God, I hate that bridge,I think as I look at the ceiling. Like truly hate that bridge. When I was a kid, one of the girls at my school wanted to jump from it because her boyfriend cheated on her. Then there was a kid who was bullied and came to the same bridge. There was an old guy who came there when his wifedied. I’ve seen my own brother eye that bridge a few times before Freya came to town.
The thing is, even though there were a lot of bad thoughts on that bridge, nothing bad had ever actually happened, and I want to keep it that way.
The girl with the cheating boyfriend? She met a guy whose car broke down at the same time, and as far as I know, they married and moved to New York.
The bullied kid? A coach from the karate school in Springfield drove by and noticed him. Now, the bullied kid is our very own karate kid, and he won some federal-level championship. The whole town celebrated.
Then that old Irish guy. It was Kayla who noticed him. He was the regular patron of the diner she worked at, and she knew him well enough to know he needed help. Turned out the guy had a grandson. Well, before, he had a son, but it was actually his grandson who came to town and stumbled upon the diner since it’s on Main Street.
When the old guy was young—can someone give me a Pulitzer for the mind-blowing phrasing here—his high school sweetheart moved out of town when he came back from WWII. And guess what? She was pregnant with his baby. His son died a long time ago, but his grandson had been looking for him ever since.
A great story I wanted to write about at some point, but when I met the old man, I felt like he didn’t want his story to be told—he was too settled into his quiet happiness. And a good reporter should know when to back down.
The point of all of it is that I hate that bridge. Good stories with happy endings come from it, but I don’t want to get involved in making it someone’s end. It’s too much responsibility, and I can’t carry it.
And yet somehow, somewhere, I got tangled with this man who refuses to let anyone call him by his real name (even though he introduced himself to me with it) and who talks to me like, well…that.
Likethat. Like I’m a woman and not just someone’s sister. The fact that everyone around seemed to miss it.
My phone pings in my pocket, and I take it out. When I read the notification, I frown—a few weird messages have come in recently. The sender’s phone number is hidden, so I can’t see who it is.
I tried to ignore it at first, assuming it was some prank, but the more I get them, the more uncomfortable I become, feeling like they’re sending it to the right person, and I just don’t get the meaning.
You still don’t get it, do you? They told me you’re smart. But I don’t think you are. You like to stick your nose in places where it doesn’t belong. And you must pay for it.
I look around as if hoping to find the person who’s pranking me, but I don’t find anyone, of course. I’m at my parents’ house, after all.
Archie and his antics are immediately forgotten since I have more pressing matters.
Putting my phone back in my pocket and returning to the dining room, I can’t help but notice how slowly time is moving. I just want to go back to my place and wallow in my misery alone—brought upon myself, I should add. Some people just can’t help themselves, and I’m one of those people. I know I shouldn’t have grated on his nerves when he was clearly on edge, but I justcouldn’t help myself. He was sitting there, surrounded by us, yet alone at the same time. He must be thinking he doesn’t belong when in reality, he does.
And then this secret sender with that ominous message. Yes, I’m so ready to go so I can openly freak out without setting off my family’s alarms.
When I get back to the table, Archie is sitting in his spot with a plastic smile on his face. My mom is sending him curious looks, but she’s curious about Stephan’s enigma. Well,Archie’s,my bad.
Up until seeing him here, I thought of him by the name he introduced himself with. I think it suits him better. To be fair, it suits better the person I see, but Archie is the one whom everyone else seems to see, and I don’t understand why.
His eyes scream for help when he smiles. They scream when he flirts. Even when he seems relaxed and so confident in himself, his eyes are full of melancholy. How do they not see it? I make a mental note to speak to Alex about him when I get the chance.
“Where have you been?” Aiden asks, brows furrowed.
I roll my eyes. “In the bathroom. Peeing. Am I allowed?” My brothers have always treated me like a baby. I’m older than Aiden, and I’m still questioned about bathroom breaks.
He scratches his nose with his middle finger and sticks his nose back into his phone. I wonder what’s happening with him recently—I’ve never seen him anywhere without his device for the last couple of weeks. Another mental note to check on him. My mental list of things to do is never-ending.
When I sit back in my chair, Archie shifts his weight, so his body is facing Kenneth. I shouldn’t feel offended, but I do; plus, this whole secret sender situation is playing dirty tricks on my mind, so I decide to take off. While everyone is chatting, I go to give my congratulations to Freya and Alex.
When she gives me a hug, she asks, “How did you know?”
“P-p-please!” I pull back. “Your glowing face, a widening waist while you run five miles every single day, and your aversion for Lonely Kurt.” Freya loves Lonely Kurt, absolutely adores it. It’s the heavy breakfast from Marina’s diner she’s been religiously eating for years. “Yeah, I wonder what tipped me off.”
“You are too attentive to everything around you for your own good.” She laughs and pats my shoulder.
“Don’t I know it,” I mumble, smiling. She gives me a quizzical look but lets it go. Thank God.
Then I say bye to Alex, still unsure of how much sisterly affection he wants to receive, and give Aiden a peck on his cheek. When we were younger, we used to be very close. He might be a little shit, but he is my little shit. Then I move on to mom and dad.
Finally, I go to give Kenneth a hug. He rises from his chair and envelopes me in a big, brotherly bear hug. The same one he gave me when my first boyfriend dumped me. The next day, the ex miraculously had two shiners. Or the secret one he gave me after mom and dad yelled at me for failing an exam—completely my fault, by the way. That type of hug.
