The Boy on the Bridge

“I like him so much,” she whispers, as if he doesn’t already know.

“Even more evidence.”

Sighing, she leans her head against mine. “He’s just the best.”

I’ve never seen my mom this way—ever—so I know it must be a little outside her comfort zone to feel the way she does about Ray. I like it, though. I like seeing her happy, and I really like Ray. Not just because he makes Mom happy, but the relationship we’re starting to build, too. The way he seems to fit in and naturally complement our existing family dynamic… well, that’s not something I’ve ever had, either.

A dad isn’t something I’ve ever had.

If Mom would just get out of her own way, maybe we could be one of those annoyingly happy little nuclear families. I think it’d be kinda great.

My mom is more stubborn than I am, though, so I know she needs to get there on her own. Rather than continuing to argue that she’s being crazy fighting her feelings for this super great guy who is clearly serious about her, I merely drape my arm around her shoulder and give her a little hug back. “He is.”

Chapter Eighteen

Riley

The one place in this school that I do like is the library. For me, it feels a bit like a sanctuary. As soon as I pass through the doorway into this haven of books and solitude, a little wave of relief rolls over me.

During my free period I like to slip in here and sit alone at one of the round tables in the back. It’s quiet and free of distractions. None of the jocks ever come in here unless they’re forced to, so it’s the perfect place to work.

I have textbooks and pages of notes spread out all across the surface, taking up practically all of it. There are two empty tables beside me, so I don’t feel bad about hogging this one. If anyone else needs a place to study, they can take one of those.

At least, that’s the logical thing I’m pretty sure any non-sociopath would do when they see a person busy working and two completely empty tables, but my peripherals register a flash of red T-shirt and dark wash jeans and then someone drops their books onto the small area of table beside me that I don’t have covered up.

Are you kidding me?

Shoving down a flash of irritation, I start gathering my things to make space for the intruder. I stop when I glance up—to shoot him a dirty look, whoever he is—and my heart stalls.

Hunter.

He flashes me a smile as he drops into the empty chair beside me. “What’s up, bookworm?”

My heart does a somersault, but I try not to let it show on my face.

This is the first time we’ve spoken since I showed up at his house the other day, and I’m not sure where he stands. His tone seems friendly enough, so maybe he comes in peace.

Since it’s him, I stop cleaning up and begin to straighten my papers back out across the table. I’m sure he’s not here to study.

I want to ask him why he is here, but my brain can’t seem to formulate words. I don’t know if it’s because I was in the zone making notes and then he just showed up and interrupted, or if it’s the strangeness of seeing him here in a space I consider mine.

I guess the library isn’t truly mine, but I’ve never been in here with anyone before—this is something I do alone.

It’s something I could definitely see doing with him, though. The old Hunter, anyway. I could envision him coming to the library with me while I study, goofing off and thoroughly distracting me—rendering the whole study period useless, but I’d enjoy it so much, I wouldn’t be able to be mad about it.

When the new Hunter cocks an eyebrow expectantly, I realize I have to speak.

“Getting a head start on my homework,” I murmur, keeping my voice low since we are in the library. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping an eye on you,” he states casually as he folds his hands behind his head and leans back—rather theatrically, if I do say so myself.

“Really? You’re not even going to pretend you’re doing anything else?”

Unapologetic, he shrugs. “Lying to you was never my thing, Catnip. I’m surprised you expect me to. Is that something your ex-boyfriend did a lot of?”

I frown. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Kyle. Or… Evan. Peter?” He frowns, cocking his head and glancing up in thought, then says, “Christopher. It was Christopher.”

My eyes narrow on his face. I suppose he could be playing into the rumors Valerie has kept alive about me, implying I’ve been with so many guys, he can’t keep them all straight. It doesn’t seem like something he’d do, though.

“If you’re messing with me, I don’t understand the joke.”