Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Four Sawyer

Chapter Four

Sawyer

I’d forgotten how much I missed Dad’s hugs until his arms are squeezing me against him in goodbye eight hours after helping me move in. He’d done the same thing at the airport when he picked me up, except he lifted me off the ground and spun us around as if I were five instead of twenty-one. But I didn’t mind. I laughed and hugged him back, not caring about the people who watched us and probably judged.

“I’m so damn proud of the woman you’ve become,” Dad tells me again, making it hard to fight the fresh glaze of tears that come with his compliment. My whole life, I’ve always wanted to make him proud because he’s the best person I know. He’s strong and brave and selfless. Who wouldn’t want to be just like him? He was even recognized in a newspaper article for the lives he saved after Katrina, which Mom has framed in the living room at their house in New York.

I playfully push his shoulder. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Mom already did that.”

His low chuckle brightens his brown eyes, making him look a lot younger than fifty. The speckles of silver in his dark hair are the only reminder that my father is getting older. Not that it stops him. As a senior chief petty officer in the Navy, the man keeps in shape. He says he needs to if he’s going to match the new recruits’ energy. “You know this is hard for your mother. She worries about you. We both do.”

There’s a lot left unsaid about why they’re so worried, but the concern melded into his expression is hard to misinterpret.

I nod in understanding. “I get that, but I’ll be fine. And look—” I gesture toward the one-bedroom apartment he helped me set up today. “I live in a great place. The area is safe, you said so yourself. I know Mom did research almost every night when I told you I didn’t want to live on campus.”

My father eyes me, and I know what the look is for. He’s not concerned about the apartment or the crime rate. At least, that’s not his main concern. He sees past the pretty blond wig and light makeup coverage that hide the truth. “You have been through so much, baby girl. It’s hard to not worry with this next step.”

Swallowing down the emotion from his thick response, I take a deep breath. “Isn’t this next step better than the alternative?”

For once, he’s quiet.

Somber.

I don’t mean to hurt him or Mom or Bentley. The only goal I have in life is to finally live it, and that’s what I’m doing. It’s why I didn’t want to waste time living in a dorm room, sharing a bathroom with strangers and wondering if I’d get along with my roommate. Mom liked the idea of me being near the campus health clinic, where I could be monitored more quickly, but I had to remind her that there were certain things campus staff probably weren’t trained for. They only agreed to this apartment because of how close it was to the hospital and Dad’s base where his housing unit is.

I try reasoning with him the best I can. “If I need something, you won’t be that far away. Plus, I promised I’d call Mom all the time.”

They both understand that things can change. Haven’t the past five years proven that there’s no guarantee in life? That’s why I’m here, so I can be a normal twenty-something-year-old. Maybe I’ll go to a party. Maybe I’ll drink. The possibilities are endless.

My parents aren’t stupid. They’re just my parents. Neither of them wants to see me go through any more than I already have. But I’d rather have the normal experiences than the ones that have aged me.

Dad lets go of a soft breath. “I really am proud of you, kiddo.”

I blush, looking down at the hardwood floor. My hardwood floor. Even though I never liked my feet being cold, I’m excited to step on it in the mornings when I drag myself from the queen bed in the back bedroom into the kitchen in the front for a survivalist drink. Aka caffeine.

He checks his watch and stands taller. “I’ve got to get going. Thank you for entertaining your old man for the day. Make sure to eat those leftovers in the fridge before they go bad. Seafood shouldn’t be left for long, even if it’s cooked.”

Rolling my eyes at the information that certainly isn’t new, I say, “I know, Dad. Just because we’re in the Big Easy doesn’t mean I haven’t had shrimp before.”

His smile matches my own—Mom has said so herself. That smile reminds me so much of your daddy, she’d tell me on the days we both missed him. “All right, all right. I’ll get out of your hair.” He cringes at the term, caressing said hair, before pressing a kiss to the top of my head and reminding me, for the third time, to lock the door behind him.

Which I do.

And then I turn around and study the small space with a big smile. There isn’t much on the walls, save for the photo Mom took over the summer of me and our elderly golden retriever Maggie, who’s way more gray than yellow in the face anymore, and one of my favorite pictures of my parents from their twentieth-anniversary dinner that I swiped from their mantle. They were laughing because Bentley and I were making dumb faces to get Dad to smile since he’s spent too long being told not to for his military photos. The couch is a Salvation Army special that my father only paid fifty dollars for, the coffee table was an old one from his apartment, and the rug underneath it is a cheap clearance find from when Mom and I went shopping a few weeks ago.

Nothing matches, yet I love all the mismatched woods and colors and patterns. The unique look is utterly chaotic, just like me.

Sitting down on the edge of the brown couch, I cross my legs under me. “Big things are coming,” I tell myself. Wiggling into the firm cushions, I settle in and stare up at the ceiling.

A tickle forms in my throat. “Big things,” I repeat, coughing into the crook of my arm and ignoring the tug in my chest.

* * *

It’s half past eleven when I finally hear footsteps coming down the hall. Stomach growling and irritated by how late my food is, I whip the door open and step out to give the delivery person a piece of my mind.

Maybe if I wasn’t hangry, I’d find the tall, dark-haired boy wearing thick black glasses attractive. Hot, even. Katherine would say he’s the H-A-W-T kind of hot that she used to call the new oncologist whenever he’d walk in. Her face would get all pink, and she’d stammer her words at the silver fox.

Except the lanky person in a dark sweatshirt and jeans is eating my cheesy gordita crunch wrap from Taco Bell—literally eating it right in front of me! And since anyone who knows me knows that I don’t tolerate my food being stolen without some level of She-Hulk anger that could scare a bear, I can’t in good faith consider him even the slightest bit cute.

“You’re the worst delivery person ever,” I tell him in awed disgruntlement. I mean, seriously? You’d think if he was going to eat a customer’s order, he wouldn’t carry the bag all the way inside. “I tipped you and everything.”

The boy stumbles when he hears me, his shoulder bumping into the wall and bouncing off it. Is he drunk? Who lets these people DoorDash? You’d think there’d be some sort of screening process.

Half of my gordita crunch falls from his hand, splattering in a ground-beef-and-cheese mess on the hallway floor. May it rest in peace. “You’re not from around here,” he slurs, using the wall for balance.

I blink. That’s all he has to say? “Who says?”

His eyes, hidden behind the square glasses that make him look like Clark Kent, roam over the front of me. My toes curl into my slippers, making me hyperaware that I came out here in nothing but a thin pair of pajama shorts with Tweety Bird on them that barely cover my goods and a baggy LSU sweatshirt. I’m slim but definitely love pasta—and tacos—with a chest that’s small enough to go braless under most shirts but big enough to have something to look at, and he must like what he sees because he keeps staring.

Or maybe he’s just had a lot to drink. Because seriously. Who eats somebody else’s tacos? That’s just messed up.

He puts what’s left of the food back into the bag. “Your accent says so.” Wiping the back of his hand along his mouth, he drops the bag onto the ground between us. “And the fact you’re in Baton Rouge and still chose Taco Bell to order this late when you had other options. You’re in Louisiana. We’re the second-biggest distributor for seafood next to Alaska, Birdie. You could have done better than tacos.”

Birdie? My eyes drop to the shorts that he’s focusing on again. I tug on the hem of them to try covering a little more of my thighs, to no avail. “So you decided to teach me a lesson by eating the food I paid for?”

Half of his lips turn up at the corners as he dips his chin down. “Nah. Was hungry. Saw the food sitting outside and figured someone forgot they ordered it.”

He kicks it toward me with his work boot that looks well worn—scratched-up and muddy. Weirdly, I’ve always found that attractive. It reminds me of hard work and adventures. But then again, this man stole my food. I can’t just let that slide. He’s definitely getting a one-star review. With words. Very carefully selected ones.

Wait. “You found the food?”

He hums. “It’s cold,” he tells me, stumbling toward the end of the hall and sliding his palm against the drywall for balance.

My eyes go down to the discarded bag of half-eaten food before they move back up to the stranger reaching for his pocket. “So you aren’t my DoorDash driver?”

He pulls out a set of keys. “Nope,” he calls over his shoulder, struggling to fit one into the lock. Eventually, he gets it and pushes the door open, nearly toppling over when he puts too much of his weight on the swinging door.

That’s when it hits me that the cute, food-stealing boy is my neighbor. And before I can tell him he owes me ten dollars, he disappears into his apartment and closes the door behind him—or more like slams it with his dirty boot—without another word.

“What the hell?” I repeat, frowning at the food I’d been craving for the last few hours. Leaving the bag where my rude neighbor dropped it, I go inside and head to the fridge, where I see a note taped to the leftover container of shrimp reminding me to eat it instead of ordering takeout.

I snort at my father’s handwriting, crumpling the paper and picking at the seafood since my other plans were dashed.

Closing the refrigerator, I run my hands over the list I taped to the front after he left earlier. Sighing to myself, I curl up on the couch and dig into the food.

That night, when I’m tucked into bed with my silk headwrap on that matches my pj’s, I can’t help but wonder about the boy across the hall.

And he’s the last thing I think about when I fall asleep.