The Bridge Read Online Free Page A

Everett’s arm to his cheeks.
    The last time he had felt such a burn in his cheeks from touching another boy was in the eighth grade, when his physical education curriculum included swing dancing. There had been more boys than girls, and Everett had considered himself lucky to be partnered with the school’s most popular boy. Then he had gotten called out by the other boys for reacting so girlishly to dancing with another boy. The normal thing to do was dance stiffly and avoid as much close contact as possible, like the other boy-boy couples.
    Bryce’s palm and fingers were rough, but it added to his charm.
    “Can you talk?” Bryce asked.
    “Of course!”
    “Oh!” Bryce leaned back, eyebrows raised. “You’re a boy.”
    Everett thought he had outgrown the feminine-boy jokes.
    “I’m kidding. You’re obviously a boy.”
    Realizing their hands were still joined, he pulled away.
    Bryce’s eyebrows drew together, and he looked at the hand he had shaken with Everett. He rubbed his fingertips together. “Salt?”
    Everett was going to die of embarrassment.
    “Sorry! That must have been from my bag. I had… salty food in there. I’m going to vacuum it when I get home.”
    Bryce brushed his hands off on his pants, looking more amused than confused. “What’s your name?”
    “Everett.”
    “Cool name. I saw you in front of the dojang yesterday.”
    Everett suddenly remembered the girl. If Bryce was human, maybe the girl wasn’t. But if they were twins, wouldn’t they be the same?
    “Is dojang a dojo?” Everett asked.
    “Dojang is Korean and dojo is Japanese.”
    “And what was it you were called? By the instructor?”
    “Pu Sabom-nim . It’s a title for a third-degree black belt. I have no idea what it means. Makes me sound badass, though.” Bryce waggled an eyebrow and leaned against the table, looking out the window and giving Everett an undisturbed view of his jawline.
    Everett was about to ask what a degree was, but the barista called Bryce’s order. He was thankful for the distraction. Too much questioning would turn their conversation into a boring interview.
    Bryce grabbed the cup, a straw, and a wrinkled clump of napkins from the dispenser. Everett expected him to continue on, but he stopped by the table and said, “Are you interested in classes?”
    “No. I just decided to sit in.”
    “Kiddie classes are boring. Come to the adult classes. They’re a ton more fun. The beginner class is right after this one, so it won’t be a long wait.”
    “I have to be somewhere,” Everett lied. “But I’ll come when I can.”
    “If you want to join, you don’t have to take group lessons. We have private lessons too. More pricey, but you learn faster.” Bryce’s eyebrows danced up and down, and he shouldered the café door open.
     
     
    BACK HOME, Everett heated a late frozen lunch and read the rest of the first witchtales volume. Between completing the first volume and starting the second, he spent a few hours on his Ashville history fact-checking. He had a few inconsistencies among his sources to work on.
    His grandfather returned early from work at six with groceries. Their guest would arrive in an hour, so they immediately prepared dinner. They didn’t often have visitors for dinner, so they treated every visitor the best they could.
    Everett set the table while his grandfather cooked. He brought out his mother’s favorite tablecloth they used only for special occasions. He cleaned and filled the salt and pepper shakers, and set them at the center of the table with the napkin holder. By the time he had the utensils and dishes in place, his grandfather had finished the salad. He helped his grandfather boil the pasta and mix the sauce. The doorbell rang while Everett was pouring the pasta into the serving container.
    “Put the sauce in the gravy bowl,” his grandfather said, then went to answer the door.
    Everett set the pasta bowl and sauce bowl on the kitchenette’s counter.
    An