Sullivan wrenches open his door. “Come on! You telling me you’re Jericho-born and you’ve never been to Broken Bridge? How is that even possible?”
I’ve heard of it, of course, but no, I’ve never been. I don’t feel like admitting this apparent blight on my character, so I climb out of the passenger side without answering. A branch scrapes me as I hop to the ground, and Sullivan hollers something about ticks from where he’s half-buried in the bed of the truck.
Ticks? My eyes go wide, and I start frantically inspecting my skin: arms, legs, hands. Am I feeling itchy? Are ticks even itchy?
“Relax,” Sullivan says, catching my hand and turning it over to inspect the pale skin of my wrist. “I could check you over if you’d like.”
And just like that the old Sullivan is back. “No thanks.” I pull out of his loose grip. “I’m all good.”
“You’re a little jumpy, aren’t you, Juniper? Can I call you that? Juniper?”
“June,” I say firmly. “About Baxter…”
“Yeah, yeah.” But then he arches one eyebrow at me and takes off, heading away from the highway, deeper into the trees that flank the river.
I waver for a moment. I don’t want to give in to Sullivan, but if I don’t follow, I’ll be stuck out in the middle of nowhere alone. And I definitely don’t want to call Jonathan to come and get me. I’ve come this far—what’s a bit farther?
A few jogged paces and I fall into step behind him. The path is narrow but hard packed, and we walk together in silence. Somehow, out of the truck and beneath the trees it feels easy. I’m no arborist, but the cottonwoods are simple enough to pick out—they’re tall and feathery, sprouting tufts of soft, fluffy seeds that drift like snow and alight on our heads. I pluck one off my shoulder and try to throw it at him, but it’s lighter than air and floats away from my fingertips.
“Here.” Sullivan tosses something over his shoulder, and I instinctively reach out to catch it. It’s a canister of bug spray, and I give it a good shake, then liberally apply. The sharp, chemical smell makes me sneeze.
I toss him back the spray, and he tucks it in one of the cargo pockets of his camouflage shorts without using it himself, then pulls a beer from the plastic ring of the six-pack he’s holding. He hands it to me and twists one out for himself. We pop the tops, bump cans, and then Sullivan shotguns the whole thing before I’ve even taken a sip. I worry momentarily about driving home with him but remember that Jonathan is on high alert. If he so much as sees an incoming call from me, he’ll be on his way.
Sullivan is finishing up his second beer when we break through the trees at the edge of the North Fork River. There’s a mossy, muddy smell of leaf rot and dead fish, and as I stand for just a moment I begin to sink in the soft bank.
“Rained yesterday,” Sullivan reminds me. “Come on.”
We follow the river around a bend until I can see the old train bridge peeking through the tops of the trees. Broken Bridge is the stuff of Jericho lore, a landmark that has stood for generations, though now it’s little more than rusted struts and bracings, crumbling concrete. It’s the perfect spot for parties because it’s so hard to get to. The cops simply can’t be bothered to chase teenagers into the brush. But tonight, we have it to ourselves.
Sullivan pulls himself up on the concrete piling and then reaches down to offer me his hand. I pause for just a moment before I take it, and then he hoists me into the air with more force than I thought possible. I’m yanked up beside him, half tipping off the edge, but he’s got me. A laugh escapes before I can check myself, and Sullivan rewards me with a grin.
We scramble onto the bridge proper, all copper steel and sun-washed wood that’s been baked to a flaking gray brown. I’m surprised to find that between every splintered tie is nothing but air. Sullivan doesn’t seem to mind. He tightrope walks a rail to the center of the bridge, and then settles down on a thick stretch of rough wood with his legs dangling toward the water.
“Get over here,” he says, patting the space across from him.
I’m less sure on my feet, and not a fan of heights, so it takes me a bit longer to get to where he’s casually watching the slow current swirl beneath him. I feel woozy and disoriented when I finally reach Sullivan, and I can’t decide if it’s because of where I am or who I’m with. Maybe it’s the beer. It was cold and I was thirsty. I finished it before we summited the bridge.