The Boy on the Bridge

I shake my head, but don’t respond.

He stands there for a moment, waiting. When he accepts that I’m not swayed by the gifts he bought me, he gathers up the bags, but he slides them beneath my desk, not his.

“I told you, I don’t want them,” I say without looking up.

Without acknowledging I’ve said anything, he asks, “What are you reading?”

“Tolstoy.”

“That’s not for this class, is it?” he asks, glancing at the surrounding desks to see if anyone else has a copy.

“Nope.”

“Just a little light reading, huh?”

I focus harder, though I can’t digest a single word on the page. I don’t want him to know that, so I let my eyes travel across each line like I’m fully absorbed in the story and totally not distracted by him at all.

“Still not talking to me, huh?”

I say nothing.

“That’s not very nice,” he says.

My blood pressure shoots way up, but I can tell by his coaxing tone, that’s the response he wants. He doesn’t care if I yell at him for his audacity—I’ll still be speaking to him. Feeling things at him, even if it’s anger.

Nope. He’s not getting a rise out of me.

Crossing his arms and leaning forward as if letting me in on a secret, he says, “I’m supposed to be the mean one, you know.”

My eyes narrow on the page, but with some effort, I continue to hold my tongue.

“You’re the kind, considerate one,” he goes on. “I don’t mean to pigeonhole you, but without your calming influence in my life, God knows what I’ll get up to.”

That feels like an oh-so-subtle threat. He’s putting a nice, coaxing face on it because he’d rather be playful than wrathful, but… well, he’s flexible.

Still, I ignore him.

“Wasn’t it your buddy Tolstoy that said ‘Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women’?”

I finally look up at him, reluctantly impressed. “Your behavior is not my responsibility. And don’t think you can just buy me purses and quote Tolstoy at me and I’ll like you again.”

“Didn’t you get the flowers? I sent flowers, too.”

“Yes. I threw them away.”

“How ’bout the teddy bear?”

“Decapitated,” I lie.

“Ouch.” Hunter shakes his head, but seems undeterred as he finally takes his seat.

The teacher hasn’t said anything about his antics, but she has stood up and she’s looking in our direction. I guess he figures he’ll sit down before she has to.

Once he’s in his seat, he says, “That’s fine. I’ll just send more. Do you not like roses?”

“I don’t want flowers,” I tell him, flipping to the next page of my novel, intent on ignoring him.

“Then what do you want?” he asks.

“Peace and quiet so I can read until class starts.”

He reaches over and lifts the front of the book so he can glimpse the cover. “Anna Karenina, huh? Does Suzanne Collins know you’re stepping out on her?”

“My reading tastes have evolved,” I inform him, dragging my book closer to the right edge of my desk so he can’t reach it.

I hate how tempted I am to talk to him. I never want to speak to him again after what he did, but then he shows up and makes it so hard to ignore him.

“You like Tolstoy now?”

“I do. You know what I don’t like?”

His lips curve up wryly, anticipating my response before I can utter it. “Me?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know,” he says, deliberately skeptical. “You seemed to like me just fine when I was balls deep inside of you at Valerie’s house.”

The girl at the desk in front of him spins around to stare, eyes wide.

He knows people are paying attention, the bastard.

I want to kill him.

“Your girlfriend’s house, you mean,” I reply bitingly, letting him see the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t like sticking it to her, at least a little bit. You hate Valerie.”

“Not as much as I hate you,” I shoot back sweetly.

“That’s not true.”

He’s right, but I don’t bother letting him know it. Fixing my attention on the interaction taking place in black and white on the pages of my book, I tell him, “We’re done speaking. I’m busy. Go away.”

“This is my assigned seat,” he reminds me. “I can’t go any farther than this.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to go back to Italy, but it’s too mean.

I’m mad at myself for considering it too mean, but I do.

I don’t dwell on it. I’m still mad as hell and I don’t forgive him, I just refuse to stoop to his level. I refuse to be cruel just because he was.

Even if he deserves it.

“All right, everyone,” the teacher says, her gaze moving around the room. “It’s time to settle down. If you’ll close your mouths and open your minds, we’re going to start the week off right with an introduction to F. Scott Fitzgerald...”