The Boy on the Bridge

This revisionist history doesn’t settle well. It gnaws at me a bit, but it’s close enough to the truth that it only feels like half a lie.

I know my mom, though. It’s not in her nature to let something like this go unless she’s sure the offending party has been adequately punished—and even then she doesn’t really let it go, she’ll just stop actively pursuing it.

She went to bat for Hunter when she didn’t even like him. I’m her daughter.

“I know it wasn’t exactly gentlemanly behavior on Sherlock’s part, but Hunter already split his lip and Coach suspended him for a game, so... it’s over, okay? We’re all gonna let it go and move on. No real harm done.”

“This time,” she says, confirming my doubts. “Guys like that… the more you let them get away with, the more it convinces them they’re untouchable.”

“He didn’t get away with anything,” I tell her. “He behaved a little badly and was duly chastised. The end.”

“How pushy was he?” she questions.

“It was literally just a kiss.”

“You said he cornered you.”

I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I tell her, since I’m not confident in my ability to simultaneously protect both Hunter and Sherlock if I keep talking.

“Did he try to do more than kiss you?”

“No,” I say adamantly.

Mom watches me closely, a slight frown on her face. “You’re being really defensive about this, Riley.”

I should stop talking because I know she’s right.

Instead, what bursts out of me is, “I’m sick of everyone giving him shit about it. It was just a kiss. It didn’t even mean anything.”

Mom blinks at me, understandably thrown.

I huff, feeling mildly self-conscious about my outburst.

I don’t know what to say, though. It’s the truth.

I didn’t hate Sherlock. I still don’t. If I’d never met Hunter, I may have even welcomed his kiss.

No, I didn’t want him to kiss me that night, but I don’t want Hunter to be mean to him over it, either. Maybe I should feel flattered that he’s jealous over me, but I’m actually starting to get a bit pissed.

He was with Valerie and I didn’t go after her. Hell, I passed up opportunities to be mean to that girl, and she’s an asshole.

Sherlock was just looking out for Hunter. He didn’t really have bad intentions.

Hunter doesn’t need to go after his own friend over one little kiss. He needs to get a grip. Everyone needs to get a grip.

When I look back at my mom, her expression is wary, but guarded. That wasn’t how I intended to get out of this conversation, but I can tell it’s over. She won’t pursue this any further. Not right now, at least.

Her gaze drifts past me to my overnight bag. “Six o’clock, huh?”

I nod, looking down.

Attempting to inject a note of cheer into her tone, she says, “Well, I can give you a ride, if you want.”

My gaze jumps to hers. “Really?”

She nods, offering a tiny smile. “Yeah, why not? I’m gonna head over to Ray’s after, help him decide what he should bring and what he should toss when he starts packing. It’s practically on the way.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

Flashing me a smile, she says, “No problem. Don’t forget that promise, though. I want lots of pictures. Even kissy ones.”

I crack a smile. “I am not going to send you kissy pictures.”

Her smile widens, then disappears. “I mean it, though, okay? I’m gonna give Hunter a chance. A real one. I promise. Middle school forgotten—he gets a clean slate as of today.”

I stop what I’m doing and stare at her. “Really?”

She nods. “Really. I’m not guaranteeing anything,” she adds, raising her eyebrows. “He still has to make a good impression and not impregnate my daughter for 10 more years if he wants me to like him, but… I’ll be open-minded.”

“That’s all I’m asking for.” A smile claims my lips. Abandoning my packing, I cross the room and throw my arms around her. “Thanks, Mom.”

She wraps her arms around me and squeezes me back. “I love you, kid.”

“I love you, too.”

Chapter Forty Six

Riley

Mom drops me off at Hunter’s house. He told me just to let myself in when I got here, but even knowing he has the place to himself, I feel weird doing it.

“Hello,” I call out as I step inside the enormous entryway.

I ease the door shut behind me and wander past the foyer into the living room.

“In the kitchen,” Hunter calls back.

“Your house needs some kind of intercom system,” I mutter back, even though I know he can’t hear me. I make my way toward the sound of his voice, and stop when I approach a massive kitchen with a sprawling island.

A myriad of ingredients and cookware is spread across the marble surface. It looks like marble, anyway. Our counters are the cheap laminate kind from Home Depot, but whatever Hunter’s are made of, they’re much fancier.