Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Nine Sawyer

Chapter Nine

Sawyer

Saturday morning, I’m grateful for three things—the cool tile floor in my bathroom, the toilet, and the aspirin that my neighbor made me take when he walked Dixie and me inside after dropping off a very drunk Dawson at his place downstairs.

Groaning, I peel my sweaty body off the floor and lean my back against the tub of the shower. I smell awful and feel worse. And I barely make it halfway to standing when I lurch forward, nearly missing the toilet when my stomach empties for what feels like the fiftieth time, getting puke in the ends of my hair that, thankfully, survived the night without the nightmarish outcomes that the dream version of me was terrified of.

It’s been a while since I vomited this violently. Since the first week of my last round of chemo, maybe? The nurses hook you up with the best drugs to make sure you aren’t throwing up your vital organs, but I guess colleges don’t pass those kinds of things out at the campus store.

“I’m never drinking again,” I moan, eyes blurring as I flush the toilet. I rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth, freezing when I see the blood I spit out with the toothpaste. I watch as the red-and-white foamy mixture swirls around the drain before disappearing altogether. Swallowing my panic, I put my toothbrush away and rinse again until everything comes back clear.

I cringe at how horrible I look in the mirror when I finally dare to lift my gaze. My wig has slipped, and the strands are so staticky that it definitely looks like I slept on the bathroom floor all night. My mascara is smeared under my bloodshot eyes, and my cheeks have little lines on them like they used to when I’d get sick during treatment. After washing off my makeup, I give myself one more once-over and realize it’s not going to get better than this.

Sighing, I peel my gaze away from the mirror and try pushing my sensitive gums to the back of my mind.

When I walk out of the bathroom, I see Dixie sitting cross-legged on the couch holding a Styrofoam cup in her hands. “Oh my God, is that coffee?” I ask.

She points to a to-go container on the table with a second cup resting in the holder. “Banks dropped them off a little while ago. It should still be warm. He’d said we’d need them. And these.”

Out of nowhere, she produces a bottle of Advil. Banks did that? “That was nice of him,” I murmur in surprise, catching the bottle and dumping two pills into my palm. When he stood outside the door last night with Dawson, my heart did a little tap dance in my chest. I’d already looked forward to going out, but I was more than happy to learn he was coming with us. Especially since he’s like a ghost around here; the only sounds I hear are his footsteps in the night.

“How do you look so good?” I ask the girl who looks like she’s been awake for hours. I’m pretty sure she had more than me when Dawson suggested tequila shots. Banks and I said no, so they did two each. I could tell Banks wasn’t happy, but I chalked it up to having to DD three drunken idiots home when he only had one beer, a soda, and some water the whole night. “Did you switch to water last night and not tell me? I feel like trash, and you look fine.”

Dixie wiggles her cup. “It’s not my first rodeo. My freshman year was a little wild since it was my first taste of freedom away from my family, so I built up a tolerance. Plus, I’m running on a high. You know how I got Dawson’s number the other day? He texted me this morning saying he had a lot of fun last night.”

I perk up. “I told you he wouldn’t be able to resist when he saw your legs in that skirt. You should keep it, by the way. It looks better on you than on my chicken legs.”

I don’t remember when I bought it, but it was long before I shed the weight my last round of treatment took from me. Most of my wardrobe didn’t fit after, leaving me in leggings, tees, and a few odds and ends that didn’t make it look like I was wearing a potato sack. Mom took me on a shopping spree for new clothes before coming here so I could use the going-away money the women at the cancer ward raised for me. It was a substantial amount for people who had their own families to feed. I tucked some of it away and spent a lot of it on things that made me feel confident in my skin again.

The leather skirt was the only thing left hanging from the old version of me, and I decided to shove it into my overfull suitcase last minute and bring it with me just in case I wanted to dress up here. It feels right to give it to someone who could use it more.

“I’m pretty sure Banks and I had to pry you two off the dance floor when they were doing last call,” I tease, pushing my thoughts away.

She bites her lip to try hiding her smile, but I see it. “I’m glad you convinced me to go. I had more fun than I thought I would. And Banks seems nice.”

Nice. When I told her about the taco incident, she thought it was funny. Maybe if he hadn’t paid me back for the stolen goods, I wouldn’t have seen him as anything other than a prick. But I already used my ten-percent-off coupon to get a replacement wrap, thinking about how Banks all but called me a Yankee for choosing Taco Bell over the local restaurants.

“I guess so,” I answer half-heartedly, although it’s too soon to tell if that’s really the truth.

Dixie watches me carefully. “Do you two not get along? He seemed okay with you last night. Most guys don’t help people when they’re drunk if they don’t at least tolerate them.”

I have no reason not to like him. In fact, I don’t dislike him. “We don’t really talk. I was surprised that he even came.”

“But you’re neighbors.”

“He probably has a girlfriend who occupies his time because I don’t see him around much” is my reasoning, hoping the shrug emphasizes that I wouldn’t care either way.

Dixie hums, sipping her coffee.

“Is it obvious I don’t drink often?” I ask, grabbing the coffee in the holder and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. It smells delicious, easing the slight pounding sensation in my temples but not necessarily settling my achy stomach.

“I’ve seen people get so bad they needed their stomachs pumped, so I’d say you did all right,” she reassures, letting go of Banks. “The first party I ever went to, I was surrounded by people snorting cocaine. The cops ended up coming and breaking it up, and a ton of people got busted with fake IDs and hard drugs. I was lucky enough to sneak out the back before they found me and the girls I came with.”

Cocaine? “Dang. And my mom was worried I’d smoke weed,” I mused, getting Dixie to laugh again. “I’ve never even been to a college party.”

I went to a high school party once. I was a fifteen-year-old sophomore. It was the first boy-girl party I’d been invited to, the first time I drank, the first time I ever kissed a boy, and the only time I ever had sex. Well, sort of. I’d like to think the interaction between me and the random senior I hooked up with that night didn’t count, since he barely lasted ten seconds by the time we got things rolling. I counted each painful second and was grateful when it ended, wondering if anyone could see the difference in me that I thought I would when I’d agreed to do it.

I was stupid and drunk and left feeling guilty that I’d lied to my parents about staying at a friend’s house when we’d actually gone to the party instead. The next morning, I woke up so sick that I thought it was karma for lying. I puked so much my voice was raw and raspy. I couldn’t eat anything without turning green. I spent a week sleeping on and off and praying that the punishment would end.

If only I’d known it was just beginning.

“Not your thing?” Dixie guesses, sipping her drink and settling into the couch cushion. “It’s not really mine either. I’ve only been to a couple with some girls I had class with. They were trying to get me to join their sorority. I think they were glad I didn’t after that. We were…different.”

That’s one thing I’ve never been interested in, not that there’s anything wrong with joining Greek life. I’ve heard good things about some organizations. But most of the ones I saw around campus wanted the kind of rah-rah spirit that I just didn’t possess.

“I’ve never had the opportunity,” I admit. We haven’t exactly gotten to know each other well, and the whole “cancer” topic isn’t one I like to break the ice with. Frankly, it’s not on my list to tell anybody unless I absolutely have to. When Dixie asked to come over and raid my closet for our night out, I hadn’t even wanted her to see my apartment in case she discovered the wigs I’d shoved carefully in boxes on the top shelf of my closet or the cabinet full of medicines that made me look like some sort of addict. The entire time she was here, I worried she would find out and see me the same way my former classmates did before I opted to homeschool.

Instead of divulging too much, I tell her what I’m comfortable with. “I went to school online for the first two years because life was a little…hectic. This is basically my freshman year even though I have the credits I need to be a junior. Everything is new to me.”

I’m not embarrassed by it. In fact, I’m proud. I think my history makes me unique. I’ve gone through hell and back and still managed to find a way here. I’d say that’s impressive. It takes a lot of willpower to live when you have little to live for. I wanted to give myself a reason to.

Dixie doesn’t judge me. “I debated going to school online, but I need discipline. Plus, if I’d stayed in Pennsylvania, my parents would have driven me crazy. They wanted me to keep playing music since I was getting offered paying gigs. I love them, but I wanted to do my own thing for a little while. You know, take a break and explore other options in the industry.”

I know from previous conversations that her childhood consisted of piano lessons, violin lessons, and singing lessons when her parents weren’t schmoozing with important people at country clubs. They both knew how to play at least one instrument, her mother used to sing in their local church choir, and her father taught guitar lessons. Their constant pushing got her to win three talent shows at the elementary school she went to, where she earned free tuition into some ritzy music summer camp. While I was getting mud under my nails and learning how to climb trees, she was keeping hers short to learn piano keys and strings.

I’m grateful my parents never tried pushing Bentley or me to do anything we didn’t want to. Maybe I should be glad there were no special talents that any of us had. We couldn’t play sports. None of us knew how to read music, much less play an instrument. I’ve only heard my father sing, making up lyrics as he goes when he doesn’t know the actual words. And I vaguely remember Mom singing along to an eighties pop song in the car on the way to school. Bentley told her to stop because “she wasn’t good like the singer.” He was four, but he was right. It was borderline painful.

“I guess I’m lucky,” I say. “My parents both support me being here and doing what I need to.”

She smiles. “Tell me about them.”

Wetting my lips, I hold the warm coffee cup closer to me and loosen a soft breath thinking about my childhood. Where do I even begin? My family is tight-knit, something you need when you grow up in the military. I learned that firsthand seeing the village it took to raise me, and eventually Bentley, when Dad was away.

If Mom didn’t have Grandma and Grandpa Parish in North Carolina, I’m not sure what would have happened when we had to leave New Orleans before Katrina hit. Aunt Taylor in New York was another big asset when I got sick. My grandparents were too old to take care of Bentley when all the doctor appointments began for me, so we moved to upstate New York to be closer to Mom’s sister. I guess it all worked out because the kind of medical attention I needed went beyond what the small urgent care we had near my grandparents could handle.

Fate , Dad called it.

Even though it took us farther away from him, being in New York meant the best treatment options for me. Something we didn’t know we needed until the doctor came in wearing a bright-yellow shirt with a tie covered in farm animals to deliver the bad news. I remember thinking the colors of his shirt were far too happy to be worn by someone telling us such sad things.

“We caught it in time,” he tells us, scooting the rolling stool over to where my mother sits beside me. “Cancer is a scary thing, but this form is very treatable. You’ll be up and running around again before you know it.”

It was Aunt Taylor who comforted Mom when she cried that night—the first of many times. They never knew that I snuck downstairs when they thought I was in bed to hear how bad it was for them, but I eavesdropped on them talking over wine in the kitchen.

Looking back, I wish the doctor hadn’t been so optimistic. Maybe then my mother and I wouldn’t have gotten our hopes up. Because one round of chemo became two, and two became three, and the remission only lasted about a year before I had to go back in for round four.

Touching the damp ends of my hair that I tried washing in the sink after this morning’s excursions, I hide my frown when I realize how long it’s been since I’ve touched my own hair. During the first year of remission, my hair got long enough to cover my head and tickle my ears. I styled it into a cute pixie with the help of YouTube but never found the confidence to wear it outside the house. I wish I had because it didn’t take long before the next round of helpful poison made what little I had fall out and leave me back at square one.

I cried alone in my room, not wanting to ask my mother to shave my head again. So I did it myself. It was patchy. I cut myself and bled for far longer than I should have. Bentley found me a few hours later in the bathroom and helped me clean up. He never said a word about it, but I could tell my little brother was horrified. I did that to him, and secretly, I never forgave myself for putting him through it.

Instead of telling Dixie the long, drawn-out sob story of the past five years of my life, I opt for a condensed version. I don’t consider it lying, simply censoring the truth. Slightly.

I tell her all about my father’s naval career, the moves we had to make because of it, how Hurricane Katrina uprooted us from my favorite state, and how I swore I’d come back someday. It feels good to say that, sitting in a one-bedroom apartment furnished with all my secondhand necessities, exactly where I said I’d be when I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to.

She hears about my annoying little brother who’s nearly nine years younger than me, my mother’s embarrassing safe sex talks, and all the ways I miss their overbearingness.

“But here I am,” I conclude, studying the quaint space. It’s nothing extravagant. The decorations are minimal, the furniture cheap. But it’s mine and only mine. I had to share hospital rooms plenty of times whenever I stayed for monitoring. If I was going away, I wanted a space of my own that I didn’t have to share with anybody at all.

“Here you are,” Dixie repeats, her eyes following mine as she takes in the apartment. “So what are you going to do with the newfound freedom? Have parties here? Invite cute neighbors over?”

“Cute neighbors, huh?” I muse, taking a long sip of my drink to hide my growing smile as one specific Clark Kent lookalike comes to mind.

I let the caffeine work its magic and stare at the list I made that’s still taped to the fridge.

Turning to her, I set my cup down. “Want to see what I plan to do with it?”

* * *

One thing I notice over the course of the next few weeks is that my neighbor is avoiding me. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m starting to wonder if I did something dumb the night we all went out together. I even asked Dixie, who had no clue why he’d be keeping his distance when he always says hi to her when they see one another on campus.

I was going to ask him in class, since we have creative writing once a week. We usually sit next to one another when he doesn’t show up late and occupy one of the seats in the back near the door. I always smile and wave, sometimes even trying to make friendly conversation, but his replies are too lackluster to give me the courage to ask if I did something. So I chicken out and focus on the workshops Professor Grey gives us to do with other people, never bothering to pair up with the boy whose familiar brown eyes find mine at least once during the three-hour course.

During lunch the day after I tried and failed again at speaking to Banks, I spot Dawson sitting with a group of boys who I’ve since learned are on the basketball team with him. Apparently, Dixie is an avid fan. She even convinced me to go to an upcoming home game with her next week.

When he sees me, he pushes off the table and ignores the guys hooting at him for ditching them. “Hey, pretty lady,” he greets, giving me the same one-armed hug I’ve grown accustomed to. He keeps the arm around my shoulder as we walk to a nearby table that’s half empty.

“You didn’t have to leave your friends,” I tell him, looking over at where the guys are wiggling their fingers at us and laughing.

Dawson turns his back to them and flips them off before making himself comfortable across from me. “You’re my friend too.”

My brows go up as I doctor my sandwich. I can’t say I’m particularly hungry today, and I don’t know if that has to do with the low mark I got on my last journalism assignment for not getting a second interview for the article I was assigned or if the heaviness in my stomach is something else completely. I don’t remember the last time I felt well enough to try crossing things off my list because it’s always something bogging me down. “I am?”

He chuckles. “Damn. Way to hurt a guy’s feelings,” he muses. He’s clearly fine, so I don’t bother with an apology.

“Speaking of,” I lead in, smacking the top roll back onto the meat. “Did I do something to Banks? You’re friends, right? If he said something, I’d rather know about it.”

Confusion furrows his brows. “Not that I know of. Why?”

I shrug, trying to seem unfazed by the fact that Banks doesn’t put in an effort to talk to me. In hindsight, he barely did the night at The Station either because Dawson talked most of the night for all of us, but it feels personal. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just quiet, but I get the feeling I did something that annoyed him.”

Dawson watches me for a minute, curiosity marring his face as he scratches his chin and the small amount of stubble there. “Nah, I doubt it. It takes a lot for Banks to get pissy with people. Trust me. I’ve tested those waters a time or two.”

I’ll have to take his word for it because I have no reason to dwell. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure since we’re neighbors. I was always told it’s important to have good relationships with the people you live near. You never know what could happen.”

He stretches his long legs out so they’re in the aisle between tables. “I’m sure he wouldn’t leave you in the building if it were on fire, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he jokes, although there’s something off about his demeanor. “But even if he does, I’ll save you.”

I ignore his flirty wink. “Good to know.” Spooning out some of the soup of the day, I blow on the steam billowing from my spoon. “So Dixie and I will be at your home game next week.”

He perks up. “You will?”

I nod, carefully setting the utensil down and dipping my roll into the broth. I would have thought she’d tell him, but maybe it was meant to be a surprise. “She got us tickets. She’s really excited.”

“And what about you?” he pries.

“I’ve never been a sports girl,” I admit. I watched football with Dad once, but I didn’t understand anything that was going on. “But I’m looking forward to it. I think Dixie even got us matching jerseys.”

His dark eyes sparkle. “Hopefully with my number on them. Gotta represent the best player.”

I smile because I wouldn’t be shocked if Dixie does have his jersey. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Dawson leans back, drumming his fingers along the edge of the table. “Wish you would’ve told me sooner. I probably could have gotten you the tickets for free and saved you two some money. Players get a certain amount a year to give to friends and family.”

“Does your family not come?”

He shakes his head, watching me eat. “They’re divorced and don’t live around here. But it’s fine. They went to almost all of my games in high school even after they split. Can’t expect them to follow me around forever.”

I suppose that’s true. “Well, we’ll keep it in mind for next time. I’m sure she already has other games planned out.”

His lips kick up at the corners. “Good.”

I debate how to stay on the topic of Dixie without giving too much away. “She told me you majored in history.”

He pulls out his phone, his brows pinching as he murmurs, “Did she?”

I’m not sure what’s captured his attention, but it doesn’t seem good. “Yeah…” I do my best not to glance at his screen even though my curiosity is getting the better of me as one of his knees starts bouncing. “She’s taking some sort of musical history class. You should ask her about it. I bet you two have a lot in common.”

Dawson pales when he sees whatever is flashing on the screen. “Shit,” he murmurs, scraping the chair back. “I gotta go. I’ll see you two Tuesday though?”

“We’ll be there,” I call out, watching him walk away and put the phone to his ear.

Weird.

After only being able to take two bites of food, I dump the rest into the trash bin by the door as I fight the nausea creeping into the back of my throat. As I walk toward the exit, I see Banks stroll in with his notebook tucked under his arm. He looks lost in his own little world, but the second he glances to his right and sees me, he straightens.

I lift my hand to wave, about to walk over when his gaze dips and he walks into the food hall without so much as a nod in my direction.

“Guess that answers that,” I murmur to myself, debating following him in. Glancing at the time on my phone, I say screw it and head to the grill section Banks is browsing.

As if my suspicions weren’t enough, the way he stiffens as soon as I stop beside him cements it for me. “You’re avoiding me,” I declare, getting the attention of the line cook behind the counter.

Banks grabs one of the wrapped paninis. “I’m not avoiding you,” he replies, focusing solely on the food displayed in front of him.

His lack of eye contact says otherwise. “Are you sure? Because it sure seems like you’re being weird right now.”

From his profile, I see his jaw tick. “Maybe it’s because you’re harassing me in the middle of a lunch line while I’m trying to get food,” he snaps back, voice cool enough to make me frown.

Okay, I get that. I should have probably just walked out and gone to class early. “I wanted to clear the air, that’s all,” I tell him quietly.

I wait for him to say something else. When a few awkward moments go by in silence, I peek at the employee still watching the two of us before backing down.

“Sorry for bothering you,” I tell Banks, flushing at the rejection. All I want is to be friends. Or friend ly . That’s not too much to ask for. Is it?

I hear a deep sigh as I’m walking away. “You caught me in a bad mood,” he admits.

When I turn, I suck in a breath as I see his split lip. It looks like mine when Bentley and I were playing with a wiffle ball bat and things got a little carried away. “What happened?”

His chin dips, trying to hide what I already saw. “It’s nothing. An accident.”

He doesn’t seem like a fighter, but I don’t know him well at all. “Are you okay? Make sure you keep that cleaned. Once, I got a cut and it got infected.”

He takes his things and heads to the fountain drinks to get a plastic cup. Naturally, I follow close behind. “I’ll be fine.”

Pressing him will only make him angry, so I don’t. “Well, if you need anything…” I rub my lips together, watching as he pours himself Dr. Pepper. “You know where I live. I’ve gotten good at cleaning wounds.”

The comment finally catches his attention, his eyes drifting to mine with silent curiosity. He doesn’t ask what I mean, and I don’t elaborate. I didn’t even mean to let that slip. I bruised easily as a child, got cut during my many adventures outdoors, and broke a few bones climbing things I shouldn’t have long before I ever got sick. I guess it was all practice for when life kicked me while I was down.

I can’t explain it, but his eyes pierce mine in ways that see right through me. Stomach tightening, I try figuring out the feeling that settles into my gut. It goes beyond the nausea. Familiarity? Something else?

“I’ll keep that in mind, Birdie,” he says, his low tone making goose bumps pebble my arms.

It almost makes me forget I don’t feel well.

Almost.

I have to run out of class halfway through to empty what little is in my stomach. There’s a tinge of red that I choose to ignore as I wipe my mouth off, take a deep breath, and meet my eyes in the mirror.

The girl staring back is a stranger.

Hollow.

Tired.

I close my eyes, rinse out my mouth, and walk away without having to look at her again.