Also by Natalie D. Richards
Six Months Later
Gone Too Far
My Secret to Tell
One Was Lost
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Copyright © 2017 by Natalie D. Richards
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover image © Mike Dobel/Arcangel
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Paige
Theo
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Sneak Peek at One Was Lost
Back Cover
To all the kids the teachers call home about.
Theo
April 4
I stay in the car because I’m not welcome at the door.
Not today. I wouldn’t say Paige’s parents are ever friendly, but sometimes they’re all right with me. They definitely like to offer plates of food and comment on how skinny I am. It’s probably pity. Poor little ADHD boy, so troubled.
I’m not currently in the Pity Zone. Instead, I’m in the “We know your friendship with Theo is important to you, but we worry he isn’t a good influence” zone.
They’ve got a point. Paige and I got wrapped up too long last Sunday, and she missed curfew, which, to her parents, rates about as dire as smoking heroin in a church pew.
I don’t even know if I have a curfew. My parents don’t aim high with me. I think they’re happy any day I don’t wrap a car around a tree—which, in my defense, I’ve only done once. The other wreck was a light pole, and the car wasn’t technically totaled.
The light shifts on Paige’s lawn. I lean forward in my seat, looking. She’s on the porch, and that’s all it takes. My heart does all the annoying flippy shit it’s been doing for the past four weeks. How did that happen? Six years, she’s Paige. Now? She’s Paige, name encircled in hearts and floating in a fizzy bubble behind my ribs.
She’s mostly hidden behind the giant shrub by her front porch, but I’m all caught up over half glances of strappy sandals and bare elbow. This is ridiculous. I need to man up. I have to tell her… Hell, what am I going to tell her? Hey, Paige, you know how we’ve been friends for like four hundred years or whatever? Yeah, well now I want to…what? Hook up with you in the front seat of my shitty Honda? Gross.
Paige is fiddling with the lock, which always sticks. Two years ago, I bet her I could go inside, up the stairs, and out through her bedroom window before she got it locked. I made it halfway down the front of the house before the trellis snapped. God, her mom was pissed.
I tap the steering wheel and check my phone. Then my zipper, then the neighbor’s TV that I can see through their window. The car’s front windows are cracked open because the cherry air freshener in here is new and strong, but the air outside smells like overripe lilacs, which isn’t much better, and if she doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to start honking.
Suddenly, I hear the soft patter of her feet against the walkway. The yard is dark, so I can’t really see her until my car door snicks open and there she is. She’s wearing a…sundress? Interesting. She also smells like lemon drops and something flowery.
“Took you long enough,” I say.
“Patient as ever, I see.”
“You know I like to put the H in ADHD.”
Paige doesn’t laugh, but her eyes crinkle up at the corners, and she doesn’t get on me about the shit all over the floor, even though some of said shit is a packet of notes I failed to turn in with my World War I paper last week. Distinctly low-key for Paige.
I fling the crap into the backseat with a grin. “Oh, hey, I found my history notes.”
“I see that.” She fastens her seat belt. “Do you know how to get there?”
“I have party radar,” I say, tapping my temple. “You know this.”
“I know you’ll end up taking a shortcut that adds ten minutes.”
“Relax. We’ll drive southeast until we hit the river. Then we’ll look for the rickety-ass bridge hovering a million feet above the river.”
“Fifty feet.”
“A million feet, fifty feet…who cares? The question is, will you finally agree to walk across the stupid thing tonight?”
“Not likely,” she says, but she’s not pissy. She’s checking her phone. Smiling.
“What is it about that bridge that bugs you so much? You used to be fine on there.”
Paige turns up the music in response. It’s my fault. I know better than to bring up her anxiety stuff, but as usual, I can’t seem to help myself. For a second, I’m annoyed, but then the music snags my attention.
Four songs in, Paige flips down the passenger visor, a tube of something pinched between her thumb and forefinger. Is that makeup? I turn to her and laugh.
“Theo!”
Curb! I jerk the wheel to the left just before I clip it, swerving a little into the oncoming lane.
“Will you watch where you’re going?” she asks.
“I do watch. At least half the time, anyway. Isn’t this why you usually don’t apply makeup in here?” I mean it as a joke, but she snaps the visor closed.
“That car behind you is getting annoyed,” she says, glancing out the back window at whoever’s behind us.
“He can
bite me.” I shrug. “And what’s with the makeup? You don’t need it.”
“I’m serious. He’s really riding your tail.”
I glance up in time to see a shiny fender and a wide white hood in the rearview before it swerves around us to pass, laying hard on the horn. I tense, pushing the accelerator to the floor.
“Asshole,” I say, gunning it.
“Don’t,” she murmurs, but her voice is lost behind the lightning-fast roar of my anger. Screw this guy. Who the hell does he think he is?
He speeds forward, and I swerve, tires inching over the line into his space. Paige sucks in a hard breath. I should stop. Some small part of me knows this would scare her, that it is scaring her. But that voice is behind a wall of rage, and my foot mashes against the accelerator harder.
Doesn’t matter, though. My ancient Civic—handed down through all three older brothers and the only car my parents will trust me with now—shudders. The Chevy sails past.
I pump the gas again, swearing at the asshole as he flicks me off in his rearview mirror. Then Paige’s hand is on my arm, cool and soft. It’s like a remote-control reaction, a pause button on my fury.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Her breath shakes, but her voice is steady. “We’re okay.”
My anger evaporates, water steaming off hot pavement. I ease off the gas and turn to look at her. Her hair is waving around her shoulders as she fiddles with the radio. Her hands are trembling, and she’s pale. Not exactly how I wanted this night to go.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know,” she says, her smile tight. “Not our first rodeo. It’s gotten worse, though.”
“Me being an asshole driver?”
“Pretty much.” Her laugh almost makes it okay.
And hell, I don’t know what to say. So I go quiet, and she plugs in her phone and finds a song she loves about everything changing. Paige is singing along when she leans closer to roll down our windows more. Her controls are broken, so she snakes her arm across to use mine. Her hand grazes my stomach, and I startle. She’s killing me. And she has no idea.
The song is going on about a long drive. I need a longer drive, or I’m never going to talk to her about this. But Paige bobs her head and my shoulders relax, and ten minutes later, we’re in Portsville. Paige checks the mirror again. I try another angle.
“You really don’t need to fuss. You look great.”
“Ugh, it’s stupid,” she says, closing the visor again. This time she’s not mad; she’s tense. We turn left on Turner, and she nods up ahead. “Isn’t your uncle’s house up there?”
“One street over.”
“Are we parking there?”
“Less likely to attract a cop’s attention. You know I always look like trouble to a cop.”
“That’s because you usually are trouble.”
“Not when you’re there to keep me in line.”
She laughs, but checks her phone again, and this would be a whole lot easier if she’d stop texting for five minutes so I could attempt to flirt with her.
I park in front of Uncle Denny’s house. There aren’t any lights on, but it’s a quick walk to the bridge, and Denny’s cool enough not to mention us being here. We walk through streets of sagging, clapboard houses and kitschy antique shops in the Village. The Village is the south side of the river—artsy and crumbling and almost pretty if you don’t look too close. The tourists love it, but those same tourists leave at five when the shops close. They’ve never seen it at night, when the people who live here roll home in work-stained clothes and rusting pickups.
We’re still a couple minutes from the bridge when the first campus building comes into view on the north side of the river—a white cupola perched at the top of a brick tower.
“I wish I knew if I got in,” Paige says, gazing in the same direction.
“Please. Your GPA is like 4.8.”
She glances at her phone, smirking. “I’d need a lot more AP classes for that.”
“I’m just saying, you’ll get in. Though God knows why you’d want to.”
“The summer program is for college credit,” she says. “Plus, I get to spend four weeks in Chicago.”
“And the other four you’re trapped testing river water in Portsville, hellhole of the heartland.”
“Every summer, this is where you end up.”
“Maybe for now,” I say, but I know better. Uncle Denny’s been teaching me the contracting trade for years, and it’s one of the few things I’ve managed not to quit.
It’s a decent gig. There’s no sitting still or long, dry-as-all-hell articles to read. It’s loud music and constant movement, so not the worst job for someone like me.
Paige stops short when we turn onto Pearl Street. That’s when we can see the bridge.
The Cheshire Walking Bridge is a mess, originally for trains that would carry goods north and south from the river. Then the trains dried up, and the town cobbled together a walking bridge on the west side, a ribbon of weather-stained planks moving joggers and antique shoppers across the water. Probably easier than tearing the bridge down.
From a few angles, with the right camera, it’s gorgeous, but mostly the bridge is a sun-blackened relic of eons past, stretched precariously over the mouth of the Muskingum River.
On the far side, the college buildings rise, all bright brick and inviting warm lights. But we’re not crossing the bridge. We’re headed down the staircase to the left of the entrance to the docks below. Music drifts up from those docks, and Paige’s shoulders climb higher with every breath. I can see the faded canvas awnings of a few pontoon boats down there—the party—and I can also see Paige is nowhere near ready to deal with it.
I scuff my foot and pause. Not a lot of options. We’re at the end of a dead-end road. We could go down to the party or back to all the closed-up shops and cafes. Or we could take a walk down the old railroad tracks.
Unless I could talk her into the bridge.
I nudge her shoulder. “Come on. We’ll spit off the side.”
“I hate this bridge. Also? Ew.”
“You hate this bridge because you believe it’s haunted.” I waggle my fingers at her for effect. She stares at me like I’m an unimpressive homework assignment.
“I’m probably one of the few people who doesn’t believe that. It’s not haunted. It’s structurally unstable.”
I shrug and start up the ramp. “We won’t go out too far. Come on, what’s the deal? We used to run across this thing all the time.”
“I didn’t—” She stops abruptly, pressing her mouth closed like she’s not sure how to explain. “The last time I was up here, it was a bad day.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember,” I say, but I don’t have a hard time believing it. “Did I piss you off?”
“No, it wasn’t… You know, forget it. Let’s just go. It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to go out too far.”
“Cross my heart,” I say, and then we’re up the ramp, at the mouth of the bridge. The party beckons below. Everyone’s careful to stay under the boat canopies so they don’t get busted, and the music is pretty low. Mostly, there’s the creak of the ropes, the tinkle of wind chimes, and the occasional thin whine of laughter. Almost sounds like sobbing from up here.
Paige hesitates, staring first at the boats and then the bridge.
I point at the long-defunct tracks beside the wooden walkway. “Trains used this bridge, you realize.”
Of course, there hasn’t been a train for years, and the wood between the tracks looks rotten. Great hunks of missing timber reveal the dark streak of river below.
“All I can think about is falling,” she says, but she walks out a few feet anyway.
I shrug because even if the wood pla
nks are warped, I’m pretty sure the frame of black steel crisscrossing in arched beams over our heads extends underneath us too. Two summers ago, a paddleboat slammed into one of the cement supports below. They closed the bridge and checked it over for days, but in the end the old bastard held. But I’m not going to bring that up, because Paige is inching her way across it for the first time since…
“How long has it been since you’ve been up here?” I ask, still curious about that bad day. “What were we, thirteen?”
“Fourteen.” Her tone makes it clear that’s all I’m getting out of her on it, so I let it go and stroll on, dragging my hand along the railing.
Padlocks, every shape and size, hang from the rungs on the bridge’s railing, some even hooked into holes along the support beams. It’s a thing. Initials on locks. Locks on the bridge. It’s supposed to mean eternal love or some bullshit. A little morbid since this bridge is also supposed to be Suicide Central.
I fiddle with them so I won’t rush her, but I can tell my feet clunk too hard against the boards for her comfort. I’d fix it, but I don’t know how to walk quietly. I don’t know how to keep anything quiet. Except, apparently, the way I feel about her.
A third of the way across, she stops, moonlight casting a weird blue glow over her hair. For a second, I think she gets caught up in the view. She touches the railing, her face tipped toward the moon. Then she turns to me, eyes wide.
“I left my gel stuff in the car,” she says.
“I have some.”
She looks at me. “You have antibacterial gel. On you.”
She doesn’t believe me until I toss the bottle to her. “I come prepared.”
“You’ve been known to forget your shoes,” she says, but she takes it with a smile. “Did I leave this in your car?”
I shrug, because I can’t bring myself to lie about it, and I can’t spit the truth out either. I bought that stupid bottle, which makes it pretty damn clear how far gone I am.
“Every once in a while, I like having you around,” she teases. It’s the kind of thing she always says, and for six years I somehow missed how easy it is with her, how perfect it is.
This is stupid. I need to tell her how I feel.