Erasing Faith(23)

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he taunted, breathing the mocking words into my mouth and instantly obliterating the intensity of the moment.

In that sliver of time, I wasn’t sure who I hated more — him, for toying with me, or myself, for believing him. I felt an inferno of embarrassment flame up my cheeks, and shoved at his shoulder as I moved out of his space. He didn’t let me get too far — his right hand was still interlaced tightly with my left.

“You officially suck,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe I’d been so weak, that he’d drawn me in like that. And, if I was being honest, I was also irrationally disappointed that he’d only been joking around. “Let’s just walk the damn bridge.”

He laughed and led me onward, to my doom.





Chapter Twelve: WESTON


COUNT TO FIVE



She made it about three steps onto the bridge before her face paled, her palms went clammy, and her confidence fled entirely. Four steps, and the panic set in. Five, and she was ready to turn back around and forget the whole thing.

“I can’t do this, Wes,” she whimpered softly, squeezing my fingers harder than an enemy insurgent with a goddamn pair of vise-grips. Since it was her, I didn’t mind.

“Yes, you can.” I drew to a stop and turned so I could see her eyes. They were wide with terror as they lifted to meet mine. Seeing the raw fear there was an unwanted punch to the gut. It hit me hard, a stinging jab beneath my ribcage.

For once, I didn’t want to cause pain — I wanted to cure it.

I didn’t want to break someone’s spirit — I wanted to bolster it.

The sensation was strange. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

I shoved it from my mind and focused on the beautiful, fearful girl before me.

“Take a deep breath, Red. That’s it — in through your nose, out through your mouth. You’re panicking.”

She nodded, breathing deeply as she fought to regain control.

“Talk to me,” I ordered gently.

“Um…” He eyes lost some of their fear as confusion suffused their depths.

“What do you like?” I asked abruptly. “Hobbies, interests…”

She looked at me blankly.

“What are you studying?”

“History.” She whispered her answer through parched lips, a new light entering her eyes. “I like history.”

I nodded. “This bridge — it’s old. Really f*cking old. I’m sure it has a great history. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Her mouth lifted in a hollow half-smile. “You want to hear about the history of a bridge?”

“I want to hear the sound of your voice as we walk this damn historical bridge,” I corrected. “Frankly, the subject doesn’t matter much to me.”

Her lips trembled into a full smile.

“See the lions?” she asked, gesturing at the dual stone statues on either side, which guarded the entrance to the bridge like sinuous feline sentinels. They were lit with spotlights, easily visible despite the fading sun.

Looking up, I nodded. “Kinda hard to miss those, Red.”

She laughed softly. “Well, they’re from the original bridge. The rest was destroyed in World War II and eventually rebuilt, but the lions survived the siege.”

“Why? They were too ugly to destroy?” I guessed, grimacing at the colossal cats.

Faith gasped in outrage. “They aren’t ugly! They’re a work of art!”

“Just teasing, Red. Carry on.”

She huffed lightly, but a smile was twitching the corners of her mouth. “Anyway, these beautiful, historic lions are from the 19th century. Legend goes that the sculptor who made them was so proud of his work, he dared the crowds at the bridge’s opening ceremony to find a flaw. He was so confident in their perfection, he declared he’d end his life if anyone found a single mistake.”

“Sounds like a prick,” I noted, taking a few steps forward onto the bridge. Faith was so wrapped up in her story, she followed docilely, not seeming to notice where I was leading her. Her eyes were distant and animated as she spoke, recalling facts and figures from long ago. With measured steps down the pedestrian walk, I guided her out over open water.

“Well, then you’ll enjoy the rest of this story,” she told me, her cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “The crowds gathered to see the new bridge and, when the statues were revealed, a little boy in the audience gleefully pointed out that the lions didn’t have tongues.” Faith chuckled under her breath, her whole face lighting up with mischievous joy.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.

Better to focus on the pain than the way she made me feel when she looked like that.

“Devastated his perfect lions weren’t so perfect after all, legend goes that the sculptor threw himself over the side of the bridge and fell to his death.”

I snorted. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Tell me about it.” Faith’s smile stretched wider. “He didn’t really die, of course. It’s just part of the myth. But the tongueless lions have become sort of a citywide joke.”

“You get your kicks where you can,” I murmured, drawing to a full stop.

We’d reached the exact center of the bridge.