Chapter 4
I’ve barely wiped my dusty fingers on my jeans when he takes my hand without asking. The right one, without the wound, and he holds it as if he doesn’t trust me. I immediately stiffen, and not just because of the contact.
What if he takes me straight to my dad? What if his name isn’t River McFarley and he’s not one of the good guys? What if he’s another Chester?
Heart pounding, I look at him as he leads me along the old track toward the forest. He doesn’t look at me but straight ahead at an unknown fixed point. It’s funny that I didn’t notice him sooner, but I was distracted—he must have approached from the other side.
Maybe he sneaked up on you on purpose. He has an obsession with the bizarre, remember?
Or maybe he fell from the sky.
At the edge of the forest, I see my bag lying on the ground like a wet animal. Didn’t he have a backpack with him this morning? I remember the strange seatbelt straps, carabiners, and ropes spilled out. Why is he carrying those around with him? For what reason?He ran in front of your car, Arizona said.
“You have to leave something behind,” River suddenly interrupts my thoughts. He’s stopped but continues to hold me.
I blink, uncomprehending.
“You didn’t jump, so you have to symbolically throw something off the bridge. Do you have something you want to get rid of? Maybe something in your bag? That’s yours, right?” No comment on its condition.
I nod. For some reason, I don’t question what he says. It seems crystal clear.
He releases my hand so I can go through my things but stays nearby. I crouch and notice his black boots in the grass; he shifts his weight back and forth. His smell envelopes me again, that combination of wild herbs, leather, and something sweet and bitter, smoky, possibly Jack Daniel’s—but it doesn’t disgust me.
I could challenge him and see how serious he is. I toy with the idea for a few seconds as I comb through the wet chaos of notebooks, sharpener shavings, and pencils. Everything is useless, including my belovedKansas’s Strange & Beautiful Wordsnotebook—a collection for the trash. I gently stroke the swollen pages and leaf through words and sayings in all possible languages from people like Rumi and Nietzsche.
Each night the moon kisses the lover who counts the stars.
There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.
Ari no longer writes anything in it for me anymore anyway.
I’d love to take the whole thing and chuck it into Willow River, except for the soggy photo of Mom.
I quickly stuff it in my pocket as River watches me like a hawk. A thought flares up in me: I have to go with him or jump. There is no alternative.
And then suddenly, I do it. I jump up, swift as an arrow, and run back onto the old wooden bridge—one step, two steps, three. On the fourth, I hear River chasing me. I haven’t even reached the point where the bridge floats above the abyss when Rivergrabs my arm. I kick at him, but he deftly avoids it. I try to break free by swinging at him, but he’s faster. And stronger. Within a few seconds, I’m on my stomach on the rails, one arm pinned behind my back, River half kneeling on top of me.
“Seriously, Kentucky, do you think I’m that stupid? Should I feel like you’re insulting my intelligence?” He’s not even out of breath while I’m gasping for air, which is exhausting. “What’s going on?”
I don’t know myself. For a moment, both of us remain silent.
“We’ll go back, and you’ll pick something to throw down,” River finally says, calmly.
He lets go of me but remains vigilant. I sit up, my heart pounding. What did I want to achieve with this crazy action? Did I want to see how serious he was about protecting me? Or did I want to run away? I’m no longer certain about anything.
Confused, I stand, and he grabs my hand again. Rather firmly. Alongside him, I slink to my bag. For some incomprehensible reason, I feel better, like a cat that’s tasted forbidden milk. He didn’t hurt me, not even when he pulled me down. So, he’s not violent, which is good, just damn attentive.
As we stand in the cool of the forest, I grab the handle of my bag and lift it up like a trophy.
He raises an eyebrow. “You want to get rid of everything at once? Must be quite some baggage.”
If you only knew, McFarley.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t trust you,” he says, this time grabbing my arm as we walk toward the bridge. He only walks up to where the abyss opens up beneath us. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”
I swing the bag back and forth a few times until it gains enough momentum, then throw it forcefully over the edge, where it briefly catches one of the steel struts protruding from the side.
“Pitching isn’t your strong point, is it?” River pulls me forward a few steps so I can watch it fall, but his grip tightens. Unfortunately, he hits a bruise from Chester, and I flinch.
