Bridge of Promises

Chapter One: Seventeen

The day I turned seventeen was the day my friend Allison Peters jumped off of a bridge and died.

The Mortington Post, our town's newspaper, talked about it on page 3, 5, 11, and 15. It made the front page on the day of her funeral.

I remember sitting beside Cain, eating a birthday breakfast when Allison's mom called mine.

Cain dropped his spoon and looked ready to puke his guts out. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he tried to swallow his food.

I reached under the table for his hand and squeezed it.

A cold and empty feeling sat at the bottom of my gut. I wanted to melt through my chair and become a big mass of nothing.

What a fun birthday, I thought.

I mentally punched myself for being an asshole.

~•~•~

Allison was our friend. We considered her our friend.

She dated Cain in 9th grade and she dated me in 10th grade.

We weren't anything special, though. She dated lots of people.

Girls, boys, in between--she dated them all.

"She could be a spy," I joked with Cain one day. "Like a femme fatale or something."

"The ones who seduce James Bond and kick everyone's asses?" Cain clarified.

He thought for a minute then agreed. "Yeah. She's definitely a spy."

"She wants to get information about Mortington's biggest secret," I added.

"Mortington's biggest secret is that we have no secrets," Cain said, then laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Because it was.

~•~•~

I went to the funeral with Cain. Her coffin, a creamy white with cherubs on the corners, sat at the front.

I tugged on Cain's hand. "We have to see her," I said.

Cain shook his head. "No, we don't," he whispered. "We don't have to. We don't have to see her."

"You're right. We don't. But Mr. and Mrs. Peters are right there, Cain," I mumbled, tilting my head towards a pew. "We'd look super rude."

Cain seemed to sober up at the sound of that. Cain didn't like looking or being rude in front of anyone.

He and I walked towards the coffin at the front of the chapel, his hand tightly clasping mine.

There lay Allison.

Her fiery orange hair framed her face in perfect curls. The color of her once rosy and freckled cheeks turned into a sort of pallid gray. Her mouth was pressed in a permanent scowl.

I didn't like the way she looked in death. In life, she smiled. The corners of her mouth always turned upward, charming everyone in her path.

I kissed that mouth many times.

I resisted the urge to punch through the glass and fix such a misleading image.

Unfortunately, my punching hand was being held in Cain's viselike grip as he stared down at Allison, eyes wide and tears flowing down his cheeks.

I tugged him away from the coffin, away from the chapel, away from Allison.

I spoon-fed him vanilla ice-cream as we watched movies until 3 AM.