Bridget looked toward the living room, where Gabe sat entranced by Mighty Machines, then toward the window above the sink.
Alecia closed her eyes and let her breathing level out, the anger pulsing under her skin, a slow burn.
After a minute, Bridget spoke. “Nate lets people in, Alecia. It’s like a drug, you remember? It’s why you fell in love with him. When he looks at you, it’s like you’re all that matters. He does that to everyone. Holden was addicted to it, loved Nate more than anyone. This is what he does to people. He doesn’t mean to do it.”
Alecia walked to the sink and turned on the tap, her back to Bridget. She didn’t want her to see the tear that slid down her cheek, the sting in her throat as she tried to stop it.
She braced herself against the counter, tired, just so damn tired.
Finally, she said, “But does that make it right?”
CHAPTER 32
Bridget, Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Bridget’s classroom overlooked the parking lot, where she could see the news van parked in the fire lane, a photographer and reporter fighting against the wind and rain to stand under the front awning. The heat wave had finally broken and brought furious thunderstorms that had been raging off and on all day. She watched the reporter talk, soundless from where she stood, her mouth moving, her hand gesturing, pointing to the school entrance. Bridget studied her mouth—she wore burgundy lipstick—for any indication she was saying Nate’s name and saw none.
It was her break period.
She waited for them to leave, but they didn’t, and the reporter moved her hand around in a circle—a retake. No, not now, not ever.
Bridget walked out of her classroom, slamming the door behind her, and down the hall to the front door. She pushed against the release bar and stepped outside, where the reporter rushed her and shoved a microphone in her face.
“Miss, what do you know about the missing student? What about the teacher accused of having an affair with her? Is there a sex-for-grades scandal at Mt. Oanoke high school?”
“No comment. It is a school day, and we are in session. Please, you need to leave the premises.”
“Ma’am with all due respect, this a public school. You can’t kick us off the property.”
“During the school day, this is a no-trespassing zone. I sure as hell can, and if I have to, I’ll call the police.” Her finger hovered above Tripp’s name on her cell phone.
“Just give me a statement and I’d be happy to leave.” The woman smiled, wide and gleaming. Capped.
“I’m calling now,” Bridget said just as Bachman came up behind her.
“What’s the problem here? I’m the principal of this school, and you need to leave now.”
“I’m calling the police,” Bridget repeated, her finger still hovering, shaking. She pressed the phone against her cheek without dialing. “Officer Harris? We have a situation at the school with a television reporter, can you please send a patrol car? Thank you.”
The reporter held up her hands, palms out, buying her bluff. Her eyes swept Bachman and peered around him toward the door. A crowd of students had gathered in the doorway, piling on top of each other, craning to see.
“We’ll go,” the reporter finally said. “But technically we don’t have to. Do you want to give us a statement, Mr. Bachman?” She smiled sweetly at Tad and his neck reddened.
“No comment. Please leave.” His voice was low, his teeth clenched. He turned and went back inside, the students stepping out of his way. Bridget remained outside, but heard his directive from the hallway: “No one talks to them, got it? No one.” He sliced through the crowd, his arm swinging behind him, the door slamming shut until it was just Bridget who remained, her arms folded across her middle.
“We’ll be back, Ms. Peterson.” She gave Bridget another dazzling smile.
They knew her name. Of course they did.
?????
The day dragged on, slower than a herd of turtles, and by sixth period, Bridget had her students watch Dead Poets Society instead of journaling. She was tired of their thoughts anyway. They’d all gotten in her head: Ashlee smacked and snapped her gum from the back of the room; Josh snorted at texts from, assumedly, Kelsey, who from across the room watched him, sleek as a cat, her legs crossing and uncrossing, her finger working a blond curl into a corkscrew.
Bridget was so sick to death of all of them.
But Taylor was missing.
“Has anyone seen Taylor?” she asked, but they all just looked around and shrugged. Kelsey snapped to attention, her back taut as a rubber band.
Bridget pressed play and dimmed the lights. She sat at her desk and flicked through her emails, all business as usual. Nothing about Nate or Lucia.
She texted Nate, I’m coming over after school, have to show you something. Please be there. 3:30.
She waited ten minutes for the reply, just a simple OK.
Robin Williams jumped on the desk: The world looks very different from up here.
And then: Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.
?????
The bell rang and Bridget took her time, packing up her desk, the daily journals, her laptop. She rummaged around in her purse as the students burst out the front door like a canon, looking for the news van, the excitement buzzing on their skin.
She waited until three thirty, knowing she’d be late to Nate’s and wanting him to wait for her. She envisioned him there, checking his phone, sighing, looking out the window. Good. Let him wait.
The last of the student cars pulled and she pushed open the door into the wet, gray afternoon, the air smelling like earthworms and dirt. The kind of day that reminded you of summer love, hot and thick.
Bridget dumped everything in her trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat. On her way out, she cut through the student lot. She saw a lone red truck, parked along the edge. Bridget wound around the outside of the lot, slowed to a crawl next to it. There was a flash of movement inside the cab, in the driver’s seat, and a face close to the glass, black hair with thick bangs and red lips parted, eyes closed.
Taylor.
She moved her body, writhing like a snake, the boy inordinately tall, his blond hair grazing the fabric of the roof. His mouth was on her neck, his big hand inside her pink T-shirt, her tan skin shining as she bucked and pulsed against him. He turned his head, his eyes rolled back until all she could see was the whites through the window spotted with drying rain. Bridget hit the gas hard, before he could see her, and the car lurched, her heart in her throat.
Andrew.
?????
“You never answer your phone,” Bridget whined, the first thing she said, and she cringed. Nate shook his head.
“For what? I can’t stand to talk to anyone.” Nate turned and walked away from her, and Bridget followed dutifully like a dog licking at his heels.
“Nate, why am I doing more work for you than you are for you?” She hopped twice to keep up, his steps long and even toward the back of the house. The house shot straight back, like a railroad car: front door, living room, kitchen—no hallway. Ten long Nate-steps to the kitchen.