Page 172 of Whistle

“Bodhi!” I roared.

He stiffened, turning to look over his shoulder. He was wearing my cap. And then, as if I were a stranger, he turned away.

“Get off of there!” I roared. “Jesus Christ! You’re going to fall!”

Ignoring me completely, he lifted the bottle again, pouring vodka down the back of his throat.

And then it dawned on me. He wasn’t worried about falling because he’d come here to jump.

Just like Lance did all those years ago.

39

Bodhi

For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, and in my upset and alcohol-induced mindset, I made up the one person I wanted to see most.

My mind was a cruel place. Constantly reminding me I wasn’t good enough. That I was responsible for Brynne’s death and my parents’ dismissal. That Em would never want me the way I wanted him. Taunting me with visions of him in that sexier-than-hell tux with that woman on his arm.

“At least I have you,” I told the bottle in my fist. “Even if I did have to pay for your companionship.”

The clear liquid swished as I raised the bottle, my lips already numb either from the cold wind or what I’d already imbibed, and I anticipated the burn when it hit my throat.

I was knocked into from behind, the sudden assault making me jolt and the bottle slip right from my hand. I watched it drop, falling into the abyss below until darkness concealed it completely. At the same time, viselike arms shackled me and pulled me back into a warm, solid wall.

Goose bumps raced over my skin and along my spine, their strength making me shudder. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until something much warmer reminded me.

“I said get your ass off this railing,” a menacing voice growled beside my ear.

My ass slipped off the railing as he towed me back, but I hooked my legs around the steel bar and stopped him from pulling me away completely.

“Fight me all you want, but I will never let you jump. Never.”

“What?” I exclaimed, twisting at the waist to try and see him.

He’s here. He came for me.

He gave another tug, but my legs were locked tight. A broken sound escaped him. “Please don’t do this to me.” His voice was pained. “Not again.”

“Em,” I said, struggling to sit up in my half-on, half-off position.

Grabbing his arms for leverage, I pushed up, trying to regain some balance. Panicked, he grappled at me harder, and I curled my palm around the railing to pull myself up.

We ended up in this awkward tug of war as his words swirled around in my brain.

“I’m not going to jump!” I yelled.

He stopped struggling, his entire body stilling except for the ragged rise and fall of his chest. “What?”

“I didn’t come here to jump,” I repeated. “Why would you think that?”

“You—you’re not going to jump?”

My heart cracked a little at seeing him struggle to get through his own panic to understand my words.

“You thought I was going to?”

I guess I could understand his reasoning. I’d gone to his house, shaved my hair off, left a morbid note, and then he found me slurping vodka straight from a bottle while sitting on a bridge with a rushing river below me.

---