Chapter 27 #2
Before I had a chance to be thoroughly freaked out, the driver’s side door popped open, and out stepped Hudson.
I’d been expecting Bridge Boy, with his cotton candy-colored sweatshirt and his glasses.
That wasn’t what I got, though. The boy in front of me was in his full Grim Reaper glory.
He had on his leather jacket and ripped black pants, his combat boots loosely laced.
And the expression—it was so different from what I’d grown to expect.
It wasn’t cold, but it was distant, as if there were worlds between us instead of a few feet.
“Hi,” I said, but it was such a quiet whisper that I wasn’t sure he heard it.
Hudson’s expression didn’t change. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”
Flat. Emotionless. A bad sign. “I’m not going home until we talk.” My voice was firmer now, enough that I wanted to pat myself on the back for it.
“About what?”
“About—” I blinked in disbelief. “About the fact that you got yourself expelled, Hudson!”
He closed his eyes with annoyance painted on his face, visible even in the dark. “Just drop it, Gem. What’s done is done.”
“How could you not tell them I was the one who had the knife?”
Hudson folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the side of the van. “You think they’d believe that? That prim and proper Gemma Settler brought a pocketknife to school? One with my initials on it?”
I winced a bit at the prim and proper line, but I couldn’t tell if he’d intended for the blow to hit home. It was hard to fully see his expression with the glare of the headlights. “It’s the truth.”
“If it wasn’t going to be the knife, it was going to be something else they’d expel me for, Gemma. That’s how they work.”
“But that’s not how they’re supposed to work! They should be giving you options; they should be on your side—”
“If this school has taught me anything, it’s that the only person you can count on is yourself.”
Now that felt like an intended blow. Of course he was jaded by everyone else, but I couldn’t help but feel lumped with everyone else.
I had to swallow past the thickness in my throat, digging my nails into the stone of the bridge once more.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t start the fight freshman year?
” I asked him. “Why didn’t you tell me that they were the ones who targeted you? ”
“Would it have made a difference?” he demanded, voice a snap.
“Would it have made a difference if you knew that they threw the first punch? You wanted me to tell you that? You want me to tell you that there was so much blood in my mouth that I choked on it? You want me to tell you that I carried that knife in my pocket because I was so afraid that something like that would happen again? What would it have changed, Gemma?”
He was in his full scary mode, with his glowering gaze and sharp tongue, but this time, it didn’t make me cower —it made me angry right back. “You think I would’ve sat by if I knew the truth?”
“I don’t know. Would you have?”
“Of course not! I could’ve said something to my mom, to someone. I could’ve stuck up for you.”
Hudson turned and leaned against the van, tipping his head to peer at me. “You could’ve. But would you have?”
“What?”
“Would you have stood up to your mom about that? About me?” The cold wind tugged through the gap between us, punctuating the iciness in his words.
When he sighed, it almost sounded as if it shook a little.
“I don’t want to turn you against your family, Gemma.
And it’s all right. I’m not upset about it, okay?
I’m not upset about taking the blame for the knife.
I was the one who gave it to you, after all. ”
He might not have been upset about taking the blame, but I was. I was more upset by the finality to his voice, too, the way it clung to his voice like words unsaid. Suddenly, all of my unanswered texts weighed heavy in my pocket, like my phone had instantly turned into a stone.
Tee’s words from the night I’d stayed out with Hudson came back to me in an echoing clarity, even though that felt like a lifetime ago rather than a few days. He’s used to pushing people away. He’ll push you, too, if you let him.
“I—I can fight it with you,” I said, voice losing some of its confidence. “The—the school board, my mom, whoever—”
“Why?” The glare of the headlights was still bright, but even from here, I could see the muscle in his jaw clench. “What’s the point? What’s the point of fighting, Gemma?”
My heart squeezed so tightly that I thought it was going to burst, hearing the defeated tone to his voice. It weighed his words down like they’d been left out in the rain, dripping and cold.
“Just…get in the car. I’ll take you home, and we’ll forget about this.”
About us, he didn’t say, but I heard the words anyway.
We both stared at each other, unmoving. The temperature on the bridge had dropped several degrees since he’d shown up, but my shivering had turned inward, rattling my core.
What’s the point of fighting? The words rang from when he’d said them the very first day we met.
What’s the point of fighting if nothing will change?
These past few weeks had been a dream. We’d both gone through the days naively.
Working our way through the rebellion list had been fun, exciting, but eventually, we’d get to the last one.
Life wasn’t going to stay in that perfect, secret world forever, but neither of us were prepared for it to end this way.
I took a step toward him, wincing when I put weight onto my ankle, but fighting to not let it show on my face.
The closer I got, the more I could see that the blue depths of his eyes glimmered as if there was fire behind them.
Fire, or something else that was shiny. “I get why you didn’t try to fight your role over the years,” I murmured, voice thickening.
“It’s easier to be feared than afraid. To keep who your true self is hidden so no one can judge you.
Hurt you. You don’t like the dirt,” I added, bringing up our previous conversation the day I went to his house. “You only like how comfortable it is.”
“Like you,” he returned dully. “You like how comfortable it is.”
He was right, of course. Before the rose-colored glasses came off, I enjoyed it all. Them making decisions for me made things easier at times. There were never any complications. Life had been simple, easy. Comfortable. And there I was, ready to fall back into it.
He was also right about this—I couldn’t fight for him if he wasn’t ready to fight, either.
I couldn’t force him into a choice, like how my parents always forced me.
I couldn’t change his mind for him. The revelation settled like a boulder on my chest, crushing out the air.
“Maybe…maybe we both need to grow a backbone,” I said, the pressure behind my eyes building.
Hudson’s image turned wavy. “And see where we end up.”
Hudson didn’t reply, but I didn’t really expect him to, either.
Like we stood at the edge of the bridge now, we’d come to a ledge of our own.
We could go through a rebellion list all we wanted, but now we’d have to face the truth.
Life was much easier when you could pretend you were someone else, but we’d come as far as we could as these versions of us.
Hudson was right, prim and proper Gemma Settler couldn’t date the Grim Reaper.
It was time for both of us to walk away or jump.
I turned around and started down the road, leaving Hudson standing beside the van he’d driven.
I didn’t turn around to look either. My walk home wasn’t far, but I took my time, limping and thinking.
I couldn’t be upset with Hudson for not fighting his role when I barely fought mine.
I said I could’ve stood up for him, but Hudson was right—would I have?
Would I have stood up to my mother, thrown my brother under the bus, to clear Hudson’s name? A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have. Now…
Now, could I really put this all behind me? Could I really put all these memories in a box and pretend they never happened? Life would’ve been easier that way. I got my taste of rebellion, and I got the taste of the consequences.
But then again, after tasing the sweetness of freedom, after waking up from the storybook world I’d been in, could I really, really go back?
These past few weeks with Hudson were both blurry and vivid, like blips of a dream that weaved in and out of focus.
If I were to let him go, it would fade into more fuzzy than clear.
Ten years down the line, I’d remember the bad boy Hudson Bishop, but would I remember everything that came with him?
Would I remember Bridge Boy with his glasses and cotton candy-colored sweatshirt?
Would I remember the way Hudson smiled at me?
The way my stomach flipped whenever he did?
Ten years down the line, would I be living the life I wanted? Or would I be living the life my parents wanted?
I got to my house before I realized it, and from the street, I could see my bedroom window still cracked open. My curtains swayed with the wind, beckoning me back, and the light was still off. From how quiet and sleepy the house looked, no one had found out that I was gone.
I stared at the window. It’d be tough to pull myself back in, but I could do it. I could slip in and no one would know.
I turned at the sound of an engine down the road and caught a flash of taillights sweep down Willow Street—as if a certain someone had made sure I’d gotten home safe.
Walk away from the edge or jump off.
My feet carried me forward, up the sidewalk path, to the front door. And then, making my decision with a peaceful weight settling over my chest, I lifted my fist and knocked.
Jump off, it is.