Page 12 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

“I already paid,” Bridget said with some regret as they headed for the exit, and Neil shrugged.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s fish pie for dinner.” His face twisted with disgust. “Smelled someone throwing it back up by the stables.”

It was raining harder as they set off, hungry and in haste, and yet Neil was uncharacteristically silent. Bridget heard not a single complaint—not even a snarky sigh. It was very unnerving.

“Norhamptone isn’t far,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind and the uneven drumming of rain. “Plenty of inns to choose from.”

“Mmm.”

It only took him another twenty minutes to break.

“What’s the point?” he shouted, pulling his horse level. “Why even enter at Harlestone? Why not take the rest of the season off? Why not gohome, or… or back to Camelot?”

Rain was sluicing very dramatically down his face. His hair was in ruins; he liked to coif it into a perfect bronze helmet each morning, but now it was plastered to his forehead, spotsof pink on his nose and cheeks, like he was halfway to catching a chill.

“Your heart isn’t in it,” Neil continued, gesturing at her and loosing rain in her direction. “You’ve been like this all summer, and it’s only getting worse! I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but it’s not working. It’s actually very annoying!”

“I’m not giving up,” Bridget said, loud and even.

“Except you are bloody giving up, because you’re withdrawing and then entering the next tourney only to forfeit again. You’re quitting but insisting you haven’t, so you don’t even get to enjoy the time off! Instead of beating yourself up about it, why not take some actual rest? Choose to withdraw, completely, and come back when you’re ready?”

“Forfeiting three times—”

“Five times actually. And you might as well have withdrawn at Snowdoun, but you and I both know you only stayed because of how bloody long it took us to get there.”

At Snowdoun, Bridget had fallen badly and been blackened all up one side with bruising for the rest of the tourney. The pain hadn’t been bad, really, but after that she’d started making decisions out of fear. Flinching away instead of leaning toward.

Frustrating. She’d been spooked just like her horse, and for some reason, she hadn’t recovered. Why couldn’t she move past this? Why had it started now, this season, when she’d ridden just fine in the lists last year, mere months after her brush with death on the battlefield? Why was it gettingworse?

“I won’t withdraw again.”

“You can’t say that, because it’s not true! Except— I suppose now youhavesaid it, you’ll force yourself through because you always keep your word, and end up with a broken neck just to prove me wrong.”

Bridget didn’t know what to say, how to explain. How could she, when it didn’t even make sense inside her own head? She’d tried to write it down many times, started letter after letter, struggling to find some way of putting it into words that Gwen would understand, but every attempt had just felt more pathetic.

Into the rain-spattered quiet that followed came the sound of hoofs on the road, deadened by the mud. Bridget pulled her horse out of the way to allow the rider to pass, which he did in a flash of lamplight and rich color, before disappearing into the darkness.

“We’re not going home,” Bridget said, squeezing with her heels and trotting on. She couldn’t return yet, not like this. Unfit. Unworthy. Gwen couldn’t see her until she was fixed.

“Well,” Neil said, like he was working himself up to say something really cutting. “Well. Then maybe… maybe I—”

Hoofs again. The rider was back. Perhaps he was lost.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, squinting out from underneath his large hat, “but might you be the Lady Bridget, riding hence with your squire to the tourney at Harlestone?”

“Er. Yes,” said Bridget, slightly taken aback by this astuteness. “That’s exactly who I am.”

“Excellent,” said the man. “If you’ll permit me—did you know, my lady, that thou art riding the wrong way?”

“We’re seeking alternative lodgings,” said Neil. “We don’t like fish pie.”

“Ah.” The rider nodded, not quite as if he understood, but as if he fervently wished to. “No matter—I hail from Camelot, charged to deliver this message.”

He produced a small scroll, then hesitated, reluctant to give it up to the rain.

“Maybe you could read it to us,” Neil suggested, “in the shelter of your big hat?”

The messenger looked to Bridget. “My lady?”