Thornbird

Chapter Thirteen The Bridge

thirteen

The Bridge

“You have to fill me in on everything!” Jasmine begs the next evening as I’m twirling my hair up into a claw clip in front of our bedroom mirror. “Where did he say he was taking you again?”

I shrug. “He didn’t.”

“Probably the lake. That’s where everyone goes to hook up.”

“I’m not hooking up with him.”

She flops onto her bed and rolls over to look at me. “Ha. Like you can resist.”

I don’t even want to think about that. I’m nervous enough as it is.

I stare at my reflection, feeling like an absolute fraud.

How on earth is this date a good idea? I’m not hiding a few secrets; I’m concealing a whole life.

Any relationship that’s based on a lie is doomed for failure, and suddenly I wish I never agreed to go out with him.

There’s no way this ends well and I’m stupid for thinking it can.

It’s like holding a glass bubble in my hand, watching the tiniest crack form while trying to convince myself it won’t eventually shatter.

Things always shatter.

My hands shake as I brush a few loose strands of hair back into place. Then I twist the silver ring on my finger, my nerves making me fidget, but the ring only reminds me that I’m not wearing my necklace.

“Are you going out tonight?” I ask my cousin, trying to distract myself.

“No. Con and I are staying home to put together a map.”

“A map of what?”

I instantly regretting asking when she says, “Possible burial locations.”

Shit. I was hoping she’d given up on this ridiculous mission of hers.

“I didn’t realize you were still looking,” I say in a careful tone.

“We haven’t even started looking. This is just the preplanning.

I’ve combed through all the true-crime sites, watched all the videos.

I read the confession, the transcript of Uncle Psycho’s sentencing hearing.

I even read the prison letters he wrote to his kid.

Oh my God, Ryan, you should read them. There’s one where he sounds like he’s on acid or something, just rambling on while he tries to convince her he didn’t rape those women. ”

My stomach churns again. This time it has nothing to do with my impending date.

“That’s my cousin,” Jasmine suddenly says. “Like, since I started reading up on this case, it keeps hitting me, you know? Con and I have a whole-ass cousin out there we’ve never even met. Mom said she was adopted after Aunt Sarah died. Poof! Never to be seen again.”

I’m on the verge of throwing up. I take a breath, sucking oxygen into my lungs, hoping it will ease the nausea. The guilt that now burns in my gut.

Jasmine notes my expression and grins wryly. “I bet you’re relieved to be on the Shipley side of the family, eh? Mom’s side is so fucked up.”

Eager to put an end to this conversation, I do something desperate: I consult my cousin for a fashion opinion.

“Do I look okay?” I ask, fixing my flannel.

“No. At least show a little skin.”

She should know by now that destroyed jeans, flannels and hoodies, crop tops, and combat boots are my style. So far, it hasn’t turned Everett off in the least. Still, I take her advice and unbutton the flannel, leaving it open to reveal the midriff top and a sliver of my belly. “Happy?”

If she is, she doesn’t look it. When the doorbell rings, she races off to answer it.

I find my aunt, uncle, and Jasmine chatting with Everett in the living room as if he’s a lost member of the Shipley family.

They clearly love him, and he’s effortlessly charming around them.

At dinner, when I told them I was going out with him, they both beamed.

I guess their strict dating policy for their kids doesn’t apply to me, which is a relief because I wasn’t looking forward to a lecture.

But all I got was “He’s a very nice boy,” from Maggie, while Uncle Dan added, “Hell of a football player.”

Prince Charming that he is, Everett opens the door of his pickup for me and, when I’m getting in, says, “You look really pretty tonight.”

I don’t look any different than I do in school, but I appreciate the sentiment. “Thanks.”

The truck isn’t new, but it’s well-kept and actually clean, which is saying a lot for a teenage boy. Country music plays at a low volume. I can’t make out the song, but it reminds me of my father. He always used to have country music on in the house.

My expression must reveal something, because Everett turns it down and says, “What’s wrong? You don’t like country?”

“I don’t know. We don’t listen to much of it in All—” I bite my tongue. “In Europe. It’s not really popular. You like it?”

He nods, turning to grin at me. “You know, cowboys out West used to sing songs to their cattle in order to prevent them from stampeding. That’s part of where it came from. It soothes the savage beast, I guess you could say.”

I manage a smile. I wish it had worked that way for my dad.

As I watch the little evergreen air freshener swaying from the rearview mirror, I say, “So are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope. I told you it’s a surprise.”

This had better not be the Starling make-out spot like Jasmine predicted.

But when my stomach flutters at the thought, I suddenly realize maybe it’s not entirely unappealing, the idea of kissing this guy.

As long as it’s just kissing and he doesn’t expect anything more than that.

The first time I had sex with Marco, it was awkward and embarrassing. But kissing? I can handle that.

I clasp my hands in my lap, twisting my fingers together.

“You look nervous,” Everett says. His smile broadens. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal. I have that effect on girls.”

The cocky comment succeeds in relaxing me. I laugh, rolling my eyes at him. “Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.”

“Seriously, though, you good?”

“I guess I am a little nervous. I’ve never actually been on a real date before.”

“Wait, really?”

“Really,” I confirm, my cheeks heating up. “I mean, I had a sort of boyfriend back at my old school. But we never went out on, like, dates.”

“So what did you two do?”

“We hung out at his place, or mine. Or at school. Nothing official like this.”

“Well, then I guess I have to make sure this one is memorable.”

When the truck comes to a stop, the sun is beginning to set, casting dusky shadows on the gravel lot.

Everett grabs a flashlight from the center console and meets me at the front of the truck.

He takes my hand, fingers entwining with my own.

We walk in silence until I see it between the trees, silhouetted against the sky—it’s a swinging bridge.

At the entrance hangs a wooden sign that reads pedestrians only—four at a time.

I can see why. The second Everett steps onto the first wooden plank, the ground seems to sway beneath him.

I hesitate.

“You okay?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. When I don’t say anything, he comes back, linking our fingers again. “I promise you, it’s safe.”

“It’s so shaky,” I say as I follow him onto the bridge. We walk a little farther, wobbling the whole way. “What’s on the other side?”

“You can’t go there. It’s private property.”

“So then where are we going?”

“Right here.” We’re almost in the middle of the bridge. With a faint smile, Everett gently turns my body so I’m facing in the other direction. “Look.”

From here, I can look out over the river, where the sun is setting, making the water’s surface glow like a line of molten lava. The sky is all shades of pink, orange, and lavender, and truly breathtaking. It’s the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.

“Oh” is all I can say.

I stare at it, mesmerized, but not too mesmerized to notice when he puts his hand on my hip and leans in close, his cheek against my temple. It feels nice.

We stay like that until the sun melts behind the hills. That’s when I look down and notice the locks. Just a few of them, attached to the chain-link fence on the bridge’s side. “Oh, hey. These are like the ones in…”

“Paris,” he supplies.

“Right. The Pont des Arts,” I say, the name coming to me.

“This is Starling’s own redneck version of that.” He bends down and touches one of the locks. “Got a crowbar?” he jokes.

“What?” I lean in and study the silver lock. I can just make out part of a name painted on it in purple: SOFI

Sofia.

It suddenly clicks. “Wait. Is that yours and Sofia’s?”

His answering grin is cynical. “More like Sofia’s and Sofia’s.”

“You used to take her out here?”

“No. We never came here together. I suggested it—would’ve loved to show her this sunset—but she always said no.

Too many bugs, she complained. When it came to us going out, I didn’t have much of a say in anything.

” He shoves the lock with his hand before straightening to his full height.

“She put this on here a couple months ago and sent me a picture of it. As if it’d make me change my mind. ”

I tilt my head and look at him. “Why’d you break up with her?”

Everett faces out toward the river. He leans against the railing, running his fingers along its splintered edge.

“Because I couldn’t deal with it anymore.

With her. Everyone always thought we’d be together, but no one more than Sofia.

She made all the decisions, and I was supposed to go with them.

It was cute at the beginning, how invested she was in us, but I got tired of being ordered around all the time.

I broke up with her after junior prom. And she…

” He lets out a defeated sigh. “I don’t think she wants to accept it.

I think she thinks I’m just going through a phase and will come back to her. But I’m not. It’s over.”

“I can tell she still cares about you.”

“No. Sofia only cares about Sofia. And being part of the perfect couple. She always used to go on about how the queen has to have her king. I guess that’s me. But I don’t want that. I want to abdicate.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“Anyway.” He shrugs. “Enough about exes. I didn’t bring you out here to talk about any of that.”

“What do you want to talk about, then?”

“You.”

Discomfort shifts through me. “Me? Why?”

“I mean, I just spilled all my secrets. It’s your turn.” His blue eyes are a bit intense as he studies me.

My lips feel dry all of a sudden. I take a second to moisten them. Meanwhile, my insides twist harder, unhappy with this line of questioning.

“I don’t have any secrets,” I respond in a light tone. “I’m actually pretty boring.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true. My biggest secret is…maybe that I dyed my hair black once? It looked terrible.”

“All right. Fine. Be difficult.” He thinks it over. “What’s something you love? Like, really love.”

“Um…” I hesitate, biting back answers that feel too close to the real me, things I can’t reveal. “I love being outside. The woods, the lake, stuff like that.”

“ ‘The woods, the lake, stuff like that,’ ” he mimics. “You need better favorite things, Gemini.”

“Because your favorite things are so original? Oooh, football!”

“I’ll have you know, the thing I love most in the world?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Pie.”

I break into a loud laugh, triggering another smile from Everett.

“See? That’s what I like,” he says, leaning in closer. “You, laughing like that—no filter, no trying to be ironic or cool.”

“Trying to be cool? Sorry, Everest, but I don’t try at all. I just am.”

We stay out on the bridge for a while longer, before it gets too dark to see and the bugs do indeed make an appearance. Everett suggests hanging out in his truck instead, so we walk back to the parking lot, where he opens the door for me and bows with a little flourish that makes me giggle.

When we’re sitting in the dark pickup, he starts the engine so that the dashboard’s glow is the only light. A slow song plays on the radio.

“Oh, I like this song,” I say, and he turns it up for me. We listen for a minute, until finally I sigh and glance toward him. “You know…you’re not the self-absorbed jock I thought you were.”

He chuckles. “Really? So I’ve managed to fool you too? Damn, I’m good.”

We lock eyes across the front seat, and then he leans in, bridging the distance.

He places a hand behind my neck and brushes his lips against mine.

When I don’t resist, he nibbles on my lower lip, and when I part them, he deepens the kiss, his tongue meeting mine.

It’s a slow, sweet kiss at first, but it doesn’t take long before we’re both breathing hard.

I’m just getting into it when the song fades off and a voice starts reporting the news.

I hear the name Gabriel Thorn and my body instinctively tenses, the mood totally ruined. I pull away and focus on the radio, shushing Everett when he tries to talk.

“They’re talking about that serial killer,” I tell him, and his expression clouds over.

“—due to supply issues for lethal injection drugs, the prevailing method of execution in the state of Tennessee, Thorn was given the option to stay his execution until the drugs are available, or to opt for electrocution at the end of this month. He chose the latter method, which has not been used for an execution in several years but is an option given to any death row prisoner convicted prior to 1999…”

Electrocution.

I suck in a breath, my lungs screaming as if they’ve been deprived of oxygen for days. My father had the option to live a little longer—and he chose to have an electric current forced through his body.

He’s choosing to die.