Free Bitter End by Jennifer Brown Page A

shutting the car door with my hip and darting to the gate. In three pulls, I was straddling
     the top of it, looking down at Cole. “What’s taking you so long?” I said, and swung my leg over the top, pushing off from
     the fence and letting myself fall to my feet on the other side, barely able to believe I had just climbed that gate. I brushed
     my hands off and planted them on my hips. “Well?”
    Cole’s face split into such a wide smile, even his dimple disappeared into a deep groove. “Here,” he said, and pushed the
     guitar case to the top of the gate, where it balanced and then slowly tipped in my direction. I stretched until my hands were
     around the neck, then pulled it down. Cole took the fence in two pulls and landed within inches of me, our faces so close
     our noses could touch. “Let’s go,” he said, hishand snaking over mine to take the case. I felt numb, but deep down my whole body was buzzing with adrenaline.
    We high-stepped through the tall weeds, ducking under low branches in the grove of trees that separated us from the concrete
     ledge at the top of the spillway. When we came out on the other side, I held my breath, both hands pressed against my stomach,
     my heart pounding.
    From the top, it looked as if the concrete went down forever, a straight drop into a pool of green, mossy water at its base.
     At that moment, I was sure the urban legend was correct about one thing—if something went wrong, you would die and there would
     be nothing anyone could do about it other than call your name and cry.
    Cole stepped over a disintegrating Styrofoam cooler and planted a foot on the ledge. He noticed me frozen, half in the trees,
     and chuckled. “Eyes open or closed?” he asked, raising his foot to take another step.
    “Cole, I don’t think—”
    “Closed?” he interrupted. “Okay, but that seems kind of dangerous.” He closed his eyes and put his raised foot down, taking
     a step forward.
    “Cole, don’t, you could…” He took another step, holding his arms out to his sides, the guitar case dangling over the edge
     of the spillway dramatically as he walked along the ledge. My heart beat so hard it brought tears to my eyes. “Open!” I shouted.
     “Open!”
    He stopped and doubled over, laughing. He sat the guitar case on the ground and came back to where I was standing. He held out both hands. “It’s okay,” he said. “I was looking. Come here.”
    His eyes, searching deep into mine, felt like danger and safety all rolled into one. My hands shook as I pulled them from
     my belly and placed them gently in his hands. He snaked them up to my elbows and gently tugged me through the grass. He walked
     backward, guiding my shaking legs and unwilling feet over the discarded cooler and onto the concrete. I could barely believe
     this was me, doing this.
    “See?” he said softly, pulling me to the middle of the spillway. “You’re safe, Emily Dickinson.”
    He let go of my arms, and we both turned to look out over the spillway. I let out the lungful of air I hadn’t realized I’d
     been holding. I felt like I might throw up. But at the same time, I felt exhilarated, as if I was just now waking up. Just
     now feeling alive. As if Cole had brought me back from the depressing silence I was used to living in. Here, there were no
     brains being washed off anything. Here, there was just… life.
    We stood there for a while, pointing out things—a hawk’s nest in a tree below us, smoke rising from one of the shelter houses—the
     headlights of oncoming traffic washing over us. Finally, Cole sat down, his legs hanging over the lip of the spillway, turned,
     and opened his guitar case. He shuffled backward a few inches, then patted the concrete in front of him.
    “Sit down,” he said, and I did, lowering myself shakily into the U made by his legs, leaning my body back againsthis and feeling the concrete, still warm from soaking up the day’s sun, underneath us.
    He lowered his