Like you're trying not to cry."

The comparison hits me like a physical blow.

My father was the most important person in my life, the one who taught me everything I know about cars and life, and standing up for myself.

The idea that I might have that same expression when I think about a man I barely know, a man who used me and discarded me, makes me feel sick.

"I'm not going to cry," I say firmly. "He was just a guy, Jenny. A one-night stand. That's all."

"If you say so." She doesn't sound convinced, but she lets it drop, and we finish dinner in relative silence.

After she leaves, I clean up the dishes and try to ignore the way my hands shake as I wash the plates. I need to work. I need to get my hands dirty, focus on something concrete and fixable. Something that makes sense.

The garage is quiet when I open it up, the familiar smell of motor oil and metal greeting me like an old friend. I flip on the radio, tuning it to the classic rock station that my father always listened to, as usual, and make my way to the back bay where the Corvette sits waiting.

The 1967 Stingray is still a work in progress, but it's getting closer to completion.

The engine is rebuilt, and most of the interior has been restored.

It's going to be beautiful when it's finished—the kind of car that turns heads. It still needs bodywork and some of the inner guts worked on, but it’s approaching the point where I can see the finish line.

My father and I started this project together when I was twenty-four, about a year before he got sick.

We'd work on it together in the evenings, him teaching me the finer points of restoration while we listened to his favorite music.

Some of my best memories are of those nights—just the two of us, working side by side, talking about everything and nothing.

The car isn't just a restoration project—it's a connection to him, a way to keep his memory alive. Every time I work on it, I feel close to him again.

Tonight, though, even the familiar comfort of working on the Corvette can't quiet my racing thoughts. I'm supposed to be adjusting the carburetor, but my mind keeps wandering to places it shouldn't go.

"Stop it," I mutter to myself, tightening a bolt with more force than necessary. "Stop thinking about him. He's gone. He's not coming back."