by Ginger Scott
Nico nods slowly, his head rolling and his eyes hitting mine.
“They don’t really have lighted parks in West End, and in the summer, it was too hot to play out in the day, so we’d grab our bikes and pedal over this bridge to play where the light was barely enough,” he says. “We did that for three summers in a row, until Sasha moved, and my bike was stolen. I walked a few times, but my mom didn’t really like me out late on foot. I didn’t like it either. We stuck to the streets then, until the shootings got everyone freaked out.”
“Shootings?” My stomach tightens.
Nico nods, shuffling his feet and turning to lean his shoulder against the metal, reaching to take both of my hands. He plays with my fingers, working his around mine. It’s sweet how he’s both comfortable and familiar.
“There were a few, when the gangs got kinda bad. It was really only a couple incidents, but there were some drive-bys—before the drug houses got busted. Everyone got really freaked out, and a lot of people moved. Mom made sure we were always inside before dark,” he says.
“Your brother, too?” I ask, my instincts telling me before Nico.
“Not always. He was older, so he…he would hang out. It was mostly the money that enticed him. I think he wanted to help out Mom, maybe buy some nice things. It got outta hand, though. The danger…the violence. I don’t think my brother ever expected the violence, and I know it scared him.”
I lean into him, snuggling against his chest, then moving my arms around his neck, my chin resting on his shoulder as I look out over the other side of the bridge.
“It’s two different worlds,” I say, noticing how quickly the landscape becomes dark on the other side. A block or two of businesses have lights, and then it’s nothing. Only, I’ve driven there—I know it’s not the case.
“I still came here. Sometimes, I’d sneak out—my mom only caught me once. I would always ride my board back before she was awake, but I’d just come here to sit. I liked to watch the traffic,” he says, glancing down at our feet as he kicks the grating near his heel. “I would sit on that side and stare through this one, watching. I wanted to know what life was like…over there.”
I pull back to look at him, our eyes meeting instantly. His mouth falls into line, and I can tell he hates to admit that out loud—that he wishes sometimes that he were somewhere else.
“Life wasn’t so grand over here, either,” I say, though I know that the weight in my world is far lighter than that carried on Nico’s side of the highway. “Your side sells the drugs; my side…we buy them.”
Nico’s head falls, and his eyes get softer. We’ve talked about Noah, about how he stepped in. Nico played it off, but I think that was for my benefit—I don’t think he wants me to have a visual of how bad that night probably really was, how close to danger Noah had come.
“It’s one fucked-up ecosystem, isn’t it?” Nico says, and I laugh out a breath, reaching my fingers through the fence next to me and looking down at the rush of traffic.
“Yeah…it is,” I say.
He looks on with me, and we stand together while a few cars honk as they pass below us, each driver probably thinking he’s clever or disrupting our intimacy. What’s strange, though, is how incredibly intimate it is right here. We’re on display for most of the city, at least the portion on the road at this time of the night, yet we’re so alone.
“So why this place?” I ask him finally. “You wanted to bring me here…why?”
Nico’s expression slips into an excited one, and he reaches into his pocket, grinning at me. He holds a lock out in his palm then reaches into the opposite pocket for a pen, showing it to me.
“We’re going to plan our next bike ride and you want to be prepared so you…brought a lock?” I shake my head as I stare at the lock in his hand, my lips pulled in on one side. “Sorry…I don’t get it,” I say, giving up and shrugging.
“Come here,” Nico says, leading me farther across the bridge.
I start to notice metal pieces attached to the fence as we move closer to the West End side, and when we’re right upon one of them, I stop, pulling it in my hand and tugging. Dozens upon dozens of locks, some key and some combination, are hooked onto the bridge, some dangling from dangerous locations. Each lock has something either written on it in ink or scratched into it. Most of the messages are love notes—a girl loves a boy, a boy loves a girl, and then the date. A few of them are clumped together with dates spread a year apart, and I can tell they mark an anniversary. Some of the anniversaries are happy, some are hopeful. Others…tragic.
“These are amazing,” I say, running my fingers over some of the larger locks.
“They just started showing up here one day. Sasha and I were riding our bikes across, and he stopped, thinking someone had left their lock there. He tried to break the code at first, but I noticed the writing, and I got him to stop. The next day, a few more locks were here. The collection grew two or three at a time over several months, and now…”
“There must be hundreds,” I say, my eyes focusing and realizing just how many speckle the fence that stretches to the other side of the highway.
“The city or state or whoever owns the bridge has cleaned them off before, but they always come back. I think they just gave up eventually, and now they’re like this organic art kind of thing. They’re people’s stories, and I thought…”
“You want to put our story up here, too,” I finish for him.
He nods, and his bashful smile dents his cheek.
“What do we write?” I ask, my heart picking up and my nerves surprising me. I haven’t felt this uneasy rush with Nico in a while, and it’s unsettling, mostly because I’m scared. I think maybe he means a lot to me, and maybe I want to tell him, but what if…what if he’s somewhere different with us?
“I had an idea,” he starts, putting the cap of the marker in his mouth and pulling the pen free. He speaks with the lid in his mouth, and it makes him talk crooked. It’s adorable, and I can’t help but giggle. “I’ll write on one side, and you write on the other,” he mumbles, shooting me a glare when I laugh at his speech. He spits the cap to the ground. “I only have two hands, you bully.”
“You’re right; I’m sorry,” I say, bending down and picking the cap up.
Nico holds the lock in his hands, tilting it from my view, and he writes out a short note that only takes him seconds. His eyes flit to mine a few times before he declares that he’s done, then hands the pen to me.
“Okay,” I say, exhaling harder than I mean, too.
“Don’t make it so hard. Just write…whatever you want to say. Whatever’s on your mind and you’re willing to put here permanently,” he says. “Oh…and preferably about me, because otherwise my side is going to sound really stupid.”
I bite my lip and look at him while my mind searches for courage. A dozen adjectives, and as many words for feelings dart around my head, the phrases coming and going fast. After a few seconds, I feel like I’m playing a game of Scrabble, searching for the best word to score the most points.
“You’re making this hard,” he says.
“Okay, okay…just…give me a minute!” I scold him, my eyes intense on the lock in my hand, my fingers squeezing the pen hard.
There’s one thought—one thing I could write—that I keep thinking. This one sentence plays on repeat, and it scares me and tempts me to look at the other side. I feel my fingers twitch to spin the lock in my palm, but I won’t cheat. I would never. My eyes move up to Nico’s, which are waiting for me. The smirk on his lips is almost like a poker player’s bluff, and I don’t know if I should call it. I look back down to the lock, my teeth sawing at my lip, and I hold my breath as I write.
The words are short and sweet. I put the pen back in the cap when I’m done, and hold the lock between my fingers—Nico’s message on the other side.
“So do we…turn it? Or…how does this work?” I ask.
Nico takes the lock from me, then tugs it loose, like a hook.
He leans his head toward the fence, and I realize he’s asking me to pick a spot. I find one that’s at both of our height, and it’s a place where the metal is melted into an odd thickness—the only place where the latticework is uneven. I like that it isn’t perfect, and if I’m tethering myself to something, I think it should look a little amiss. There’s comfort in imperfection.
“Okay then,” he says, looping the lock in place and pushing it in until it clicks, his thumb rubbing along the bottom until the combination is scrambled.
“Do you know how to take it off?” I ask.
“No idea. I threw the combination away,” he says, his eyes never once leaving mine while I continue to look from him to the lock, nervously. “Go on…read it,” he says, finally, and I practically lunge at it, twisting it upside down so I can read what Nico wrote on his side.
Me, too.
I let my thumb run over the words, the ink now dry, and my lips curve up as I do. His note…it couldn’t be any more perfect.
“What’d you say?” he says, his hand sliding around my waist and along my stomach, his chin resting on my shoulder as he holds me from behind.
“I said…” I pause, my mouth suddenly dry. My eyes fall closed and I let go of the lock, turning in his arms until my back is against the bridge’s wall, next to our lock, and Nico has me caged between his arms. “I said, ‘I’m falling for you.’”
His mouth curves as mine did, and his forehead tilts until it rests against mine.
“You are, huh?” he says, the words tickling my lips. I love it when he speaks against my mouth. I wish we could have all conversations just like this.
“I am,” I say, stopping to take his bottom lip into my mouth.
“Kiss me,” he demands. “You take charge, kissing me like you want. I want to know what you want from me, how you feel. Show me,” he says, his expression not arrogant or cocky, but rather desperate perhaps, like he needs to know what I want and feel.
Though my nerves fire up, I do as he asks, because I’ve never wanted to kiss him more. My hands slide up both sides of his face, and I step up on my tippy-toes, turning my head just enough that we fit together perfectly, my mouth opening to take his, to taste him. I kiss his top lip first, letting my teeth graze over him, then I nibble at his bottom. When he smiles against me, I do the same, letting my right hand move into his hair, feeling it soft and thick between my fingers.
I begin to kiss him harder, my tongue entering his mouth and meeting the resistance of his quickly. It’s with this touch that Nico can no longer be passive. His hands slide behind my back and he pulls me into him, turning me away from the gate and walking me backward to the large concrete pillar at the center of the bridge. My back against the coolness of it, Nico moves forward until he has one foot resting on either side of both of mine, his body pressed against me, his hands sliding down my hips, inching slowly until they finally grip my ass.
My breath hitches as his fingers clutch at the fabric of my dress, bringing it up only an inch or two with the raw hunger of his need. He lets go, sliding his hands up my sides, his thumbs running over the curves of my breasts, coming close to places I’ve never been touched, but suddenly desperately want to be. His fingers trace along my bare shoulder, and his head dips down, his mouth taking my neck, tasting my collar bone, the rough edge of his teeth scratching against my bare skin. His hands trail lower, along my arms, until he reaches my wrists, and he grabs them in his hands, lifting them and holding them above my head against the concrete as he leans into me and kisses my mouth raw. He holds me there for a few seconds before letting go and moving to cup my face again, letting me free from the wall and pulling me to him until we’re standing in the center of the bridge, the only light from the cars below and the sliver of moon above.
When he releases me, I’m dizzy and breathless, and I let my head rest against his chest.
“I have never been kissed like that,” I say.
“Me neither,” Nico says, his mouth coming down to the top of my head.
Somehow, I didn’t believe that to be true, but I let him get away with it. I let him because it makes him happy to make me happy, and that thought—the idea that I’m his girl, the girl for him? That makes me deliriously happy.
18
We pull onto my street with exactly eight minutes to spare. I think Nico was watching the clock all along to be sure he delivered me home early. He confirms my suspicion when his car clears over the hump of the curb and he shifts it into park, turning to me and says, “Brownie points.”
My smile meets his, and for a moment, we sit in the quiet of my driveway staring at one another—nothing but a night full of football, dancing, and kisses between us. Tonight…it was a perfect fairy tale. But all tales have villains. Ours is ruined the moment my eyes realize the other cars in our driveway—two parked on the street. The cars…they’re familiar.
“Did your parents have a party or something?” Nico asks, twisting in his seat and looking around us.
“It’s the board,” I say.
I slump back into my seat. I don’t want to go inside, because I know.
I know.
“Like, for Cornwall?”
Nico still pivots where he sits, glancing from the two cars in front of us to the few parked near my favorite tree. I take in a deep breath, and as I exhale, I let my eyes fall shut, remembering all that was good tonight—before everything fell apart.
“Why would they be here?” Nico asks. I open my eyes on him, the wrinkle of confusion set deep in his brow.
“You have the fifty-seven…we live with the board,” I say, and his head cocks to the side. I watch as realization washes over him, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding in a breath, his eyes moving toward defiant.
“Why would they want to meet with your dad now?” Nico says, his hand on his door. He’s out of the car before I can answer, running to my side to open my door for me.
“I don’t know,” I say, even though in the pit of my stomach, I have a suspicion. The board doesn’t make house calls unless they want to take care of something they perceive as a problem. Noah’s indiscretions perhaps. My mom has already been let go of her post. The only other thing would be my father.
Nico grips my hand as I step up from the car, and we take a few steps toward my front door just as it swings open. Men and women—all dressed as if they’re heading to Sunday school—spill from my home. A few of them laugh together, as if they’ve just left a business retreat and are excited to be heading to the bar. The others behind them have more somber faces. I recognize Thomas Loftgrin, my brother’s now ex-girlfriend’s father; he makes eye contact with me.
I know.
Nico steps to the side while nearly a dozen people leave my home, and as they head to their cars, we look toward the open front door they left behind. My parents didn’t see them out.
I swallow as we walk up to the house, and when we step inside, my mom is standing behind her sitting-chair by the fireplace, her hands on the high back as if she’s using it to protect herself from something bad. My dad sits across from her, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He’s still wearing his deep-blue polo short, still tucked in to his khaki pants, his belt still tight. I bet he had just gotten home from reviewing the game, from talking with his coaching staff.
I bet they were here, waiting for him.
My mom’s mouth falls open, and she begins to greet Nico and me, but her words never come. She pulls her mouth into a fake, tight smile, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She’s trembling, and I know she is near falling apart.
“Dad?” I ask, needing someone to confirm it—to say it out loud.
He lifts his head from his hands, his face serious, his eyes narrow and angry. Chad Prescott doesn’t get emotional, but he does get pissed. Whatever this is, it’s moved beyond that.
My dad’s eyes meet mine, and he works his lips, sucking in the top one and letting it go with a slow nod.
“It’s done
,” he says.
My mom gasps and covers her mouth.
“What’s done?” Nico asks.
Shifting his focus to his young quarterback, my dad stares at Nico hard. He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t speak.
“Coach, what…what happened here?” Nico asks.
My dad’s head falls slightly to the side as he exhales through his nose, his mouth still a hard line.
“It isn’t Coach anymore, Nico. On Monday, you’ll be playing for Jimmy O’Donahue. Don’t worry, though. You…you’ll be all right,” my father says.
Nico’s feet shift where he stands, and his hand grips mine harder.
“I don’t understand. We…we won. We’re winning,” Nico says.
“It wasn’t going to matter, Nico. This…it isn’t your fault,” my dad says.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” my mom pipes in, her words coming out raw, through a stifled cry. “And it isn’t fair. I hate this place! I hate their rules! You lose once…once! They hold it against you forever. I…I need to go talk to Noah.”
“Noah was here?” I ask, my mom holds up a hand, covering her mouth with the other one as she excuses herself down the hallway. I turn my attention back to the room.
“He was. He had just come in, left the dance early—just like we asked him to. He pulled up right before Jimmy,” my dad says, shaking his head as his eyes move toward the still-open door. My father stands and walks toward us, continuing on to the door so he can push it closed. As soon as it clicks in place, his fist comes down against the panels hard, rattling the door, frame, and wall that surround it. “Those goddamned assholes!”
I move my touch to Nico’s arm, gripping it and holding him close to me, but he pulls loose, looking at me and holding up a finger. Nico walks to my father and puts his hand on my dad’s shoulder, and that small touch pushes my father over the edge, his head falling forward into his palm, his body sinking into the door before silently quaking. Nico leans into him, resting his forehead on the place where his hand rests on my father, and I stand alone, watching.