Girls Like Me

1 | Bridges

My shift finished thirteen minutes ago, but I'd skulked at the foot of the bridge for ten of those. I glanced at my phone and saw that it was already past midnight. With a long day ahead of me tomorrow, my feet were rooted to the ground as I watched the dark, cold river below.

A perfect half-moon canopy painted white covered the gap over the creek. The beams crisscrossed either side, plenty wide to squeeze a grown man through and the one space my gaze averted whenever I crossed.

The bridge is unremarkable, but it's what you don't see that charges the hair on the back of my neck. It's not the elevation but the idea of a dodgy beam or rickety slat giving way underfoot. I feared the shock of the fall as that would probably kill me first—the split second, my heart hugged my throat as my soul screamed, "Oh, shit."

Timberline bridge lay nestled between a small chasm flanking Aldridge Creek, a tributary of the Ana River. The drop underneath is at least one hundred feet. My sense of balance faltered as I edged closer while my heart began the predictable ascent.

In moments like these, my brother's words always come: "If you believe you can do something, you're halfway there already. Don't worry so much, Atlee."

I reached for the security of the handrail that would steer me across and guide me back to solid ground. I flipped the Bluetooth on my cell, syncing both, and scrolled to the only thing that calmed my treacherous waters—music. I pressed play as my Chucks hit the pavement with a rhythmic cadence.

One step became two, became five. Five steps became seven, became...

Near the halfway point, a figure of a boy perched on the far side of the guardrail. He stood close enough to warrant inspection. Aspen trees rustled in a sudden breeze, and the same wind blew strands of errant dark hair in front of his face. The rubber sole of his sneakers squeaked as he holstered himself up and positioned himself between the trusses to jump.

I stopped dead, slipping an earbud out. He wasn't jumping, was he?

My heart spasmed, moving toward a high-speed collision with my stomach, and I was one 'don't do it' away from spilling the contents of my stomach onto the floor. A tattered guitar case plastered in stickers from bygone bands lay at his feet. His eyes were hidden in the shadows, but I could feel their intensity at whatever he was looking at, even from a distance.

"What are you doing?" I called out. It was a half-hearted attempt to grab his attention; part of me hoped that he wouldn't hear me, that the wind would carry my words away and leave us both to our solitude. But as his head snapped up and his moody gaze locked onto mine, I knew there was no turning back.

The stranger's balance wobbled before he regained composure. There was silence—an endless, unbearable silence that stretched on for miles. If he didn't move, my hands would have to slide around and between his legs to pass without losing touch with the railing. My mind raced with a million questions, each jostling for position at the forefront of my thoughts.

But even as each clamored for attention, I could only utter, "Please get down and out of my way."

The boy's eyebrows rose, and he actually chuckled before saying,  "But the view is glorious."

Dad always said, "No good deed goes unpunished," but he neglected to say whether you should still try. He probably didn't need to, but in my case, perhaps he should have because there would be no rescue attempt. My legs reminded me they were at one with the ground and wouldn't even bother themselves to try. But, I needed to say something, anything.

"Tell me your name?" I asked.

"Sam," he replied, "but people call me Fenton."

Tiny beads of sweat broke on my forehead the longer I looked at him. Not desiring a nickname to scout against the obituaries next week, I replied, "Fenton, get down right now, you asshole."