The Boy on the Bridge

“Then you can come to work for me,” he says, smiling.

“I am not going to be your professional girlfriend.”

Mr. Lohman grabs a dry erase marker and starts writing on the white board. “All right, guys, I think everyone’s here. Let’s get started.”

Leaning over toward Hunter, I whisper, “And I want my house key back, too.”

Hunter leans over and whispers back, “I’ll give it to you if you come over tomorrow night after work.”

“It’s my house key,” I remind him. “You can’t hold it hostage.”

“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” he informs me. “The key’s mine now. If you want it back, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

I shake my head at him. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Actually, why don’t I pick you up from work? I have my mom’s car. Will you be hungry? I can make dinner.”

“It’ll be too late for dinner,” I mutter.

He nods. “Good point. Maybe a snack. How about a charcuterie board and a nice bottle of wine? I make a mean charcuterie board. Afterwards, you can take a nice hot shower. We never did get to all of them last weekend.”

“Has anyone ever told you no before?”

Hunter smirks. “Only you.”

I shake my head at him, but I can feel the indulgent gleam in my eyes. “Spoiled rotten.”

He leans over and steals a quick kiss.

I gasp.

“Mr. Maxwell,” the teacher says sternly.

Holding his hands up in playful surrender, Hunter says, “Sorry, Mr. Lohman. This one’s a temptress. I’ll try to control myself.”

“Oh my God,” I say, hiding my face in my hands.

Mr. Lohman tries to remain firm, but his eyes gleam with amusement. “See that you do.”

The teacher turns back to the rest of the class while I wait for the floor to open up and swallow me.

The newspaper kids are nicer than the average Hawthorne High student, so when I finally peek at them between my fingers, there’s no malice on any of their faces. They’re all entertained by Hunter’s antics, same as Mr. Lohman.

I shoot Hunter a narrowed look, but he’s completely unashamed about embarrassing me.

“What? You wanted to be kissed,” he whispers. “I was just obliging.”

Sighing heavily, I open my notebook and focus my attention on the teacher so we can get started on the actual work we have to do during this meeting.

I guess I should just be glad he did it in front of a nice teacher. If he’d have kissed me in front of Mrs. Dowd, she’d probably flunk me on the spot.

___

Stepford night is upon us.

To the rest of the world, it’s Saturday.

To Mom, it’s the end of living her life without a man.

Even though she loves Ray and she’s being a trouper about him moving in, I can tell she feels a little weird about it. It’s not that she’s having second thoughts or anything, it’s just that I’m the only person she has lived with for half of her life.

It’ll be an adjustment for both of us, but probably more for her than for me.

To distract her from her move-in anxiety, I proposed we make it extra fun. When we went on our shopping spree, she bought herself a floral dress and costume pearls to wear next time we watched The Stepford Wives.

So tonight, while Ray moves his stuff in, Mom and I are all dressed up. We made a nice dinner, and we’re going to make Ray watch The Stepford Wives with us after we’re finished eating—at the table, of course, like proper ladies.

Ray definitely thinks we’re dorks, but it’s nothing he wasn’t already aware of, so he doesn’t complain.

While dinner cooks and Mom and Ray unpack upstairs, I sit on the couch and scroll through the college course catalog on my phone. Ever since college crossed my mind the other night, I’ve spent a lot more time thinking about it.

Interrupting my scroll, Mom suddenly flops down on the couch beside me and sighs.

“Moving in with a man is strange.”

I lower my phone to my lap and look over at her. “How so?”

“It just is. I was just giving Ray his new toothbrush—”

“Was he surprised?” I interrupt.

“He was.”

“Does he love it?”

“He does. But, he’s weird.”

I chuckle. “What?”

“He thought we would share a toothpaste tube.” She makes a face. “Why would we share a tube of toothpaste? Can we not afford the extravagance of each of us having our own? Is that a thing couples who live together usually do?”

I frown. “I don’t know. What if you don’t like the same kind?”

“Exactly! I enjoy my white, minty paste. What if he goes for those crazy gel ones that are three different colors? Or what if he squeezes the tube from the bottom and gets mad that I squeeze it from the middle?”

“You can’t just stop squeezing from the middle. It’s a lifestyle choice.”

“See? You get me. We should’ve lived alone together for the rest of our lives. We could’ve become mother-daughter spinsters—each of us with our own toothpaste.”