The Boy on the Bridge

He smiles unkindly, as if he finds the idea amusing. “No. I’m telling you to make yourself single—and stay that way.”

My hopefulness dissipates pretty quickly, his words igniting a hot spark of irritation. “Why?”

“Because those were my orders and I expect them to be followed. Your purse-holder seems to have missed the memo. A little odd because everyone else got it just fine, but… hey, maybe he can’t read.”

I’m getting a little annoyed about his continued putdowns to Anderson, but I can’t focus on that because I’m too distracted by the words he isn’t directly saying.

“So… let me just make sure I have this right. You don’t want to date me, but you don’t want anyone else to, either?”

Hunter smiles. “See, this is why it’s more fun to fuck with smart girls. They catch on right away.”

“And that doesn’t seem…” I trail off, playing at trying to find the right words. “I don’t know, deeply and profoundly unfair?”

Hunter eases forward on the table, his amusement fading as he looks me in the eye. “It’s not about playing fair, Bishop. I came back for revenge—I told you I would. I didn’t come back to make your life better. Now, this is already a deviation from my original intentions. You took me off guard when you crashed my party, I’ll admit that. You made yourself vulnerable when I told you four years ago that the next time I saw you, I’d slice you open. It was a brave, crazy fucking thing to do, and I respect that.”

A chill crawls down my spine. I straighten, putting a few more inches of distance between us, but I don’t break his gaze.

“So, this is me taking mercy on you, Riley. This is me compromising. If you take me up on it, I’ll be a little nicer to you while I’m taking my revenge, but if you don’t… well, at least I can sleep easier knowing I gave you a fighting chance.”

I swallow down a lump in my throat, aware of heat creeping up my neck and coloring my cheeks. It’s not embarrassment. Oh no. It’s anger. White-hot anger.

For years I’ve been missing Hunter. He has visited my daydreams—and my actual dreams—on more than a few occasions. To be perfectly honest, I would’ve thought my knees would buckle right under me if he came back, grudge forgotten, and expressed any kind of romantic interest in me.

But that’s not what this is.

My knees show no signs of weakening, and I’m infuriated by these demands he’s making. They’re not like the “demands” I made of him. I didn’t want him with Valerie because it’s a bridge too far for me—that wasn’t even what I went to his house to tell him, it was something that clawed its way out of me even in the least justifiable circumstances. My words were more likely to be met with cruel disregard than any form of compliance, but even knowing that, I couldn’t hold them in. Those words came from a vulnerable place deep inside me. They didn’t come from a place of wanting to control him—they were borne of an insuppressible need to warn him not to do something I could never get past.

What he’s saying… it’s not coming from the same place.

I search his face for any indication of deeper feeling beneath the surface of his ugly words, but his eyes are clear, his expression calm, controlled. Stoic. He isn’t giving anything away.

This isn’t like the times I get a version of him that his friends don’t get. I thought maybe it was when he sat down and started a back and forth with me. He coaxed me into lowering my defenses by acting like we were friends again, tempted me in further by suggesting he’d play ball if I did, but looking into his eyes now… I don’t see even a hint of warmth.

A chill passes over me in its absence, a little pang of longing pinching me.

I want Hunter back—the one I knew in middle school.

He’s back, but he’s not the same.

Unbidden, the note he sent along with the necklace surfaces in my mind. I recall the tone of ownership that pissed me off when I thought it was from Anderson.

I don’t know if I would’ve felt the same way if I had known that day it was from Hunter, but right now…

Right now I’m thinking maybe I wasn’t entirely off the mark when I considered that some asshole jock might not have meant the ownership in a romantic capacity—I just didn’t know which asshole jock I was dealing with.

Now I do.

“You’ve changed,” I tell him, keeping my tone even.

Unperturbed, he says, “No, I haven’t. You just never saw this side of me before.”

I guess he’s probably right. Enough people told me Hunter was a bully that I probably should’ve believed it, but I fell into a trap I thought I was too smart for.