Walk the Edge (Thunder Road, #2)(60)

She’s told me about her older sister. “Clara’s a raging bitch.”

“Clara can’t find a way to calm the chaos in her brain. It’s hard turning it off. Finding peace is even harder. She’s like me, but honestly better. She remembers things and she’s a whiz with math, but she struggles with the constant noise. It’s like neither of us can win for losing. Clara was picked on for not being able to focus. People assumed it meant she was stupid and then I came along. I could process everything I remembered. I could find a way to keep my mind in check. Because of that, my parents used to show me off as a parlor trick with the moronic capitals, and if I was Clara—” Breanna chokes on her words “—I’d hate me, too.”

She rubs both her hands over her face as if she can scrub away the hurt. Those nights I’ve spent in scalding showers prove neither of us can wash away the misery.

“Want to cross?” I ask. We both need the distraction. “The bridge. We can cross it.”

She surveys the wooden planks across the metal rails. Huge fat gaps exist between the planks and there’s a narrow strip of metal off to one side of the bridge that’s barely wide enough to balance on. There’s no railing on either side.

Breanna leans over the edge, no doubt making a mental note of the rushing, raging water and mammoth rocks. “Will you go with me?”

I shouldn’t do it. I should tell her we’ve completed our project and we’re done for the day, but instead I offer her my hand again and tempt her to hang with the devil.

She closes the space between us, and the moment she lays her palm in mine, I grasp her hand and lead her onto the bridge.

Breanna chooses the narrow strip of metal and I tempt fate on the aging wooden planks. The wood cracks under my weight and Breanna holds on to me like she could keep me from falling through into the river. “Walk on the metal.”

A sadistic tilt of my lips. “It’s the danger that makes it fun.”

She shakes her head, but I spot a smile. Guess she doesn’t want to admit it’s why she’s on the bridge—why she’s with me. This is the girl who was on the dance floor at Shamrock’s, the girl who cracked the code in English. This is a girl full of life and searching for a challenge.

When we’re halfway across, she hesitates and scans the length of the river. She squints. In the distance beside a canopy of trees is the bridge of Highway 109. I step onto the metal next to her and support my back against the metal girder.

Breanna’s eyes widen, and I see the puzzle pieces fall into place. She’s quick, and while I normally admire how her brain ticks, this time, I wish she would have ignored the clues.

“My mom died in this river,” I say, to answer her silent question. My mouth curves down and the horrible pain from that day covers me like a shroud.

“Why do you come here? Why put yourself through this?”

How many times have I asked myself the same question? I could say I experience a connection to Mom here, but I don’t. I come because... “I need answers.”

“What type of answers?”

“How she died.” My statement hangs and for the millionth time I wonder if it had been calm before Mom reached this area. Were her thoughts peaceful or chaotic? Was there a screeching of tires or did Mom spot the opening off the road as a way to fly into freedom?

“The club told me it was an accident and I said I believed them, but I don’t.” I’ve never told anyone that and I speak slowly, like the words might set me on fire. “Everyone in town says the same damn thing. My mom and dad were fighting. She wasn’t happy. Things were bad.”

Day after day, hour after hour, heartbeat after heartbeat my mind swims with the questions and doubt. She left me. She died. She did it on purpose. I was never enough.

My mind dissolves into chaos and it’s cluttered and I can’t cling to a single thought that doesn’t cause me blinding pain. “Fuck it!”

I stalk away. Off the bridge, onto the grass, and pause by the river. I expect Breanna to walk past, to flee, to leave. It’s what people do. It’s what my mom did. It’s what my father did by sleeping with a harem of women after Mom’s death. He may have been in the same household, but he ran. He just escaped by staying still and damning me to hell.

Her footsteps are light against the metal of the bridge, and when she’s close enough, I say, “I’ll get you home. Give me a second to—”

Air rushes out of my lungs with the unexpected impact and my feet rock. Breanna is tight against me, her arms wrapped around my body. She’s hugging me. Breanna Miller is hugging me. She lays her head against me and her voice vibrates against my chest. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

I can’t remember the last person who hugged me. Not a fast pat hug from the club. A hug that shows affection. Just hugged. I hugged Violet last night, but she didn’t hug me back. Was Olivia the last person who hugged me? My mother? Besides them, most people avoid me, easily leaving two feet between us, and here is this little warrior trudging into battle without armor.

Terrified I’ll break her, I weave my arms around her and hug her back. My eyes shut when she settles further into me. I rest my cheek on her head and simply breathe.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” she repeats. “I’m sorry about what everyone has said about you, and I’m sorry everyone’s words have made it worse.”