The Boy on the Bridge

He doesn’t answer.

Shit.

“Where are you?” I ask again, more desperately. “Please answer me. I need to see you.”

Finally, he texts back, “I had to leave. I was gonna get suspended if I didn’t.”

“Where are you?” I ask one more time.

In lieu of an answer, he sends me another picture—of his view, I surmise. It’s the woods behind his house, the water beneath the bridge.

“Are you coming back for lunch?” I ask him.

“Nope.”

Sighing, I look around.

I’m conflicted. I don’t usually blow off school, but I need to talk to Hunter, and honestly, I’m worried he might feel pretty alone right now. I don’t want him to feel alone.

Making a decision, I head to my locker to get my things, then I slip out the exit doors and make my way toward the bridge.

When I get there, Hunter is sitting on the edge with his legs dangling over the water. It reminds me so much of that day I first stumbled across him.

Without saying a word, I ease my bag off my shoulder and sit down next to him.

Hunter’s still looking out at the water. I don’t expect him to say anything until I pry it out of him, but he surprises me by breaking the silence, his voice a lot calmer than I expect after that picture he sent me.

“I used to come here all the time when my mom and her husbands fought. She always seemed to be drawn to men she fought with a lot. Never made much sense to me. I couldn’t figure out why she’d want to be with someone she fought with all the time.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

“I asked her about it once. She told me it was much worse if you didn’t fight. That meant you didn’t feel anything very strongly. She said if you’re going to love someone, it might as well be someone who drives you crazy.” He glances over at me. “I never thought my mother was someone I’d take relationship advice from, but you drive me fucking crazy, Riley. Maybe I’m a hypocrite for telling Valerie to fuck off and find someone who actually likes her. I can’t stop chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught, either.”

His words knock some of the air from my lungs. They tug on my heartstrings and make me feel bad. Hugging his bicep and leaning my head on his arm, I tell him, “It’s not the same thing.”

“It feels like the same thing today.”

“It’s not.” I let go of his arm after a minute and straighten back up. “I used to come here all the time, too. When you were gone. I knew you wouldn’t be here, but it made me feel closer to you. I used to fantasize that maybe you’d be back in town for a visit and you’d stumble upon me.” I smile faintly at the memory, but my smile turns bittersweet now that he’s actually here. “Trust me, Hunter. I wanted nothing more than to be caught by you.”

“But then I came back and fucked it up,” he says, his tone even.

I nod. I don’t bother saying anything. We both know what he did.

“Do you like Sherlock?”

My heart sinks hearing him ask me that question.

I’m not sure.

“No,” I say. “I like you,” I add, because at least that’s the whole truth.

“But you won’t be mine,” he says.

I look down at the water, bracing my palms on the edge of the bridge. “I can’t. You know that.”

“You could be his, though. There’s nothing stopping you with him.”

“He’s your friend,” I murmur.

“I’m not so sure he is anymore. Next time I see him, I’m going to punch him in the face. I don’t think we’ll be friends after I do it for the second time.”

Looking over at him, I say, “Don’t do that.”

He meets my gaze, his brown eyes turbulent. “Oh, I’m gonna do that.”

“Then I’m going to be mad at you,” I tell him.

“That doesn’t make me wanna punch him less,” Hunter states.

I shake my head, looking back out at the water. “It won’t accomplish anything.”

“It’ll make me feel better,” he mutters.

“Will it?” I ask, looking over at him.

He looks down at the water beneath his feet. “No, probably not.”

My words are running dry today, so I wait to see if he has anything else to say.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna lose you,” he finally says.

I want to tell him he won’t lose me, but he knew I’d want to tell him that. When he’s open and vulnerable with me, I always want to reassure him and make him feel safe.

But I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep, either.

Instead, I tell him, “If you do, it won’t have a damn thing to do with Sherlock.”

His lips curve up as he looks out at the water, but it’s not a smile. It’s too cynical to be a smile. “Yeah, sure it won’t.”