Sullivan doesn’t respond to my jab, and I feel a tickle of remorse. Still, I can’t bring myself to apologize to him, so I say: “Tell me about Baxter.”
“Are you kidding?” He gives me a sidelong smirk, the put-down of his brother seemingly forgotten. “It’s taken me years to get you in my truck. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but I’m going to draw this out as long as I can.”
I’m speechless, but Sullivan laughs. “Relax, Baker.”
“But—”
“You might even have fun.”
Is it my imagination, or did Sullivan’s voice catch? I sneak a peek at his profile and realize his jaw is tight, a vein in his neck bright blue against his skin. Is he nervous? Sullivan Tate with his booming laugh and flirty wink and “I can have any girl I want” attitude? I’m unconvinced, but then his eyes dart to mine and I swear he flushes.
“Hot in here,” he says, reaching to turn the air-conditioning up. I just nod.
I could put up a fuss, complain about the fact that he’s basically kidnapped me, but I’m suddenly shy. Sullivan has a vulnerable side, and I don’t know what to do with that.
He flicks on his blinker and I realize we’re heading toward the river. North Fork River cuts through the county, narrow and deep, skirting Jericho on the west and sprouting tributaries that fan like veins through the rich farmland. One of the larger creeks borders the Murphys’ property where it empties into Jericho Lake. The water is slow and muddy, a blur of dirty brown beneath the bridge that leads out of town.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
The silence swells between us, making the cab of the truck seem humid and close even though the air is turned on high. We’re awkward, both of us, glancing at each other and then away until Sullivan pulls down an overgrown lane and cuts the engine. I’m glad to finally be wherever it is we are. I’m not here to find common ground with him.
“Where are we?” We’re hemmed in by trees and brush, branches scraping the windshield and poking bony knuckles at our doors.
“Access road,” Sullivan declares, as if I’m supposed to find this information noteworthy.
“I can see that. But why are we here?”
Sullivan wrenches open his door. “Come on! You telling me you’re Jericho-born and you’ve never been to Broken Bridge? How is that even possible?”
I’ve heard of it, of course, but no, I’ve never been. I don’t feel like admitting this apparent blight on my character, so I climb out of the passenger side without answering. A branch scrapes me as I hop to the ground, and Sullivan hollers something about ticks from where he’s half-buried in the bed of the truck.
Ticks? My eyes go wide, and I start frantically inspecting my skin: arms, legs, hands. Am I feeling itchy? Are ticks even itchy?
“Relax,” Sullivan says, catching my hand and turning it over to inspect the pale skin of my wrist. “I could check you over if you’d like.”
And just like that the old Sullivan is back. “No thanks.” I pull out of his loose grip. “I’m all good.”
“You’re a little jumpy, aren’t you, Juniper? Can I call you that? Juniper?”
“June,” I say firmly. “About Baxter…”
“Yeah, yeah.” But then he arches one eyebrow at me and takes off, heading away from the highway, deeper into the trees that flank the river.
I waver for a moment. I don’t want to give in to Sullivan, but if I don’t follow, I’ll be stuck out in the middle of nowhere alone. And I definitely don’t want to call Jonathan to come and get me. I’ve come this far—what’s a bit farther?
A few jogged paces and I fall into step behind him. The path is narrow but hard packed, and we walk together in silence. Somehow, out of the truck and beneath the trees it feels easy. I’m no arborist, but the cottonwoods are simple enough to pick out—they’re tall and feathery, sprouting tufts of soft, fluffy seeds that drift like snow and alight on our heads. I pluck one off my shoulder and try to throw it at him, but it’s lighter than air and floats away from my fingertips.
“Here.” Sullivan tosses something over his shoulder, and I instinctively reach out to catch it. It’s a canister of bug spray, and I give it a good shake, then liberally apply. The sharp, chemical smell makes me sneeze.
I toss him back the spray, and he tucks it in one of the cargo pockets of his camouflage shorts without using it himself, then pulls a beer from the plastic ring of the six-pack he’s holding. He hands it to me and twists one out for himself. We pop the tops, bump cans, and then Sullivan shotguns the whole thing before I’ve even taken a sip. I worry momentarily about driving home with him but remember that Jonathan is on high alert. If he so much as sees an incoming call from me, he’ll be on his way.
Sullivan is finishing up his second beer when we break through the trees at the edge of the North Fork River. There’s a mossy, muddy smell of leaf rot and dead fish, and as I stand for just a moment I begin to sink in the soft bank.
“Rained yesterday,” Sullivan reminds me. “Come on.”
We follow the river around a bend until I can see the old train bridge peeking through the tops of the trees. Broken Bridge is the stuff of Jericho lore, a landmark that has stood for generations, though now it’s little more than rusted struts and bracings, crumbling concrete. It’s the perfect spot for parties because it’s so hard to get to. The cops simply can’t be bothered to chase teenagers into the brush. But tonight, we have it to ourselves.
Sullivan pulls himself up on the concrete piling and then reaches down to offer me his hand. I pause for just a moment before I take it, and then he hoists me into the air with more force than I thought possible. I’m yanked up beside him, half tipping off the edge, but he’s got me. A laugh escapes before I can check myself, and Sullivan rewards me with a grin.
We scramble onto the bridge proper, all copper steel and sun-washed wood that’s been baked to a flaking gray brown. I’m surprised to find that between every splintered tie is nothing but air. Sullivan doesn’t seem to mind. He tightrope walks a rail to the center of the bridge, and then settles down on a thick stretch of rough wood with his legs dangling toward the water.
“Get over here,” he says, patting the space across from him.
I’m less sure on my feet, and not a fan of heights, so it takes me a bit longer to get to where he’s casually watching the slow current swirl beneath him. I feel woozy and disoriented when I finally reach Sullivan, and I can’t decide if it’s because of where I am or who I’m with. Maybe it’s the beer. It was cold and I was thirsty. I finished it before we summited the bridge.
“Who says Iowa isn’t beautiful?” Sullivan asks as I lower myself to a thick railroad tie. We’re sitting knee to knee.
I’m surprised that there’s a note of wistfulness in his voice, but I understand. It’s lovely up here. The sky is darkening to velvet before us, and back the way we came is a watercolor smudge of citrus. Tangerine and grapefruit and blood orange spilled across the horizon. If I turn the other way there’s a break in the trees where the train tracks once ran, and framed in leafy greens beyond the grove on the far bank is a farmer’s pastoral field. It swells and dips like waves on the sea, and perfect lines of newly planted corn march into the distance. Every couple of seconds a firefly glints in the dusk, lending an almost magical quality to the deep quiet of this place. I realize I can hear myself breathe. And Sullivan, too.
“It’s pretty,” I admit, just to break the silence.