The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 2)
The Year We Hid Away: A Hockey Romance: Part 2 – Chapter 17

-SCARLET-

“WOW,” Bridger said. “That has to be him. He looks just like you.”

I looked out of the coffee shop window to see my uncle striding toward the double glass doors. I hadn’t spent enough time with Brian to bother checking for a resemblance. But it was true. My uncle and I had the same indecisive eye color, and the same wave to our hair. “You’re right,” I said. “That’s him.”

Bridger stood up. He’d dressed up in khakis and a button-down shirt today. But there was no hiding the exhaustion in his eyes.

Brian pushed through the doors, his gaze immediately scoping laser-like onto me. In a few long strides he’d reached me, pulling me against his chest in a powerful embrace. “My God, you’re all grown up.” He laughed, but the sound was sad. “So tall.” He inhaled deeply and then stepped back, still holding my arms, and just staring at me.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, feeling suddenly shy.

“Any time.”

“This is Bridger,” I said as Brian released me.

They shook hands, and Brian sat down.

But I didn’t. “I’m going to get coffee for everyone. What do you drink?” I asked my uncle.

He put a hand on my arm, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Coffee black, one sugar packet. Thank you, Sweetie.”

By the time I got back, they were deep in discussion. And Bridger had begun to take notes on the pad in front of him.

“You have a real shot at guardianship,” Uncle Brian said. “You’re old enough, with great prospects and no criminal record. If her teacher will stand up in the courtroom and tell the judge that you’ve done a great job this year, that will help, too.”

Bridger wrote 3rd grade teacher on his notebook. “Mrs. Rose is great, and she’ll help us. But I just don’t see why a judge would approve me,” Bridger said.

“You’re looking at it the wrong way,” Brian insisted. “They want to keep families together. It’s good common sense, and it saves the state money. It sounds like your biggest obstacle is housing.”

“That’s where the dean comes in,” I put in. “He’ll help you figure out your options.”

Bridger was still frowning. “Even if they help me replace somewhere legal to live, it will cost money. Which I don’t have. A judge wants to see some income, no?”

“The money isn’t as important as you think,” Brian said. “Lucy has her own income, right? Her social security benefit will cover a lot of expenses.”

Bridger’s face was blank.

“Your father has passed, correct? And Lucy is under eighteen. She’s entitled to his survivor’s benefit. And now your mother’s.”

“But… my parents weren’t retired when they died,” Bridger said.

Uncle Brian shook his head. “Makes no difference. If any working adult dies leaving a minor child, the child earns a benefit until she turns eighteen. Did you ever see any mail coming into your house from the Social Security Administration?”

Bridger’s eyes went wide. “Yeah I did.”

“That was Lucy’s check.”

“Fuck. My mother probably spent it on…” Bridger let the sentence die, dropping his head into his hands.

Brian put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s your ticket to providing for her. The judge will already know that.”

“But how did I not know that?” Bridger asked the tabletop.

Because you don’t ask anyone for help. Somehow I managed to keep that sentiment to myself. But it wasn’t easy.

“How much money are we talking about?” Bridger asked.

“It depends on how many years your parents paid into Social Security. More than a thousand dollars a month, though.”

My boyfriend’s eyes opened wide. “Damn. That’s a lot of shifts at the coffee counter.”

“You’ll have to contact the Social Security Administration,” Brian said. “They need to know about your mother’s death.”

Bridger picked up his pen. “I’ll add it to the list.”

By the time Bridger’s notes reached the bottom of the page, Brian had him feeling cautiously optimistic. “If the college helped me with housing, I might not have to drop out,” he said.

“Dropping out should be your very last resort,” Brian said, his voice gentle. “Now, if you’d consider completing your degree before you petitioned for guardianship…”

Bridger was shaking his head before Brian even got the words out. “I’m not waiting. I can’t look Lucy in the eye and tell her that I feel like finishing school before she gets out of there.”

Brian was silent for a moment, and I could see him choosing his words carefully. “I know she’s important to you. But there’s a big difference between the job you could get right now, and the job you can get eighteen months from now. It’s not selfish to wait. Your sister would also benefit from a Harkness diploma on your wall.”

Bridger rubbed his temples. “I get that. I do. But she benefits more by not being in the system for two years. I’m sure that there are good foster parents in the world. But you can’t tell me that there aren’t any creepers out there.”

My uncle’s eyes pinched shut for a second, and I saw him take a deep breath. “She’s lucky to have you.”

My uncle didn’t press Bridger about his choices after that, and I loved him for it. I could tell just from a couple of hours in his presence that he was probably a kick-ass social worker. There was a calm way about him, and a lack of judgment.

Basically, he was the complete opposite of my father.

“How soon do you think I can get a hearing?” Bridger asked.

“I’m going to replace that out for you while you meet with the dean,” Brian said. “You’ll need a lawyer, of course. The Harkness Law School probably has a pro bono program. I’ll try to replace a phone number for it.”

“God, could this ever work?” Bridger asked, his eyes flashing with emotion.

Brian stood up. “I’ve stood in a lot of courtrooms with people who wanted custody of their kids, and I’d say you look like a better candidate than about ninety percent of them.”

“But how many of them win?” Bridger grumbled.

“Lots,” Brian answered. “Now I’m going to the courthouse to poke around and ask questions. You’re meeting the dean. And Scarlet is going to study for her exams.”

“I am?” I asked. Concentrating on schoolwork right now sounded impossible.

Bridger kissed me on the cheek. “We can’t both flunk out. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

-BRIDGER-

“Hey.” Hartley was waiting for me outside Dean Darling’s office, a somber expression on his face.

“Hey. Thanks for coming.”

“Any time,” he said, pushing off the wall. “You ready?”

“Let’s do this,” I said with more bravado than I felt. Hartley turned the old brass doorknob and ducked into the dean’s ancient little office suite. I felt like I was walking to my doom. Since July I’d been pretending that I could pull it off, that I could take care of Lucy and be a full-time student like everybody else. I wasn’t looking forward to being told to lower my expectations.

Dean Darling’s secretary waved us inside, coming around her desk to take my hand. “Oh honey,” she said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Shirley.” This was all feeling way too familiar. When my father died, I walked around with a tight throat for a month as each neighbor and teacher in my life tried to comfort me.

It never worked.

The dean’s office door opened, and the man himself beckoned to us. Hartley and I filed past him, taking seats in the spindly old wooden chairs opposite his desk. I’d never had to sit here before, thank God. Until this year, my academic career at Harkness had been smooth sailing.

Not anymore.

“I am very sorry to hear that you have lost your mother,” the dean began. He had a fusty British accent.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please know that your final exams should be the last thing on your mind right now. You will take them whenever you are ready to do so. I’ve already reached out to your professors.”

“Uh, thank you.” I wondered how accommodating he was going to sound in a minute when I told him just how messy my life really was.

“I read in your file this morning that your father is already deceased. Do you have other relatives in the area? I ask because I’m worried for all the things you might be expected to take care of. A death is not only devastating but comes with a great load of bureaucratic hassle. There is a funeral to plan, and decisions to be made. Is there anyone who will help you with that?” The dean put his elbows on the desk and studied me.

“There, uh…” I started. Shit. “There are bigger problems than that. My sister has been placed with social services, and I have to get her back.”

The Dean’s face softened. “I was going to ask about Lucy next. Her name is also in your file.”

“Yeah. This semester I’ve been…” I scratched the back of my neck.

“Just spit it out, Bro,” Hartley whispered.

So I did. I told the Dean that I’d had Lucy with me in my room at Beaumont since July. And that getting her back was going to have to take precedence over everything, including, unfortunately, my next term at Harkness. And while I told my whole sordid tale, he watched me with a calm expression on his face. They probably teach that at Dean School — how to listen to fucked-up situations without scowling.

When I finished, it was quiet for a moment. He set down the gold pen he’d been fiddling with and said, “I wondered about the pink bicycle in the rack.” Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “What you want is not an easy thing.”

“I know,” I grumbled. “The judge is going to laugh me out of there.”

Dean Darling moved quickly, slapping his hands onto the desk blotter. “Dear boy, that is not true. And that is not what I meant. It’s not an easy thing to be a student and take care of a child.”

I just shrugged. “I’m already doing that. Taking care of an eight year old is a piece of cake. It’s not like when she was little, and I had to follow her around all day making sure she didn’t swallow pennies.”

Dean Darling toyed with his tidy beard for a moment before speaking again. “You make a fine point, and it’s obvious that you have more experience with childcare than I do. However, raising a girl into her teenage years would not be easy. And you’d be making every decision alone.”

Bridger shrugged. “I’m going to be involved, no matter what. If the state says she has to live with someone else, that only makes it harder. It will limit the jobs I can take after graduation, if I have to stick close by. I’m not… This isn’t a whim, for me, sir. It’s my life.”

The dean’s voice was quiet when he spoke next. “A few times a year I have a student in my office, sitting in that chair, whose problems are vast. And usually there isn’t a thing I can do about it. Often, the student’s academic effort has lapsed so badly that it’s too late. Occasionally, there have been mind-altering substances, paid for with his father’s money. And he wants me to fix it all.”

For a moment, the dean turned his head to look out the window into the courtyard. Then he turned to face me again. “Then we have you, Bridger McCaulley. You have a thick file with nothing in it but achievements, and no sign that anyone ever made that easier. Except for friends like Mr. Hartley here. Another of our hard-working achievers.”

I glanced at Hartley, and found my friend watching the dean intently. Like me, he didn’t have a clue where this was going.

“Shirley!” the dean called in a loud voice.

A moment later the door sprang open and her face appeared. “Yes?”

“I need you to replace me a law school professor who hasn’t left town for the holidays. Start with Blackwell or Potter. We are going to need some legal advice. And one of those gents will know whom to ask.”

She closed the door and disappeared.

“Bridger,” the dean began, and my name sounded more highbrow in his accent. “We are not going to throw up our hands and let you walk away from your Harkness degree. I have never solved this particular problem for a student before, but if it can be done, we will replace a way.” He took a binder off his bookshelf and flipped it open. “There is something called Married Student Housing. You may qualify for an apartment there if you have a minor child in your care.” Dean Darling picked up his phone. “I’m going to ask the dean of graduate studies. One moment.”

Hartley gave me a light smack on the arm with the back of his hand. “There you go,” he said under his breath.

It’s not a done deal yet, I cautioned myself. But a bubble of hope had already begun to swell inside my chest. While the dean made his call, I tried to tamp it back down.