Checkmate

39| Meet me on the bridge

The wait for him to open the door is excruciating. It takes him so long to answer that I start to doubt if he's even home, so I walk around the side of the house to peer through the window. The room, as usual, is hazy with smoke, which tells me he's been here recently, but the place is too quiet for him to be inside.

Biting my lip, I think about where else he could be. I'm not about to go on some search mission, but I don't want to leave without checking he's okay. I get out my phone and text Liv about my predicament, who immediately messages back.

Try the bridge. He goes there sometimes to think.

Indecision wars inside of me. If I had any sense, I'd go home and focus on what's left of the campaign, but clearly, I'm stupid because I get in my car and head in the direction of the bridge. When I see it nearing in the distance, I park on the side road closest to the bridge and make the rest of the way on foot. It's late by now, the sky a dark blue veil mottled with clouds, so it's impossible to see whether Blake is on the bridge or if I came here for nothing.

As I get closer, so does the outline of a figure resting on the railing, about twenty feet away. I slowly walk over, praying it's Blake looking pensively at the river, not some axe murderer. It's only when I'm a few feet away that my eyes adjust to the dark. Blake stands before me in a plain black jacket and faded blue jeans. He half-turns from the railing, and his eyes flit to mine, dark and laced with surprise.

I study his face as though I haven't seen him in years, committing his features to memory. He looks the same as always: pronounced jaw, sharp cheekbones, and hair that looks like he's just woken up, but the hint of a bruise dusting his right eye is unfamiliar. Clearly, Chase got at least one good punch in.

My heart feels ready to burst from my throat. It's strange how that happens: you can be so convinced in your hatred for someone, only for one look to unravel you. Right now, despite every cutting word I'd rehearsed in my head, one look has rendered me silent.

Blake's face is like he's seen a ghost. Behind him, the night is dark, save for the joint smoking gently on the railing, a burning ember in the shadows. I glance at his hand as he clamps down on the barrier, noting the red, mottled bruise. My eyes snap to his, which bore into mine like an endless abyss. Part of me knows that us being alone screams bad idea, and yet there is no one else I'd rather be alone with.

With everything I'd rehearsed gone from my head, there is only one question I can think of to ask. "How could you be so stupid?"

"I've done a lot of stupid things lately," he says. "You'll have to be a little more specific."

I don't say anything as I stare at him. Something settles over me, this feeling I've missed these past few days, like I'm finally home. It's the same feeling I'd always gotten in his basement, as though the place served as a sanctuary, somewhere I could be unapologetically myself: no rules, no expectations, no overbearing parents, just me. But as it turns out, it wasn't the basement that made me feel that way.

It was him.

Without thinking, I grab his hand to examine the damage. It doesn't look hospital-visit-worthy, but I can tell from where his knuckle split that it has to be painful. "You know what I'm talking about." I drop my hand because touching him feels far too familiar, and right now, I need to think straight. "You got suspended for hitting Chase. Again."

Blake is silent as he looks to the river before looking back. He seems exhausted, as though he hasn't had a decent sleep in days, and I can't help but wonder whether it's because of us or if something else kept him up. "Look," he says, his voice low, "I'm sorry for jeopardizing the campaign." He shakes his head as though he's a little disappointed with himself. "That kid just brings out the worst in me."