Sweat trickles down my neck and gathers in my pits. Mornings are the only safe time to run right now, but it’s still hot as fuck. Not that I’d complain, I think as I watch the sun rise slowly but surely as ever. There’s no other part of the day I’d rather be a witness to.

Even if it means I have to share the view.

I didn’t expect Will to still be there, waiting for me in the kitchen when I came out ten minutes later.

I didn’t expect him to say yes after all the heavy awkwardness of our earlier conversation, smiling at me as if nothing happened.

But rather than make a big deal out of it, I reminded myself that this meant nothing. We’re friends, I guess. Ish. Big emphasis on the ish.

And like the good friend-ish I am, I even shared my favorite route with him: a two-mile, cross-country trek through the woods of Shiloh.

Final destination: the top of the viaduct.

My bridge.

I’ve gotta give it to him. Not once did he fall back or complain. Hell, he barely sounded winded. It made me wonder what sports he might have played back in Philly, because he’s clearly no stranger to running through rough terrain.

“You come up here a lot?” he says, breaths beginning to slow down and even out.

I lift the hem of my shirt to wipe away some of the sweat beading along my forehead. “Not really.” Lies. “It’s actually illegal, but they’re kind of lax about it as long as it doesn’t seem like you’re up to no good.”

I glance over just as he wags his eyebrows. “Like Bridge Club?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. Like ‘Bridge Club.’”

“You ever do it up here?”

“You sound like you’re twelve.”

“And you’re evading.”

I give him a long, sideways glance. “No.”

He hums, but says nothing more as he leans forward to brace his hands on the concrete siding.

“Do you want to?” he asks eventually.

I jerk my head his way.

He shakes his head, grinning. “Not with me. God, you’re easy.”

“What every guy loves to hear,” I deadpan.

He snorts and looks toward the horizon.

The width of the Lackawanna River Viaduct is about thirty feet. A single train track runs through, but hasn’t been in use in nearly thirty years with the exception of the occasional touristy ride the historical society puts together.

Concrete barriers line up each side at waist level. Easy to climb, easy to jump from.

“You know the story behind this thing?” I ask, staring off into the distance.

“Just that it’s really old.”