The Boy on the Bridge

by Sam Mariano

  Birds chirp. There’s a gentle breeze. I close my eyes and breathe in the fresh air.

  It’s a nice reminder that there’s a whole big world outside of high school.

  I remind myself of that as I get comfortable against the base of the tree and finish my applesauce. I unpack my sandwich next and pop open the bag of chips.

  Since I’m alone, I might as well make this a working lunch.

  I don’t have my school books with me since I planned to have lunch with Sara, but I do have the moleskin notebook Hunter bought for the newspaper staff tucked in my Coach purse.

  I grab it and dig out a pen, then I start brainstorming story ideas and jotting down details while I eat.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when someone walks around the tree and penetrates my force field of invisibility. I half expect it to be Sara, but when I look up, I see expensive jeans and a letter jacket.

  Hunter.

  My eyes widen in surprise. I know he’s on top of his stalking game, but leaving his table at lunch? I imagine the whole social infrastructure might collapse.

  “Scoot over,” he says.

  I frown, but move over to make room beside me in front of the massive oak, anyway. “What are you doing?”

  He sits down beside me, resting his muscular back against the tree trunk and grabbing his container full of carrot sticks. “Finishing lunch.” He tips the cup in my direction. “Want one?”

  I narrow my eyes at him skeptically before snatching a carrot stick.

  Feeling compelled to reciprocate, I mutter, “You can have some of my chips, if you want.”

  He reaches into the bag and grabs a chip, then pops it into his mouth and looks over at my notebook. “What are you working on?”

  “Just jotting down some questions. I was thinking about doing an interview with some of the a cappella kids before the fall jam.”

  “Fall jam, huh? Are you going to that?”

  “I hope not. A cappella’s not really my thing, but if no one else wants to cover it, I will.”

  “Always taking the work no one else wants,” Hunter says, shaking his head.

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. You don’t have to do that, you know. You’re smart and talented—you should have your pick of assignments, but you’ve gotta be bolder. Take up more space. Stop letting people ignore you.”

  “I don’t mind being ignored most of the time,” I inform him. “I’m not like you; I don’t enjoy being the center of attention.”

  “Do you not enjoy it, or are you afraid of it?”

  “I don’t enjoy it,” I state. “I’ve had attention on me. I don’t like it.”

  “You’ve had negative attention on you,” he points out. “You haven’t felt the upside of popularity.”

  “I’m never going to. And that’s perfectly okay with me. I don’t want it. I think popularity kind of sucks, honestly. It’s not sour grapes, I’ve just observed it, and I haven’t liked what I’ve seen. Those people don’t like you for who you really are, they like a polished snapshot of you. They like a shiny, perfect veneer, an idea more than a real person. It’s all fake. It’s superficial bullshit. Who wants that? What’s the upside? I’d rather be valued for who I really am. Or hated for who I am.” I shrug. “Makes no difference to me. At least it’s honest.”

  A faint smile tugs at Hunter’s lips. His gaze lingers on me, but he rests his head against the trunk of the tree. “You always were braver than me in that regard. I guess some things don’t change.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’d rather be authentic and let the cards fall where they may. If people like you, great. If they don’t, fuck ’em, who cares? I admire the hell out of that.”

  “Oh.” I shrug. “I don’t think it’s an exceptional mentality, I just don’t see the advantage of fake friends. I genuinely don’t understand the appeal.”

  “You don’t care what people think,” he says easily. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “You shouldn’t care what people think, either.” I glance over at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Hunter smirks. “And you shouldn’t get excited by paper. We’re clearly very different animals.”

  I try to bite back a smile. “Hey, paper is awesome.”

  Shaking his head, he says almost affectionately, “Weirdo.”

  I lose the battle and smile as I reach for another potato chip.

  I can feel Hunter’s gaze on me. After a couple of seconds of silence, he says, “I never think about that stuff when I’m with you. I never have. It’s like you pull me into your world, and all of a sudden, mine looks really fucking stupid.”

  I can tell he’s being real when he says it, so I don’t glibly agree with him that his world is pretty fucking stupid. “You’re too good for that world,” I tell him honestly.

  He laughs a little. I look over at him and he’s shaking his head. “How can you say that after what I did?”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t have anything to do with that. They’re shallow people with the wrong priorities. Deep down, you’re not like them. Yeah, you’ve done some bad things. Those things suck,” I say, meeting his gaze so he knows I’m not letting him off the hook. “But you’re more than that. I never liked you because of your dreamy eyes or your Instagram following. I don’t care who your parents are or how much money you have. I just liked hanging out with you. I wouldn’t have enjoyed your company so much if you were strictly superficial. Honestly, your popularity is more an annoyance to me than a perk.”

  He shakes his head, still relaxing against the tree. “You know, I believe that.”

  “You should. It’s the truth,” I say simply, grabbing another potato chip.

  “I don’t hear a lot of that.”

  I pop the chip into my mouth and look over at him. “That must be rough.”

  He shrugs. “Kind of an annoying complaint, but yeah. Having nothing but yes-men around can make you lose perspective sometimes.”

  “Well, I’m happy to tell you no anytime,” I tell him glibly, flashing him a smile.

  He chuckles. “I appreciate that.”

  My smile softens, but lingers as I look down at the grass. It’s such a nice sliver of a moment, I wish he wouldn’t ruin it with more words. But then he does, and his words stun me.

  “Will you go to homecoming with me?”

  My heart doesn’t just sink—it plummets like it’s dropping fast down an empty elevator shaft.

  “What?” I ask faintly. Trying to wrap my mind around the request, I add, “Are you in the mood to be told no again?”

  He shakes his head, so deliberately vulnerable that I’m momentarily disarmed. “I’m asking for real. You dumped the purse-holder, so what’s stopping you? Go with me.”

  I can’t even find words to respond. Maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked. I know he likes me, and he hasn’t hidden it despite everything since Valerie’s party, but...

  Valerie.

  Frowning, I start to gather my food and shove it back in my lunch bag. I didn’t finish eating, but my appetite is suddenly gone. “I can’t go to homecoming with you, Hunter.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, why not?” I say, wide-eyed. “You’re dating Valerie,”

  “I don’t have to be.”

  I shake my head. “No. I came to your house and I warned you not to cross that line. You did. I don’t know when it happened, I don’t care, but the minute you touched her, you lost the right to touch me. I would have never slept with you that night if I’d have known. Now I know, so… never.” I push up off the ground and grab my things, then I meet his gaze. “You can buy a thousand phones, you can bombard me with presents, but my answer isn’t going to change. I’m never letting you touch me again.”

  He holds my gaze, unflinching despite my brutal rejection. “Tell me it’s because you don’t like me. Not because of her. She’s irrelevant. The only way I’ll accept no as your answer is if you really mean it, if you reall
y don’t like me anymore.”

  I slide my purse strap on my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if I like you. I’m saying no, and I really mean it. You fucked up, Hunter, and I’ve forgiven you for a lot of things, but not this. I’m never going to forgive you for this.”

  ___

  I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my cell phone resting in my hands.

  Biting down on my bottom lip, I try to think how to word the text message that I want to send.

  Hey Anderson, we need to talk...

  No, that’s not right. Too generic, too obvious. Says too much without really saying anything. Definitely not personal enough.

  I erase that and try again.

  I am trying to think how to start this message. There’s really no easy way to say this, but I think I may have been caught up in my feelings from the night before when we had that picnic last weekend. Getting back together felt right in the moment, but we’ve barely even spoken to each other since...

  No, not that, either.

  I backspace and try one more time.

  Do you think maybe we got ahead of ourselves when we decided to get back together? We hadn’t even been broken up for a full day. We didn’t really have time to process. I think it was a mistake.

  Still doesn’t look right.

  Sighing, I drop the phone on the bed and cover my face with my hands.

  After a few minutes, I pick it back up, but I close the message to Anderson and flip over to my chain of messages to and from Sara.

  Hey! How was lunch on the dark side? Were there cookies, or is that a myth?

  No, too glib when I feel so uncomfortable texting her.

  I never feel uncomfortable texting Sara, so this is new territory for me.

  Stupid territory. I hate it.

  I backspace all of that and try again.

  So, how’d it go? Did you get to talk to Wally?

  That’s a little better. Still not perfect, though.

  I don’t know what I want to say.

  I end up dropping the phone without sending any messages.

  I shove away the thought of unblocking Hunter’s phone number so I can text him. I don’t know what I’d say to him, either, but somehow it still feels easier than talking to Anderson or Sara.

  It has been a long, long day and exhaustion creeps up on me. I’m not normally one to take naps in the late afternoon, but I find my eyes drifting closed of their own accord and before I know it, I’m out.

  I jerk awake to the sound of my cell phone ringing.

  I grope groggily until I feel it under my hand, then I lift the phone and squint at the screen.

  A local number I don’t recognize, but it’s a phone call, not a text.

  I don’t think Hunter would call me, but I’m still half-expecting him when I clear my throat and answer the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hi, can I speak to Riley Bishop?”

  “This is,” I say, aware of the slight slurring of my words.

  The voice is cheerful, upbeat. Definitely not the voice of someone who requires a late afternoon nap. “Hi, Riley. It’s Debbie from Deb’s Diner. I’m calling because I have your application here, and I was wondering if you’d be free to stop in for an interview.”

  My eyes pop open. Suddenly awake, I shove myself up and sit on the bed. “An interview? Oh, yes, that would be amazing. When did you want me to come in?”

  “Would tomorrow afternoon be good for you?”

  “It would,” I tell her, a grin splitting my face. “Tomorrow would be perfect.”

  “Okay, great. Stop in anytime between 1:30 and 2.”

  “I’ll be there at 1:30. Thank you so much.”

  I feel much, much better about life as a whole when I get off the phone. The only problem is a moment later when my excitement ebbs, my head aches.

  I still feel a bit tired, but I should probably take an aspirin or something. I don’t have time to sleep, I need to get started on my homework. I’d like to get it all done today. Tomorrow I’ll be nervous about the interview, and Sunday I told Mom I’d go dress shopping with her for homecoming.

  Homecoming just makes me think of Hunter now.

  I can’t believe he asked me.

  I can’t believe I had to say no.

  Thinking about it makes me glum, and I’m already not in the best mood from all the unsent messages in my phone, so I don’t need more of that.

  I want to focus on something else, but when I open my phone to seek out a quick distraction, instead I find myself opening my web browser and typing in, “Is being tired an early pregnancy symptom?”

  Apparently, it is.

  The very first result reads, “Am I pregnant?” and promises a listing of all the early symptoms to look out for if you think you might be.

  My finger hovers over the little blue link, but I don’t tap it.

  I frown at my phone, then close the browser before I can be tempted to tumble down that rabbit hole.

  Being tired is also caused by not getting enough sleep, I remind myself. Lying awake at night, unable to stop thinking. Having your world turned upside down, being lightly stalked and constantly preoccupied, running from your problems and doing too much busywork instead of going to sleep at a reasonable hour.

  All things that could make me tired without the reason being that Hunter Maxwell put a baby in me.

  I don’t even want to consider that awful possibility, but it has been a week since I slept with Hunter, and it feels like it has been 300 days since my last period.

  I don’t carefully track my cycle, so I’m not exactly sure when I’m due. I don’t know if I’m late, or it’s just not time yet. I do know that slipping up and having unsafe sex has made me more acutely aware of things, so I need to try not to be paranoid about it. The more paranoid I get, the more convinced I’ll be that I’m seeing symptoms even where there aren’t any.

  Ugh.

  I lie back on the bed and close my eyes.

  I guess at least if he did ruin my life, I know the baby will be adorable.

  He probably didn’t, though. I’m probably worried for nothing.

  Logically, I know there’s no reason to stress out about any of this until more time has passed, that’s why I initially avoided thinking about it, and now here I am, thinking about it.

  I have to fight temptation again. I want to unblock his number and yell at him.

  I asked if he had a condom, dammit. And he did! Why didn’t he just put the damn thing on?

  It’s funny, Hunter warned me four years ago that if he came back, he’d ruin my life like I ruined his.

  I don’t think this was what he had in mind.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Riley

  Like the rest of my life, weekend doesn’t go to plan.

  Unlike the rest of my life, it’s for a good reason.

  The interview on Saturday goes really well. Deb gives me a “tryout” on Sunday, which means dress shopping with mom has to be moved up to Saturday.

  I can’t find a single affordable dress that isn’t awful-looking, that’s the worst part.

  Sara is also supposed to be dress shopping with us, but we still haven’t spoken since she sat with Valerie at lunch, that’s another bad part.

  I don’t even know if she’s going to homecoming with me anymore. Initially, we talked about her riding with me and Anderson since she can’t drive. I hope that’s still happening, but I guess I won’t know until we talk.

  In the dressing room, I turn to get a look at another angle of the wine-colored off-the-shoulder dress I’m trying on. It’s a fit and flare lace dress—which I’m sure my mom will give me shit about if I pick it since I gave her shit about the lace on the Stepford dress, but it’s the prettiest one I’ve seen today.

  Snapping a picture, I send it to Sara with a simple message asking what she thinks.

  “It’s cute,” she sends back a moment later. “Shorter than I expected.”

  I look in the mirror. It is short. The dress hi
ts way above mid-thigh; if the school dress code is enforced, it definitely won’t comply with the “all dresses have to go past your fingertips” rule.

  I didn’t intend to show so much leg, but this is the first dress I’ve found that I actually like.

  It’s also on clearance, which is a big selling point.

  I already made up my mind to use the money Hunter gave me to buy my dress, but I’ll need to buy shoes, too, and I don’t want to blow the whole $200 on my homecoming outfit if I don’t have to.

  I open the dressing room door and walk out to see what Mom thinks.

  Her face lights up as soon as she sees me. “Ooh, pretty! I like the burgundy. Twirl.”

  I roll my eyes, but I do a dramatic twirl for her anyway.

  She nods her approval. “Good spin circumference. I love it. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s really pretty,” I say, looking down at the dress. “It’s not red, exactly, but I still think it will go well with pig’s blood if that comes up.”

  She nods. “Definitely. Burgundy might actually go better with blood than red. It’s kismet. And isn’t this one on sale?” She walks over and checks the tag without even waiting for me to respond.

  “Yep. I think this is the dress.”

  After that, we go shoe shopping and pick out some black strappy sandals to go with it.

  On our way out of the mall, we pass baby clothes and my mood takes a hit. I try to turn my gaze way from the tiny shoes and big fluffy dresses for little newborn babies, but I fail spectacularly and a stomach ache ensues.

  Mom gets ahead of me as I slow down to look at a “daddy’s girl” bodysuit with matching pink pants.

  Do I think Hunter would be a good dad? He’s too young and he certainly didn’t have any good role models for most of his life, but maybe that would light a fire under him to do better for his own baby.

  Oh my God, his own baby.

  Panic starts to swell up. This is exactly why I’ve been keeping busy. Damn you, adorable baby clothes. Damn you all the way to hell.