Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Three Banks

Chapter Three

Banks

“Yo, Banks!” someone yells, nearly pelting me in the head with a basketball.

I catch it at the last second, glaring at my dipshit best friend as he jogs over to me. “What the hell, dude? You could have broken my glasses. Again.”

Dawson Gable takes the ball back with a slick grin, tucking it under his arm. “It’s a good thing your dad has good vision insurance, huh?”

I’m not sure my father would say the same. At least, that’s not what he said the last time I came home with broken lenses that needed to be replaced thanks to my friend of ten years.

“Speaking of your old man,” he remarks, matching my pace as we walk to where my four-door pickup truck is parked in the back lot of our apartment building. “He almost failed me last semester. You believe that shit? Man acts like he didn’t feed me over the past decade. You’d think that’d earn me a little something in class.”

That’s Dawson’s problem. He expects the upper hand from everybody. What he doesn’t see is the side of my dad that I do. He only thinks my father is a typical hard-ass—he doesn’t realize how far that goes. “You know he’s not like that,” I tell him, opening the creaky door and tossing my bag onto the bench seat. “It doesn’t matter if you’re my friend, he’s going to treat you like any other student.”

“What about as star of the basketball team?”

I deadpan, wondering if he’s serious or if he’s playing. “You sit on the bench ninety percent of the time, dude.”

His hand flies to his chest as he stumbles back dramatically. “Shots fired.” When he stabilizes himself, he leans against the hood of my father’s old Ford. Dad had been in a good mood when he’d agreed to let me drive it after getting my license. I’d been more than surprised when he passed me the keys, given his mood is typically unpredictable.

“I thought we were friends, but I guess I was wrong,” Dawson continues. “If there’s one thing I learned from watching The Mighty Ducks, it’s that there’s always a chance.”

We used to play the hell out of that movie. I’m pretty sure one of our moms had to buy us a new VHS when the other one shit the bed. That is, before both our mothers left us with our fathers. At least his dad is decent. I don’t know why he always wanted to spend time at my house when I could have used an escape too.

“Too bad you didn’t sign up for hockey then,” I say. “Maybe you’d see play time.”

“Brutal,” Dawson says, rubbing under his nose and sniffling. I eye the movement, trying not to think too much into it. “You need a Snickers or something. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

I finally stop examining him and chuckle.

“Where are you going, anyway?” he asks.

Where else? There are only two places I tend to go willingly besides my apartment, and I’m not scheduled to work at the campus store today, which is a small miracle. “The Botanic Gardens.”

My best friend shakes his head, probably thinking I’m as pathetic as I feel sometimes. “I should have known. I don’t suppose I can change your mind? The guys were going into the city to celebrate our last day of freedom before classes start.”

“Let me guess. Bourbon Street?”

His eyebrows wiggle. “As if there’s any other choice,” he remarks knowingly.

I check my watch, frowning when I realize the old Citizen my grandpa gave me stopped working at some point. “I think I’ll rain check. I told my pops I’d stop by for dinner tonight.”

“Damn. No invite for me?”

I raise my brows. “Would you rather be spending the night with my dad and me or your friends at the bars?”

As nervous as I get when Dawson goes out these days, I know I have to trust him to handle himself. That was part of his program.

He snaps his fingers and points at me with his index one. “Fair point, my friend. You have fun with that. Tell your dad I’ll see him in class. I’m sure he misses me.”

My dad has nothing bad to say about Dawson as a person. But as a student… “Sure will, bud. I’ll talk to you later.”

He shifts as a small U-Haul turns into the lot, parking near the front doors. “Fresh meat,” he says to me with mischievous eyes. “Maybe it’s a hot chick. Haven’t had one of those here in a while. We’re starting to get outnumbered by all the jockstraps and computer nerds.”

I watch as an older man gets out of the front seat. A dad, probably. There’s a bush in the way of whoever climbs out of the passenger side, but I can see a pair of flip-flops and lean bare legs that probably don’t belong to a dude.

Peeling my gaze away from the new girl, I slide into my truck. “Try not harassing her too much and maybe you’ll actually get laid this year. You’ve been on a dry streak for a while.”

He throws up his middle finger. “Not all of us are tall, dark, and nerdy like you, Banks. Maybe if you left a few women for the rest of us, we’d have a chance.”

I snort, even if guilt nudges the pit of my stomach. It’s not exactly like I sleep around. Much. I focus on school and myself. If I’m bored or a little too drunk, sometimes I let loose. But that’s rare these days. And it isn’t like Dawson is unattractive. By society’s standards, he’s technically better looking than me. At six-six, the man towers over me by almost four whole inches and is built like a pro baller would be. You’d think as a Luke Kennard look-alike with nearly the height to match the NBA player, he’d be a catch with the ladies.

Maybe this year will be his year. I sure as hell don’t plan on getting in his way the way I stupidly did when it came to the last girl we were both interested in.

I slip the key into the ignition, eyes going back to the U-Haul. My neck tingles with a familiar feeling as a streak of blond appears past the bushes, a box in the girl’s hands. Clearing my throat, I shoot my friend a grin. “I’ll do my best to let you have a few this year, man.” Nodding my chin, I start the truck and pull out of my spot.

When I see Dawson walking toward the U-Haul, I roll my eyes. Hopefully he doesn’t bother whoever the poor girl is. I don’t have the energy to ensure that he doesn’t make a fool of himself because all of my energy will have to go toward surviving the heavy family dinner that I’ve been dreading since I woke up this morning.

* * *

Pushing open the wrought-iron gate leading to the yellow, two-story, raised center-hall cottage a few hours later, I stop as soon as the creaky door closes behind me to stare at the house I’ve called home for the past twenty-two years. The two-hundred-and-fifteen-year-old home is styled after French colonial plantations. It’s aged and beautiful and well kept compared to some of the others in the Garden District here in New Orleans.

My father’s love for architecture and landscaping is the reason I’m in my last two years at LSU’s architectural program. I don’t have a lot in common with the man who raised me, but my degree is the common ground we need. The intense five-year program has been brutal, but I don’t regret it for a second because it makes me appreciate everything I’ve had growing up.

Like this house, with its open porches along both levels that are supported by white columns and have a beautiful view of the surrounding double-gallery homes and American-style townhouses. Each house is stacked with brick, iron, ivy, and Spanish moss lining the gates, along with oaks and willows surrounding the properties.

My city doesn’t compare to any other. It’s the best, and I don’t feel guilty being biased about it.

When I finally walk through the front door, the strong scent of Cuban cigars hits me. Teeth grinding, I veer right until I’m greeted with a plume of smoke in the living room.

“I thought you were quitting after the doc told you that your lungs needed a break,” I grumble, opening a window.

Dad taps the end against his ash tray on the end table. “Why don’t you sit and have one with me instead of bitching? I got one of those Liga 5 ones you like.”

Once in a while, I entertain the old man and smoke a stogie with him, but I’ve never liked the nasty bastards. They were always his thing. I remember Mom complaining about the smoke and how expensive they were getting when he’d spend a good chunk of his paycheck on packages of them. It was one of the reasons she left him, left us . Maybe that’s why I never developed a taste for the pricey tobacco.

Dropping into the armchair across from him, I drape a foot onto the edge of the coffee table and see the old Western he’s watching on TV. “I’ll pass this time. Is this John Wayne?”

“Clint Eastwood,” he corrects, grabbing the remote and turning the television off. My lips twitch at the only distraction I had. “How are you feeling about classes this semester? You’ve got Delvey and Laramie, don’t you?”

Here we go. “Yeah. I’ve got Laramie’s Architectural Design course and—”

“Honors?” he questions, cutting me off.

I blink, swiping my tongue along my dry lips, and use the time to take a deep breath. “Yes, it’s the honors class.”

My father dips his chin in praise. “Good.”

The leg still resting on the ground bounces when we fall to silence. I’ve always been a damn good student. Honor roll. Principal’s list. President’s list. Top three of my high school class until senior year, when I managed to snatch the salutatorian spot. But Dad wasn’t as proud as I thought he’d be because the guy I stole the spot from lost it because of some marijuana scandal that got him expelled.

Point is, I’m smart. Always have been. In part thanks to the man smoking a few feet away. He taught me a lot of what I know and motivated me to learn the rest.

Too bad that’s not always good enough.

“What elective are you doing?” is his next question, pulling my attention up from the carpet, where an old cigar burn is left from one of his benders.

Rubbing the heel of my hand against my jean-clad thigh, I lean back in the chair, knowing he won’t like my answer. “Creative writing.”

His brows shoot up as expected, his tone thoroughly unimpressed. “A writing class?”

“I’ve exhausted a lot of my other options over the past couple of years,” I tell him.

Secretly, I’m tired of science, history, and math classes. I took a few art courses here and there that were decent, but not my favorite. I figured English was a good route to go. “It’ll be a nice breather from all my usual stuff. Shit, maybe it’ll inspire me.”

Dad used to say that you could draw inspiration from everyday life and incorporate it into your sketches. When I was a kid, he’d take me to his favorite parks and sketch the landscaping in the pad that he eventually gave to me when I officially enrolled at LSU. His original pictures are still in there—every bush, tree, and flower drawn to perfection in pencil or charcoal. He always told me that life itself was an experience that you could build your craft on, so I don’t see how literature and the fictional world are any different.

“Don’t you think your focus is better spent on things that’ll advance your career?” he asks.

“It still counts toward my degree, Dad. I’m not wasting my time by taking this. There’s a reason why schools make electives part of their requirements. They don’t want to burn us out. Plus, it fits into my schedule better. It’s only once a week on Wednesdays. I can work more hours at the store and focus on my homework.”

The thoughtful noise coming from him doesn’t bode well for the outcome of this conversation. It’s the same story, different day. Just when I think I’ve done something to impress the tenured professor, he makes it seem like a wanting effort.

By the grace of whatever God exists out there, he drops it. “Have you heard from your mother recently?”

It’s moments like these when I wish Dad and I had more than architecture in common. Like sports. Then I could distract him with the latest NCAA March Madness predictions or talk about who we think could make it to this year’s Super Bowl. Because there’s one other topic outside school I dread talking about with him—Mom.

Yanking on the collar of my shirt as I absently stare at the blank TV screen, I say, “She called the other day wishing me good luck at school this semester.”

We only talk a few times a year, so I don’t know why he bothers asking. She’ll call before school starts, on my birthday, and on Christmas to let me know when to expect my present. She lives two hours away, but I haven’t seen her in years. Maybe because she knows nothing will change with us.

I’ve accepted her absence as much as she has mine. I guess she assumes we’re both better off.

She couldn’t be more fucking wrong.

When Dad is silent, I look in his direction. He’s taking another puff of his cigar, letting the smoke out slowly in front of him. I focus on that instead of the pinched expression across his face. “She still with the plumber?”

Jaw ticking at the same question he’s asked me for the past ten years, I answer, “Yeah. She’s still with Joe.”

“Joe,” he grumbles, shaking his head.

That’s all he says, but I can see the way his eyes darken with a swarm of emotions that I know aren’t good. It’s all in his brown eyes that shift to a hazy black.

People used to say we looked just like each other when I was a kid. But that stopped a long time ago. Now, the man barely looks like himself.

I get up, not wanting to be on the other end of his bad mood. “Want a beer?” I ask, heading into the kitchen for the only thing I can hope will help him not explode.

Before he can answer, I’m pushing one of the canned IPAs into his hand and sitting back down with my own. I crack mine first, figuring I’ll have one with him. Although, knowing him, one will turn into six. All I can hope for is that he winds up being a happy drunk today, or else I’m going to really regret turning down Dawson’s offer to join him on his pub crawl. I’d rather be getting shit-faced there than dealing with the borderline alcoholic sitting next to me.

To keep the peace, I bring up the one thing I know my father can talk for hours about without getting angry. “I think I know what I want my senior design to be for my capstone.”

“Don’t think I’m letting go of your ridiculous decision to take a writing class, Paxton. I’d like to think I’m not contributing to your education only to see you waste both our time.”

Paxton. I fucking hate that name.

Because he only uses it when he’s pissed.

But I let it go and tell him about my project design, hoping it’s good enough to appease him.

Hoping, for once, that I’m good enough.

And when he finishes one beer, I get him another because it’s the only way to keep him busy enough to stay seated.

He never says a word as he empties can after can.

In the back of my head, a voice hisses, You will always be an enabler.