I wait until ten. This is when you were last seen running toward the river. Our last reliable sighting. I need it to be really dark out.
I jump on my bike and ride fast toward the bridge. The rain is coming down in sheets, slapping me in the face, making it hard to see. Cars splash me with pothole water. I’m getting drenched from all sides. But I ride faster, following my light, ducking my chin.
Did an eyewitness really see you in our spot? Did you come down here, think about jumping, and then come back later? Is it really that simple? Then why does someone have your phone? Why are they calling me?
You’re running beside me now. It makes me feel a little less alone. You grin at me, dimple and all, and rain water drips down your face into your mouth. You stick out your tongue to catch it. I join you. Did we ever do this? Is this a memory? Or just my imagination? It feels real. You feel so damn alive.
How can they be searching for you in the river tomorrow?
You sprint ahead. Your T-shirt is soaked. Your running shoes kick up muddy water onto the backs of your legs and your white shirt. I chase you on my bike.
I hit the bridge.
My tires buzz on the slick surface.
I jump over the curb onto the sidewalk, and my bike skids out, but I manage to get it back under control. You disappear. I’m disappointed, even though it’s just my own damn mind, and I could make you come back if I wanted. I need the real you, not the imaginary you.
Halfway up the bridge, I stop and lean the bike against the railing. I stand there for a minute and scan the surface of the swirling, angry water below. There are no floating bodies. Which is good.
I look toward our spot, or where I think our spot is. Hard to see in the rain.
Beside me, cars are whizzing by. The headlights hit me, but nobody stops. Nobody wonders why a girl has stopped on the bridge with her bike in the pouring rain.
The river hisses below, black and churning. The lights on the bridge shine down on it, shimmer off the surface, like a shield, hiding whatever might be underneath.
I tuck my hands into my armpits. The railing is not high. A person could easily climb it and get on the other side and jump. If it were a high bridge, maybe they’d build a higher railing.
I look at our spot. Mr. Tom, the cedar, blocks the view. The branches swoop down, block even people standing on the bank. The eyewitness couldn’t have seen you standing there. That’s what I like about our spot; we can see out, but people can’t see in. I mean, if he could see you from the bridge, think of all those times we had sex there. Oh god, right? In my brain, I hear you say, Making love. Ha-ha. You always say, making love.
I walk along the bridge and stop every few feet to look, but it doesn’t make a difference. I walk back. Maybe if the person were taller? I step up on the lower bar of the slippery railing and then go higher.
When I’m at the top of the railing, I lean forward, like I’m on the Titanic. The cold wind whips my hair against my face, the rain beats down, and I squint, trying to see if there’s any way someone could see you. It makes no difference. The guy couldn’t have, at least not near our spot. And the rest of the bank is really tough to get down. There’s too much shrubbery and trees and moss.
Why wouldn’t you just jump in by the Pitt, closer to the rapids, if that was your plan? Maybe you tried, but Johnson and them were there? Your second choice would be our spot.
There aren’t a ton of black guys around here so the eyewitness couldn’t have seen a different black guy. Unless it was the whistler. Trying to make it look like you killed yourself.
I stare down at the swirling, dark water. The rain is dumping down on me. I’m shivering like crazy.
The whole thing makes no sense. Not to be morbid, but everyone has the one way they’d choose to go, if it came to that, and there’s no way this would be yours. You’re terrified of the river. I’m terrified of fire. You think I’d light myself on fire? No fucking way. Why would anyone pick the very most terrifying way to die?
The river rages below. The wind blows right through my wet T-shirt. I’m shaking from the cold. I close my eyes and send out another useless brain message. Hey, baby, give me a sign. Let me know if I need to stop looking.
I wait. There’s no thunder. No lightning. No sign.