Chapter 1
Bridger gripped the slick metal of the drainpipe and imagined the headline for the following day: Teenager Falls to His Death Attempting to Apply for a Job. It’s shocking, pathetic, and morbid—and plain sad—perfect for the people who still read newspapers.
The obligatory paragraph about his life that accompanied the headline would be laughably short, filled with such exciting details as his three-year stint as a bench warmer for the soccer team and the girl he took to his junior prom throwing up in the front seat of his mom’s car after eating suspect fish tacos from the local diner. Who the hell orders fish tacos from a diner? Better question—who takes their prom date to a diner for dinner? Answer—he’s currently scurrying up a drainpipe for a job.
Yes. Him. Bridger Whitt.
Hold on. Rewind. There is a reasonable explanation for this level of asshattery.
Mere minutes ago, Bridger led a respectable life.
Vomiting date aside, he did have friends, one of whom was a best friend. He had excellent grades and plenty of extracurricular activities. At his worst, he was a little mouthy, but he was seventeen. Sarcasm was to be expected.
Dangerous feats of climbing—not so much.
Bridger’s toes slid off the clamp which secured the pipe to the brick wall of the monstrous house. He gasped. His fingers tightened around the steel, and his heart pounded so hard he heard it in his ears. A few strands of his sandy-blond hair flopped into his eyes and stuck to the fogged lenses of his sunglasses, but he didn’t dare relinquish his hold to push them away, clinging to the pipe with a death grip.
After a quick scramble to secure his footing, he tried to assess when he had veered off the straight and easy path he’d been sprinting down and started to stumble blindly onto a windy and treacherous road complete with potholes and head-on traffic. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment.
Okay, that wasn’t true.
Bridger knew exactly when it happened: the day he received his acceptance letter to college with a tuition statement and realized that, even with loans and scholarships, he couldn’t afford it.
Okay, that wasn’t quite true either.
Maybe it was the summer day when his new neighbors moved in across the street and their son mowed the yard while shirtless. Bridger couldn’t help but stare, peeking through the blinds. No, that probably wasn’t it, either, though that had been a revelation, made embarrassing when Bridger was sure the aforementioned neighbors’ son caught him. It turned utterly mortifying when said son also showed up at school—in many of Bridger’s classes, no less.
Hilariously humiliating.
He could go the cliché route and say that he’d been inevitably headed toward drastic measures to be able to afford college since his dad had packed up and left, only to be heard from on birthdays and every other Christmas. But even his missing dad wouldn’t necessarily have led him to answer a vague Craigslist job ad.
No, he would have to accept that this was temporary insanity brought on because he needed a job and had no marketable skills—unless a potential employer deemed playing video games, knowing how to get out of gym class, having a knack for Jeopardy questions, and making a mean grilled cheese as serviceable skills.
Okay, that was also a lie. Bridger’s grilled cheeses were subpar. They always turned out soggy or burned. Gross. Bridger had problems with happy mediums.
Whatever it was, his carefully laid trajectory, which was supposed to transport him directly and swiftly from Midden, Michigan, bastion of Middle America, to the warm southern coast, had gone wonky.
Gulping, Bridger concentrated on looking up and not down. Down was bad. Down led to headlines in newspapers and the yearbook dedicated to him. A few feet farther and he’d be on the roof. He could do this. Maybe.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and his muscles trembled. Okay, he admitted it. This was not his best idea.
Earlier that morning, with one hand tucked into his jeans pocket and the other clutching a printout of an employment ad, Bridger had eyed the large house. The other buildings—squat and brick and ugly—paled in comparison to the three-story magnificent and weird conglomeration of modern and ancient architecture that towered over the rest of the neighborhood. It didn’t belong on the dirty little street in the middle of the city, but neither did he.
He was supposed to be at school. He was supposed to be bragging to his friends about his acceptance letter to the college of his dreams. He was supposed to be in English class listening to Mrs. Peck drone on about Hamlet. Instead, he’d stood on the sidewalk in a part of town that wasn’t the safest as his fingertips left sweaty marks on the piece of paper in his hand. He dodged the sharp stares of other individuals circling the property like well-dressed sharks, obviously all there for the job. They wore ties and pantsuits. Bridger used the sleeve of his well-worn flannel shirt to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow.
He had studied obsessively the three lines which stated merely the job title of “Assistant,” the address, the small window of time to show up, and the instruction to enter through the blue door.
On first glance, the house had no blue door.
Bridger had checked the address on the mailbox against the numbers on the fluted columns, which held up an ornate pediment, and compared both with the piece of paper in his hand. They all matched.
Panic fluttered in his middle. He didn’t have time for this. Knowing his luck, this ad was a way for a serial killer to lure unsuspecting victims to their grisly death. Or it was a giant hoax, and someone was laughing their ass off while Bridger went viral.
Fuck. He was so going to get caught skipping class, and it would be all for nothing.
Bridger considered walking away, but he was in for a penny and might as well go for the pound. He stepped onto the overgrown lawn and picked his way down the little broken-stone path toward the front door. While moving through the weeds, he passed another potential employee, a middle-aged man in a nice suit with grass stains, who muttered a few disparaging words about the local job market, pranks, and trick doors.
The house had a wraparound porch, and the steps squeaked. The door was not blue, but rather an off-white color that might be purposeful or just due to dirt. With instructions as explicit as the window of time to show up—between 9:58 and 11:11—Bridger wasn’t about to knock. He’d walked around to the side of the house. The shades were drawn on all the windows, so he couldn’t peek inside and embarrass himself. He made a full loop and didn’t find a blue door.
What a giant waste of time!
He had checked again. There wasn’t a speck of blue in sight. In the backyard, Bridger left the porch and walked to the picket fence that marked the end of the property. He looked up and on the third and last terrace, as part of a tower on the back of the roof, spied a tiny blue door, certainly not big enough for a teenager to squeeze through.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bridger had said. “No freaking way.”
Bridger had heard of employers using difficult tests to weed out candidates, but this was ridiculous. There was no way he was going to climb the side of the house and try to fit in that door. It was stupid, and no job was worth the risk of injuring himself. He wasn’t going to do it.
He had noted the prospective route: the drainpipe and the back porch lattice covered in dying vines. He flashed on the acceptance letter on his kitchen table. He thought about all the hard work he had put in to earn the grades and the long hours his mother had worked to save the little money they did have.
Oh, who was he kidding? He was totally going to do it and he had better get started since a woman in a short skirt had also noticed the tiny blue door and kicked off her heels.
It was on.
Bridger had jogged to the back porch. His palms already slick with nervous sweat, he wrapped his fingers around the wooden lattice. With a deep breath, he’d shoved his foot in a hole and started his ascent. The lattice was sturdy enough to hold him, but that didn’t stop him from being anxious; his stomach swooped with every step he took. At the top of the lattice was the porch roof, and he climbed onto it and brushed his hands on the back of his jeans before moving to the drainpipe.
Now, he clung precariously to that drainpipe and hoped his strength and resolve held out.
With a final heave and a prayer, Bridger hoisted his long body up and grasped the decorative iron railing that edged the landing of the tower. He flung himself over it and landed on his back on the deck. Huh. His gym teacher was right. He could do a pull-up if he would just exert himself.
The platform was small. With Bridger starfished, his right hand brushed the slats of the railing, and his left skimmed the cracked wood of the blue door. He breathed out a low laugh and rolled to his side to look through the railing. Wow, he was far from the ground! He’d been so focused on going up, he hadn’t given much thought to getting down, and that would suck if this whole blue door thing didn’t pan out.
The door—which up close looked bigger than from the ground—creaked inward. Bridger shot upright, scrambled to his feet, brushed off his clothes, and pushed the flop of his blond hair out of his eyes. He slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and flashed his most charming smile—the one that got him out of trouble more often than not.
Someone peeked around the door—a plump, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo and cat's-eye glasses peered down her nose at Bridger—which was quite a feat since Bridger towered over her.
“Finally made it,” she said as she swept her gaze over him. She huffed and swung the door open farther, before she turned on her heel and walked away. “I suppose you should come inside before time runs out and I’ll have to do this again tomorrow.”
Bridger kept his grin firmly locked in place as he followed her inside. He’d just climbed up the side of the house; she could at least have acknowledged his physical prowess… or something. Bridger wasn’t sure. This whole job interview thing was new.
He ducked through the doorway and sneezed. Dust motes swirled and caught the light. As soon as he passed the threshold, the door slammed. The bang made him jump. With the natural light diminished, the room was bathed in an eerie orange glow. Bridger spun on his heel. A lump rose in his throat that may not have been directly related to the dust, but because when he tried the knob, it didn’t move. His grin faded.
“Um… ma’am?”
“Perfectly normal. Keep moving.”
Oh, he was going to die. The headline might not be the one he’d imagined, but there was definitely going to be one.
He shuffled forward, shoulders hunched near his ears. The attic ceiling was slanted; the room itself was bare. She led him through another doorway into a roomier space. Bridger watched the line of the woman’s back as she led him deeper into the house.
She wore a purple suit-dress and sturdy purple heels, which clunked on the wooden floor.
“Ma’am?”
“My name is Mindy,” she said over her shoulder. “For future reference the second and third floors are off-limits. Your duties will be restricted to the first floor and the basement.”
Bridger stumbled. “I got the job?”
She leveled a severe gaze at him. “You made it in.”
“So it was a test!”
She brought him to a staircase. Her purple-frosted lips pursed. She cocked a hand on her hip, and, what with all the purple and the towering blond hair, Bridger had an impression of cotton candy. “Go down two flights and wait for me by the desk. We’ll get your paperwork sorted.”
Bridger took a step toward the stairs, excited yet wary. The butterflies in his stomach didn’t know whether to make him dance or vomit.
“What exactly are my duties going to be? How much am I going to get paid? I’m still in school; are the hours flexible?”
“It’s an assistant position. You’re going to assist.”
“Assist what? What exactly do you do? And what kind of business is this? There wasn’t even a name in the ad.”
A large crash was followed by a yelp. Mindy sighed and rolled her eyes like a put-upon parent—Bridger recognized the expression—and she pointed to the stairs.
“Go. I’ll be down in a minute. Don’t touch anything.”
Bridger’s eyebrows inched into his hairline, but he didn’t argue, especially after another crash and high-pitched chattering.
He took off down the stairs with his hand trailing along the smooth railing and the steps creaking under his feet. He didn’t look up when he hit the first landing, instead he merely turned and fled to the ground floor.
What had he gotten himself into? That noise—it was a chittering noise like something a small animal would make. Was this a research facility? No, no, the house might be creepy, but it’s not test-animal facility creepy. It was more like Adams-family creepy; there had to be at least one suit of armor in the house. The question was whether the armor would try to kill him. Bridger didn’t want an answer to that question, which was one of the reasons he didn’t lift his gaze from his sneakers thumping down the stairs.
Okay, his imagination was running away from him.
This was a business, albeit one running in a strangely converted house, but, cotton candy aside, Mindy seemed normal. At least that was good.
Bridger jumped down the last few steps and found Mindy’s desk. It was a monstrosity of dark wood and clawed feet and covered in tiny bobbleheaded animals all slightly bobbling. It sat in the middle of a foyer. Orienting himself, Bridger saw what must be the front door. Light filtered through the blinds of the framing windows so the room was brighter than what he’d seen of the rest of the house. Landscape paintings adorned the walls. A long bench, covered in a layer of dust, sat against one wall. Someone had tried to give the room an office feel. It didn’t work with the bobbleheads and the lack of anything distinctly professional.
Bridger perched on the bench, straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his sweaty hair, knocking his sunglasses askew. Then he drummed his fingers against his thigh and slumped, resting his chin on the heel of his hand.
Several other doors led out of the small foyer, but he didn’t dare investigate. Even if nothing weird was going on, he doubted an employer would appreciate snooping.
He pulled out his phone and checked the time. Oh, no. He was going to get busted—no way around it. From Astrid, his best friend, he had a text all in caps and emojis asking him where the hell he was.
He didn’t know how to answer that.
“Who are you?”
Bridger jerked up so hard he banged the back of his head against the wall.
“Ow!” he said, bringing his hand up to touch the painful spot. He squinted at the person who had appeared out of nowhere. “Sneak up on people often? Crap, man, where did you come from?”
The guy pointed to the front door. “The front door.” He had a soft voice and a muddled accent that definitely wasn’t Midwestern. “Where did you come from?”
Bridger glanced at the door and then focused on the man. He was tall and thin, fine-boned and birdlike. His clothes had seen better days—worn plaid pants, a vintage shirt, a scarf, and a jacket with elbow patches—but Bridger couldn’t tell if that was on purpose or meant to be ironic. Black hair fell around his ears, curled down the back of his neck, and tickled the collar of his horrible jacket. His bright green eyes wrinkled at the corners as he stared at Bridger and waited.
“Did you come from that door?” the man asked when Bridger remained silent.
Bridger was too busy playing the part of a fish on land. “The… door?” he said, disbelieving. “Are you kidding me? It works?”
“Are you lost? Where’s Mindy?” He shouted up the stairs. “Mindy!”
Bridger shook his head and stood. “No, if I knew I could come through that door, then I wouldn’t have climbed up the back of this house. Also, I would love to find Mindy myself. She told me to come down here and wait, and I have been. I skipped school to answer this stupid ad,” Bridger said, pulling the crumpled paper from his pocket and waving it in the guy’s face. “But I have no idea what this place is or what I’m supposed to do—and who the hell are you anyway?”
The man nodded. “Ah,” he said, his lips curling up at the corners. “So you didn’t come in the front door.”
Bridger flailed. “No! You know what, I’m out. This has been an experience, but I think I’m going to head back to school. I’m sure there is a perfectly respectable coffee shop that needs a person to stand behind a counter and pretend to care about the correct temperature for a perfect cappuccino.”
Turning on his heel, Bridger headed to the door; he could at least leave from it.
“Stop right there, young man,” Mindy’s voice rang out from the top of the stairs. “Don’t move.”
Bridger sighed and turned.
Mindy waved an angry finger toward the guy. “And you weren’t even going to stop him. I am disappointed in you, sir.”
The man shrugged and put his hands in his pants pockets. He didn’t feign apologetic well.
Bridger blinked. “Sir?”
“You didn’t even introduce yourself?” Mindy clomped down the stairs.
Cheeks flushing, the guy ducked his head. “I didn’t know who he was.”
“Bullshit,” Mindy said. She tugged on her massive office chair; the feet screeched across the hardwood floor. She dropped into the chair, and a bobbleheaded squirrel fell over. “You,” she pointed at Bridger, “come here. And you—” She whipped around, purple-tipped finger now aiming at the guy. “—introduce yourself.”
He blew out a breath. “I’m Pavel Chudinov.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“He’s your boss,” Mindy said, clipped.
Bridger’s stomach dropped. “Oh. Uh. No offense, but could she be my boss?”
“No,” Mindy answered. She waved a piece of paper and threw it on the desk. “Your contract. Three days a week after school. And on call hours as needed. A few weekends. Wage is one-and-a-half times minimum. Any questions?”
Bridger did the quick math in his head. One-and-a-half times minimum wage was more than he’d get slinging coffee beans. And three days a week wasn’t bad. It would still leave time for homework and the occasional social opportunity—social opportunity being riding in Astrid’s car to various geek locales.
“Yeah,” Bridger said, feeling a little like Faust as he scribbled his name on the line. “What exactly do you do here?”
Pavel eyed him. “I help others with their problems.”
“Like a therapist?”
“No, not those type of problems.”
Bridger’s eyebrows shot up. “Like a hit man?”
Pavel blinked, then grinned, slow and menacing.
Mindy huffed. “No. Don’t tease him, sir. We want this one to last.”
Bridger stiffened and dropped the pen on the desk; various headlines scrolled across his brain. “Last? What does that mean?”
Pavel cocked his head and gestured weakly. “Some people find the work to be disagreeable.”
“Hey, man, I’m not doing anything weird or illegal. Okay?”
“Illegal?” Pavel scoffed. “Of course not.” He paused, and Bridger waited, expectant. “Well, don’t you have school to get to?”
“Yeah,” Bridger responded, dragging out the vowels. “School. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Do I get to leave through the front door or do you want me to climb down the side of your house? I’m not exactly Peter Parker.”
Pavel chuckled. “No, no. You can use the front door. Now that you’ve been in the house, you can come in and out over the threshold.”
Yeah, that wasn’t strange at all. Bridger’s phone buzzed. He really did need to leave.
“Okay, see you tomorrow, after school.”
Bridger grasped the door knob. To his surprise, it turned easily, and the door swung inward, virtually soundless. As he walked out, he heard Pavel ask, “Who is Peter Parker?” and Mindy gustily sigh.
Okay, so his initial assessment was a little off. There were no tragic headlines in his near future. And he had a job. An actual job! Money. And not bad money. He might be able to save enough for his books and food for his freshman year. Despite how the whole adventure started and the absolute strangeness surrounding it, Bridger’s life was looking up. He may not be on the path he originally wanted, but hey, it wasn’t a bad path so far. That had to count for something. Right?
“Where were you?” Astrid slammed her locker shut. Backpack slung over one shoulder, physics book tucked in the crook of her arm, she leveled an intense gaze at Bridger. “You missed my turn as Ophelia.”
He leaned against the wall of lockers. “Oh, man, I bet you were breathtaking.”
“Naturally,” she said, fluttering her lashes. She flipped her crayon-red hair over her shoulder. “Was there any doubt?”
He laughed. “Of course not.”
Astrid was his best friend. They’d met in the horror show that was middle school and realized quickly that they were only going to survive together. They’d endured the awkwardness of puberty, the soul-rending ache of first crushes, comparisons of good acne cleansers, and even one ill-advised kiss in an equally ill-advised game of truth or dare. They had been attached at the hip, more or less, all through high school. Sure, they had other friends—okay she had other friends, while Bridger had vague acquaintances he’d grown up with but hadn’t socialized with since inviting the whole class to parties went out of style—but it was Astrid he texted on good days and bad ones, and he was the one at every single one of her themed birthday parties, even the ones that involved ponies and princesses. In fact, he looked pretty damn good in a tiara.
“Who played the Hamlet to your awesomeness?”
“Leo.”
Bridger groaned and resisted the urge to bang his head against the locker. Of course, he’d missed the one day he would’ve actually wanted to attend class.
“It was probably a good thing you weren’t there, because you would’ve done something embarrassing like moaning when he said ‘get thee to a nunnery.’”
“Why are we friends, again?”
“Because you would be completely lost without me.”
Bridger smiled. “More than likely.”
“Anyway, why did you skip? Totally not like you.”
“Oh.” Bridger shrugged. “You know, skipping, being cool, smoking behind the equipment shed. Getting myself a job.”
Astrid shoved him hard. He bounced back into the lockers. “You did? Where? Please don’t tell me you bowed to the corporate gods and are working at the coffee conglomerate.”
Bridger rubbed his elbow where he’d banged it against his locker handle. “How are you so much stronger than me?”
“Field hockey. Anyway, answer the question.”
“It’s an indie therapy place or something. I’m not quite sure what they do, but the guy who runs it needed an assistant.”
“And what will you be doing? Lighting incense? Heating the massage oils?” She raised each eyebrow in quick succession and did her best cheesy leer. “Restocking the tissues.”
“You’ve been reading too much fanfiction. This is not a house of ill repute, but an actual business.” That wasn’t true. Bridger had no clue what the name of the place was, if they had a business license, if he was being paid under the table, or if taxes would obliterate his check. In hindsight, he should’ve asked more questions. At least he knew it wasn’t anything illegal. Maybe. “Be happy for me. This may mean I can send in my acceptance and in one short school year be on my way to warmer climes and happy times.”
“Yeah, sorry, no. You’re the only sane person around here, and I am not going to celebrate you leaving me behind to go gallivanting off into the sunset.”
“You could come with? Still time to apply for regular admission.”
“Uh, no. I got my early acceptance to the local, and that’s good enough for the parental units.”
Bridger crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders at the thought of Astrid being half the country away, but that was a bridge to cross in a year. He’d have to make their remaining months together extra special. Maybe he’d need tiaras and bubble wands.
The warning bell rang, and the chatter of the kids around them increased. Bridger checked the clock. Five minutes were left of lunch break before he had AP Government.
“Ugh, I hate that sound.” Astrid adjusted her shirt and looked at Bridger. “Do I look okay?”
“Your robot earring on your left ear is upside down, but otherwise you’re beautiful as always.”
The door at the end of the hallway swung open with a bang, and five guys sauntered in. If the letterman jackets and the football being tossed between them were any indication, they were football jocks. Loud jokes and laughter followed them down the hall, and the other students moved out of their way. The group shoved each other and catcalled the cheerleaders. What a cliché.
Astrid rolled her eyes.
Bridger straightened and tugged on his flannel shirt.
Leo was with them.
Leo—Bridger’s neighbor across the street, who had moved in right before the start of the school year and had been the catalyst for Bridger’s awkward awakening to feelings. Leo—the new senior with deep brown eyes, perfect brown skin, and dark hair that swooped up in unnatural ways. Leo—football star, tall, built and absolutely gorgeous. Leo—with artfully ripped jeans and a tight T-shirt that showed off his broad shoulders.
Bridger sucked in a sharp breath, choked on it when Astrid elbowed him hard, and shook his head to get his eyes unstuck.
Bridger had been embarrassed when he thought he’d been caught staring through the blinds of his house as Leo mowed the lawn. How mortifying would it be to get caught again? Bridger should sink through the floor. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough he could become one with the wall of lockers. Quick, go, invisibility, go!
“Hey.”
And, oh, that was Leo’s voice—his stupid perfect voice.
Astrid nailed Bridger in the ribs again with her unbelievably pointy elbow, and he snapped his head up. Leo stood in front of him, detached from the vaguely intimidating group of sports people, and smiled at them.
Did someone turn up the heat in this forsaken school?
“Hey,” Bridger replied, his voice entirely too high and sharp. Oh no, abort, abort. This is uncharted territory. Here be monsters.
“You weren’t in English class.”
“You were Hamlet,” Bridger blurted. Oh, crap. His cheeks burned. Why was there not a convenient hole in the floor he could dive into? “I mean, Astrid told me. Because she’s my friend.”
“Yeah,” Leo said. He tossed the football between his hands, his movements easy and fluid, as if the football was an extension of him. “I think I may have messed up some pronunciations.”
“No,” Astrid assured him. “You were great.”
Leo’s smile grew. The sheer brightness of it was like stepping out of a darkened movie theater into a sunlit day. Bridger resisted the urge to shade his eyes.
“No, you were great,” he said, turning the full wattage onto Astrid. “You should go into theater.”
She preened. She giggled. She flipped her hair.
Leo beamed.
Bridger’s heart thumped hard and then fell to the floor in a squishy lump. He swore he heard the splat.
Oh.
Of course.
“Anyway,” Leo continued. “I wanted to say hi since I didn’t see you. In class. I wanted to check on you… make sure you didn’t need the notes or anything.”
Great, now Leo was blushing. Could he get any cuter? Could he get any more unavailable?
“Thanks.” Bridger pointed to Astrid. “Best friend right here, so I’m good.” Lie. He was not good. He was deflated: the wind sucked right out of his sails, stuck in the doldrums, maybe even a little crushed. He forced a smile.
“Right. Well, cool. See you later.” Leo tossed the ball in the air and caught it once more for good measure before heading off to join the group of guys waiting for him.
Once he was out of earshot, Astrid nudged Bridger. “God, you’re awkward. It was a good thing I was here.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. He rubbed his chest, hoping to quell the ache.
“Why the frowny face? Didn’t you hear what he said?” Astrid stage-whispered, as they walked toward their next class. “He wanted to check on you.”
Bridger scuffed his sneaker on the glossy hallway floor. “I am not frowning. I’m smiling. See?” He gave her his best cheesy grin.
“Nice try, jerk. Seriously, though, why aren’t you bouncing down the hallway?”
“I am. I’m doing it internally. Not all of us are extroverts, you know.”
“You’re being weird. And not just you-weird.”
How did he explain this to her? He couldn’t. He didn’t know what was going on himself.
“We’re going to be late,” he said, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder. “I can’t skip and have a tardy on the same day.”
“Bridger…”
“Seriously. I’ll talk to you after school.”
Head down, Bridger fled, walking quickly through the corridor. The bell rang. Already late, he ducked into the restroom, glad it was empty. Dropping his bag on the floor, he gripped the sink and leaned over it. He turned on the tap and splashed water on his face.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “You’re leaving anyway. Get through the school year. Figure it out in college.” Figure it out in college had become his mantra over the last few weeks. Going to college far away from home was the only avenue he’d thought of thus far that would allow him to just… be.
He glanced in the mirror. His face was pale, but he didn’t look as if he was having a crisis. Maybe he’d been a little overzealous with the splashing; the tips of his blond hair darkened and stuck to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, and his green eyes seemed glassy. But he was okay.
He was okay; he now had a job, and he had a plan.
He only needed to get through this school day and the one after that and the one after that… just a year.
He could do that. One step at a time.
Bridger picked up his bag and slung it on his back. He straightened his shoulders and took a breath to steel himself. He walked out of the bathroom not at all ready to face whatever was waiting for him, but totally ready to fake it.
At the end of the day, Bridger let himself into the small house he and his mother shared. On the table he found a note from his mom reminding him of her schedule for the week. She worked the night shift at the hospital and also picked up shifts whenever she could, which left him home alone more often than not.
Proving once again that happy mediums were not his strong suit, he made a bad grilled cheese. He did his homework. He texted Astrid and confirmed that yes, they were ‘cool’ and he was in fact an alien in a Bridger-shaped suit. He watched Jeopardy and wrote down the answers he’d gotten incorrect so he could research them more later. He locked all the doors. He set his alarm.
He went to bed and pretended he wasn’t so unbearably lonely.