Bridget nodded but then went quiet for a while. I thought perhaps she’d changed her mind or that I’d overstepped. “Last night you said you wanted to get the testing done as soon as possible. Do you still want to do that? It’s not a rush. Maybe you should take some time before moving forward. It’s a lot to take in at once.”
“No. I need to know as soon as possible.”
I nodded but knew something was still bothering her. She looked like she was mulling over saying something on her mind. “Did I upset you by texting her and putting the wheels in motion?”
“No. Not at all. I appreciate you handling everything. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with all of it. But…”
“What’s the matter?”
“What time are you meeting her?”
“Five o’clock this afternoon. Why?”
“I’d like to do it myself. I’d like to meet Gina to collect the sample and meet her daughter.”
I thought that was a terrible idea. “I’m not sure that’s so wise, Bridget.”
“Maybe. But I need to do it, Simon. I need to talk to her.”
“Bridget—”
“I’m serious, Simon. I need to do this. I’m never going to have closure from Ben because he’s not here anymore.”
As much as I hated the thought, I could understand her needing some answers directly from the source. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”
“No. I need to do this alone—woman to woman.”
“I’d really like to come along. I want to be there just in case you need me.”
Bridget reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. “You are here if I need you. You were here last night, you made all of these arrangements this morning, and you’re going to be there for me even if you’re not physically with me. But this is something I need to do by myself, Simon.”
I looked back and forth in her eyes and saw sheer determination staring back at me. I fucking hated the thought of her going alone—but I thought about what I’d needed to do with Blake. Some ghosts we just need to exorcise ourselves. Against my better judgment, I finally nodded. “I’ll let Gina know you’ll be the one coming.”
Bridget shook her head. “No. Don’t. I don’t want her to be prepared for me. No different than I was to find out about her. I want honest answers, not something manufactured. It’s better that she be surprised.”
I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking.
Simon had arranged to meet Gina at the McDonald’s near the hospital, which had a children’s PlayPlace. I parked next to the tall windows and looked inside at a half-dozen little girls running around. One of them could be my husband’s daughter. My son’s half-sister. The thought made me feel like I might throw up right there in my car. I had to roll down the window to get some fresh air, then shut my eyes for a full five minutes in order for the overwhelming urge to vomit to pass enough to go inside.
Luckily, my feet were able to move me forward, even though my brain was screaming to run the other way. Opening the door from the restaurant to the kiddie area, I looked around the giant PlayPlace for a woman who fit the description that Simon had given me. To the right, there was a brunette sitting with a redheaded woman chatting—that could be her. Although I figured she would come alone. To the left was another brunette with her back to me, but she was sitting with twin boys who looked to be about three. I was beginning to breathe a little easier, relieved that maybe she hadn’t shown up, when I spotted a woman off in the corner near the ball pit sitting with a little girl. My heart started to hammer in my chest as I walked toward her. She was stunning. Simon had failed to mention that.
I considered turning around and leaving, but then a little boy about Brendan’s age walked by holding the hand of a little girl about Gina’s daughter’s age. They were probably siblings. My chest squeezed, and I knew I had to go through with it. I needed to know for my son’s sake, even if not for my own sanity.
Without giving myself another opportunity to back out, I walked over to the table where they were sitting. The woman looked up at me and smiled at first.
I stared until that smile morphed into concern. She wrapped her arm around her daughter protectively. “Can I help you?”
My voice was barely a whisper. “Are you Gina Delmonico?”
“Yes?”
When my gaze shifted to her daughter, searching for signs of my husband, signs of my son, she must’ve figured it out. Closing her eyes briefly, she nodded. “Yes, I’m Gina. You’re Bridget, aren’t you?”