The Boy on the Bridge

by Sam Mariano

  It’s probably a terrible, no-good, very bad idea, but I place my palm on the flat surface of the desk as a brief warning, then I drop into the seat directly next to Hunter.

  He cocks a dark eyebrow at me. “Interesting choice.”

  Yep. Bad choice. Very bad choice. I’m sitting way too close to him, but I’ll be damned if I back down now. “Center of the room. I like this seat.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced. “You usually sit in the front row like the good little nerd you are.”

  I slide him a speaking look and hope he’s not in any of my other classes, where I will absolutely be sitting in the front row. “That was in 8th grade, Hunter. People change.”

  Nodding slowly in consideration, he says, “That’s true. I’m only familiar with innocent bookworm Riley. The school slut who kisses boys before class is brand-new, but I’m looking forward to getting well-acquainted.”

  I take the bait and glare over at him. “I am not the school slut. That’s my boyfriend. I don’t just kiss randos—but you know what? If I did, that would be none of your business. You’ve been gone for four years. I never heard a single word from you, and let’s not forget the parting gift you left me—”

  Cutting me off, he says, “Yeah, and whose fault is it that I’ve been gone, Riley? Not mine.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get the words out, the teacher snaps, “Miss Bishop. Are you causing problems already?”

  My jaw drops open and I look toward the front of the room. Is she serious? Can she not see Hunter running his mouth just as much as I’m running mine?

  As if she can’t, and I am entirely in the wrong for the classroom kerfuffle, she lifts her eyebrows severely.

  It kills me, but I murmur back, “Sorry, Mrs. Dowd. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.”

  I wait until she looks away to glare at her, then I turn my head and throw a wordless glare Hunter’s way for good measure.

  He has only been back for five minutes and he’s already getting me in trouble.

  This does not bode well.

  Hunter smirks back, his eyes glistening with mirth, then turns his attention to the front of the class like he’s the good one.

  Much more grumpily, I settle into my own seat and train my gaze on the teacher I already don’t like, but knowing Hunter is a mere foot away, feeling his presence… it’s too tempting to steal another glimpse.

  I expect him to catch me looking immediately, as aware of me as I am of him, but if he can feel my gaze on him, I can’t tell.

  Now that I’ve had a moment to absorb the shock of his sudden reappearance, I start to notice more about him.

  Like the scar on the right side of his head up near his temple. I think I was right and he should have gone for stitches that night, but the scar works for him. Adds a certain ruggedness to his classic good looks.

  My gaze drops to his broad shoulders next and I take in the letterman jacket stretched across them.

  Wait, how does he have a letter jacket already?

  I frown, thinking back to a few minutes ago when Anderson complained about the new guy who interrupted the usual line-up. Hunter played sports in middle school, but I didn’t expect him to be involved with any this year since he just came back.

  I suppose if anyone could barge in and expect everyone else to fall into place around him, it would be Hunter Maxwell.

  I continue my perusal, noting his outfit. He’s dressed casually today in black fitted sweatpants and a Bordeaux red hoodie from his dad’s company—the one he modeled for while he was in Italy.

  There’s something different about him that I can’t quite put a finger on. It has nothing to do with his jacket or his clothes—nothing that can be slid on or taken off at will.

  There’s a sense of trouble about him now that wasn’t there when we were kids. A confidence he’s grown into that he wears now like a second skin.

  Gone is the troubled, vulnerable boy I met years ago sitting on a footbridge. He grew up, and you can tell just looking at him… he doesn’t need anybody anymore.

  I don’t know why that makes me sad. It’s not as if I want Hunter to be wounded, I guess I just… never really shook the memory of being there for him when he was. The bond that grew between us. Falling asleep in my bed with my arms wrapped around him—even if he did use that particular memory to ruin my reputation afterward. It was still a fond one for me.

  I manage to drag my gaze from Hunter without getting caught, but even once class starts, I struggle to focus. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to sit next to him, but I didn’t realize it was such a terrible one. I thought I had more self-control, but being this close to him… he’s the only thing I can focus on.

  It’s probably just today. It’s the shock of it, that’s all. I should be more understanding with myself. He’s just a guy, and I don’t let myself get distracted by guys. I never have.

  Well, except him. I had forgotten, but after sitting through class and not being able to recall much more than my mutual dislike for my teacher this period, memories are swiftly rolling back in, reminding me that Hunter Maxwell has always been the only guy in the world capable of distracting me.

  I guess some things never change.

  ___

  When the bell rings, I’m eager to gather up my things and get out of here. So eager that I’m the first one out of my seat, the first one heading for the freedom of the hallway.

  Hunter is right on my heels, though. I can feel him. I don’t know if he’s stalking with the intent to pounce, or just making his presence known before he turns in the opposite direction and continues on with his day. I’m tense as I turn right, toward my next class.

  I can’t say why, but I almost feel relieved when Hunter falls into step beside me. Like it was preordained that we would walk this hall together after that tension-filled class.

  He doesn’t say anything, just keeps pace and waits.

  I’m content to ignore him for the space of a few feet, but then my curiosity gets the better of me and I finally look over at him. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  His perfect lips curve up and he looks back at me. “You’re not wearing your necklace. Seems a bit ungrateful, don’t you think?”

  My relief deepens at the confirmation that he was behind it—it would have driven me crazy not knowing.

  I roll my eyes at him. “I don’t belong to you. Also, I didn’t realize it was from you when I opened it—I thought it was from my boyfriend, and I nearly dumped him for his audacity.”

  “Well, he does have an awful lot of audacity,” Hunter states. “Maybe you should dump him anyway.”

  Despite myself, I can’t help the corners of my mouth from tugging up in faint amusement. “He does not. That’s why I was so confused. Anderson is actually really nice.”

  “Uh huh,” he says in a tone of absolute boredom.

  “He is,” I insist. “And respectful.”

  Hunter nods as if going along with my litany of compliments about my boyfriend. “So respectful he kissed you without your permission in front of your teacher and all your classmates.”

  Warmth rushes to my cheeks. “How do you know he didn’t have my permission?”

  “I’ve kissed you before, Riley. I know what it looks like when you want it.”

  His words rob me of more than my ability to speak—for a moment, I can’t even breathe as a memory of that night flashes to mind.

  On instinct, I look at the scar that formed where the gash was. A few tendrils of dark hair have fallen across it now, but you can tell it’s not something he works to hide. It doesn’t bother him, that reminder of when his mother failed him and his whole life got ripped apart. He’s impervious.

  I’m too focused on the mark on his head to notice that I’ve been caught staring until his faintly amused tone drags my focus back to his beautiful brown eyes. “Like it? I do. Always makes me think of you.”

  That’s such a strange thing to say,
I feel myself beginning to blush again. I’m not much of a blusher anymore—at least, I didn’t think I was. “I suppose that’s better than other things it could make you think of,” I murmur, watching him for a reaction.

  I almost don’t expect one given his vibe so far today, but when I say that, I notice a flicker of hardness in his eyes, the faintest movement as he clenches his jaw. He overcomes it quickly and looks back at me with a clear expression.

  “Are you staying with her?” I ask.

  “Of course. It’s my house, where else would I stay?”

  Hunter’s mom moved away after everything happened, but she never sold the house and I never heard where she went. She returned a couple years later without the husband, but I’m not sure what happened.

  “Is Dennis gone now?”

  His jaw doesn’t clench this time, but the hardness that flickered through his gaze a second ago returns. “Yeah. They moved to New York for a while to get away from all the BS here. He went on a bender and cheated on her. I guess that was worth leaving over.”

  “You were worth leaving over,” I respond without thought. “Your mom’s an idiot.”

  The words spilled out without thought. He looks as surprised as I am to hear them. I almost expect him to get a little defensive given how protective of her he always was, but he merely smiles wordlessly, as if he appreciates my instinctive loyalty but won’t acknowledge it.

  Dammit, why is instinctive protectiveness over him springing back up?

  As I start to mull over the annoyance of that realization, Hunter slows to a stop. I don’t realize what I’m doing until I naturally slow to a stop with him and find myself standing here like a dumbass as he stops in front of his locker.

  His gaze shifts to me, curious, but he doesn’t linger too long, probably not wanting to spook me into realizing I should have kept walking. I glance away, wondering how awkward the recovery would be if I swerved now and started walking by myself instead of standing by his locker like I’m waiting for him.

  Before I can decide on a course of action, he starts talking again.

  “Aw, how sweet. You shouldn’t have.”

  The playfulness in his tone piques my curiosity. I focus my attention where he’s looking—at the front of his locker, where a shrine has been started. There’s a sign reading “Welcome back, Hunter!” in bubble letters with an abundance of pink and red hearts raining down around his name. Pictures of him with his friends—and stupid Valerie Johnson—are angled and taped above and below the sign, along with team spirit paraphernalia.

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh. You know I didn’t.”

  Hunter nods as he shoves aside some ridiculous curly ribbons hanging off the bottom of the sign and turns the dial to put in his combination. “That’s true. You would’ve probably just taped a new book list to the front of my locker, maybe attached a Mockingjay pin for a little pizzazz.”

  I bite back a grin. “That does sound like something I’d do.”

  Hunter smiles faintly and glances over at me, then goes back to exchanging books in his locker. When he goes to close the door, the ribbons get stuck in it and he sighs. “That’s gonna be annoying.”

  “Everything Valerie has a hand in is annoying,” I offer innocently, hugging my books and leaning back against the lockers.

  “I guess I don’t have to worry I’ve been forgotten,” he says lightly.

  The idea of anyone here forgetting him is so ridiculous, I scoff as we start walking again. “Yeah, no, you’re still a god around here. When you started modeling for your dad’s clothing line, I saw that iconic picture of you with the perfect pout looking out at the ocean from an Italian cliff like… every single day. People here are obsessed with you. Somehow your legacy has only grown in your absence.”

  At that, he smiles. “Hey, at least no one thinks you gave it up to a loser, right?”

  I look down, shaking my head at his gall. “Wow. Still not ashamed of that, huh?”

  “Someone had to be your first, why not me?” he says shamelessly.

  I shake my head. “God, you can be such an asshole. You weren’t my first, that’s just the lie everyone believes.”

  Hunter shrugs, then he gives me a little wink. “There’s still time, we’ll see what happens.”

  I stare at him, torn between reluctant amusement and utter annoyance. “That’s rather presumptuous, isn’t it? What makes you think I’m still a virgin?”

  With a certainty I find suspicious, he says, “I’m pretty sure.”

  My eyes narrow on his face. “Why?”

  Rather than answer me, he slows to a stop and points down a hall leading to a bunch of classrooms. “I’m this way.”

  “You’re evading the question.”

  As if innocent, he says, “I just want to make a good impression on my first day of school.” Then, dropping his gaze and nodding at the books clutched to my chest, he says, “You might wanna think about doing the same. We passed your next class a while ago.”

  My face falls and I lower my books, grabbing at the schedule on top and quickly looking to see where my next class is.

  Shit! He’s right.

  I look up at him just long enough to see the smug smile on his face before he turns and heads off down the hall.

  Frustration grabs hold of me. I don’t want him to get the last word, but I also don’t want to be late to my next class.

  Self-preservation wins out and I turn on my heel, hastily making my way back the way I just came.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Riley

  “Question.”

  Sara turns around, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights as I slam my hand down on the counter, my schedule sandwiched between my palm and the smooth surface.

  Wide-eyed and suspiciously tentative, she says, “Yes?”

  “How is it that Hunter Maxwell knows my class schedule better than I do?”

  Sara’s eyes widen even more for a split second, then she darts a gaze left and right to check for teachers—or worse, her mom.

  Sara’s mom works in the office, and Sara is an office aide during the period before lunch, so she’s just finishing up. Normally, I meet her here and we walk to the cafeteria together, but most days I wait outside the office.

  Not today. Today I am experiencing a strong sense of Et tu, Brute? and I want answers.

  I cock an eyebrow expectantly.

  Sara sighs and deflates, her shoulders sinking and her body hunching forward. “He may have asked for a copy of it before school this morning.”

  “Sara!”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Why would you give it to him?” I demand, wide-eyed. “And why wouldn’t you tell me? I didn’t even know he was back.”

  “He told me not to tell you. He swore he wouldn’t do anything evil with it.”

  “And you believed him?” I demand.

  She shrugs apologetically. “I made him pinkie swear?”

  “I am going to kill you,” I tell her.

  “Can you wait until after lunch? I’m starving.”

  “Only because it would be unkind not to allow one last supper, even if you are a Judas.”

  She wrinkles her nose up. “I am not a Judas.”

  “Tell that to the knife sticking out of my back. Empty your pockets, I wanna make sure he at least gave you your thirty pieces of silver.”

  Now Sara rolls her eyes at me. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “You are the second person to tell me that today.”

  She turns to stack a manila file folder on top of a mountain of them, then looks back at me over her shoulder. “And does that tell you anything?”

  “Yes.” I pause for a split second. “That you’re both wrong.”

  When she turns around, there’s a glimmer of anticipation in her eyes. “So, what did he do with it?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you. That’s confidential information only to be shared with friends—not double agents.”

  Staring at me as if I’m being
unreasonable, she asks, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to say no to Hunter Maxwell?”

  Why yes, yes I do.

  I guess I can let her slide this time.

  With a sigh, I tell her, “Anderson kissed me today.”

  Sara’s eyes widen. “What? Oh my God, I need details. How was it?”

  “It was in front of Hunter,” I say, since somehow that’s the only thing about it that seems memorable. “And my teacher. She thinks I’m a ho-bag now.”

  Somehow, her eyes widen even more. “Like on purpose? Does he know about you and Hunter already? Was he jealous? Was it a sexy gesture of possession to show Hunter you’re his now?” She sighs. “Why is your life so much better than mine?”

  I can’t help laughing as she quickly signs out of the computer and walks around the counter to join me. “It’s not, it has just been a day, let me tell you. And it’s not anything like you’re thinking. Trust me, there was no sweeping romance, there were no fireworks; it was just a quick peck.”

  She wrinkles her nose up. “He wasted the first kiss—in front of his rival—on a peck? He deserves to lose.”

  “Oh my God, would you stop? Hunter isn’t his rival. Before today, I hadn’t even spoken to Hunter in four years. And he hates me—he banished me to social Siberia before he left, remember? Not exactly the stuff of great romance.”

  She gives me another funny look. “Really? What kind of romance are you reading?”

  It’s a rhetorical question so I don’t bother answering. “Don’t give him any more of my information,” I warn her, even though I think she has already done all the damage she can.

  I haven’t changed my number since I got my first cell phone, I live in the same place, now he knows where I’ll be every hour of every school day…

  If Hunter wants to find me, he can.

  Still, I don’t want her helping him. I don’t know what he’s up to now that he’s back, but when he left, he promised to punish me for betraying his confidence. Maybe he’s over it by now, but just in case he’s not… it seems wise to be cautious.