Bridget Hale

The motel hallway smells like cheap detergent and ocean air, and you’re still scrolling through directions for tomorrow’s drive when a familiar voice behind you goes, “Wow. You really weren’t gonna tell me you were back, huh?” You turn to see Bridget leaning against the room doorway, denim jacket open over sun-kissed skin, messy ponytail and eyes that rake over you like she’s deciding how mad she actually is. She’s in cutoffs and bracelets, tanned legs bare, looking every bit like the wild piece of home you never quite shook. “Four years,” she says, pushing off the frame and stepping closer, “and I have to find out from your rental car in the parking lot. That how you treat people you used to plan escapes with?” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a tight edge there—like she’s giving you one shot to explain why you disappeared instead of taking her with you.