Chapter Ten Banks
Chapter Ten
Banks
The long trek through Julian T. White Hall is one I’ve done countless times over the years—long before I was a student here. I can get to room 316 on the third floor four different ways with my eyes closed and know at least five different ways to get out quickly if needed.
Anxiety bubbles the closer I get to the cracked door, my eyes roaming over the brown nameplate on the wall beside it.
Terry Banks, PhD.
Rapping my knuckles against the wood, I push the door open wider to see my father standing by the bookcase near the window, which is full of books and guides on landscaping and architecture. A few textbooks from previous classes are thrown in, including some he’s made me read during the summer so I don’t “dry out” and “waste my time off rotting brain cells” like he always says video games do.
He turns, pulling his glasses off when he sees me standing at the doorjamb.
“Dad,” I greet, stepping in and closing the door behind me.
His eyes immediately go to my lip, his mouth curling downward before returning a book to the shelf. “Paxton. How’s your day been?”
Casual conversation. I can handle that. “It’s been good. Submitted my project for approval to Laramie.”
He walks over to his chair and sits, setting his glasses down beside his keyboard. “When are you going to hear back about it? He’s known to make his students do revisions. Some don’t get the approval until weeks before it’s due.”
I’ve heard as much, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me nervous. But I’m proud of the concept I came up with. More so because of the idea behind it, which I can share during presentation week. But every time I’ve tried telling Dad the inspiration, he’s always found a way to cut me off with topics he cares more about, so I gave up. “I’m confident he’ll like what I’ve got. We’re supposed to get feedback next week.”
My father hums, his eyes still focused on the fat lip that hurts like a bitch. “Did you ice it?” he asks.
Swallowing, I wrap my fingers along the edge of the armchair. Squeezing until there’s a bite of pain in my fingertips, I nod once. “I did.”
He keeps staring. I don’t know what’s on his mind because the man is stone-faced as ever. Then he says the last thing I expect. “I’m sorry. For…” He shakes his head, clearing his throat when his eyes dip to my lip again and then move away quickly to something on the wall.
“It was an accident,” I murmur.
And it was. This time. If I hadn’t startled him trying to wake him up when I found him drunk and slumped over in his armchair at the house, he wouldn’t have swung at me. He’s done a lot of intentional things in life, especially after Mom left us, but this was different. I can forgive him a lot easier for this.
“I just…” His words trail off, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to finish the thought. “I’ve changed.”
My body freezes, save for my fingers twitching along the arm of the chair. Instead of answering, I stare at his desk. It’s organized—each file, paper, and folder all in a specific place. I’ve always found that funny. His life here is nothing like the one at home, where the real mess is. Where it has been for most of my life.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, hovering over me where I’m lying on the floor. “It was an accident. I’ve changed. Tell your mother I changed.”
That’s all he cared about.
What she thinks.
Even after she left.
Pride is a bitch like that.
He looks at my notebook, clearly as ready to move on from this conversation as I am. “How’s that other class treating you? The one where you’re writing fairy tales or whatever it is they’re making you do. Ready to drop it for something more tantalizing?”
And here we go. At least I know he’s back to himself because hearing him apologize was a little too weird for me. “So far I like creative writing. It’s a new type of challenge. Works the brain in other ways.”
The huff coming from him is in obvious disbelief, but I choose to ignore it. “Hopefully you realize what a waste of time it is before the drop period is over.”
There’s a lot I could say to him, but I’ve learned to be smart over the years. The less I say, the better. The safer. “I should probably get going soon. I told Dawson I’d meet him at the library before my shift at the store this afternoon.”
My father turns to the computer, waking it up and signing in. “Speaking of, I highly suggest you tell him to start showing up if he expects to pass. There’s no reason for him to be missing my noon course.”
He hasn’t been showing up? He told me the other day he actually liked the material this semester when I asked him how it was going. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’ll let him know.”
Dawson has been acting strange lately, but it’s not unusual for him. I figured it had something to do with Sawyer or Dixie. I swear, every time I see him on campus, he’s all over one of them, and whenever we’re hanging out, he likes to bring Sawyer up in some form. It digs at me, and I wonder if he knows it.
I like Dawson, and I want him to be happy. But I also want to get to know the firecracker who confronts people head-on even if it’s uncomfortable. Like yesterday. The last thing I wanted was to talk to her, or anybody for that matter, but she didn’t give me another choice.
I respect it. Maybe it’s exactly what Dawson needs in his life—somebody who won’t kiss his ass but tell him how it is.
Swiping at my jaw, I stand. “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”
It was his idea to meet, not mine. I figured it was better here when I could use class or something else on campus as an out rather than agreeing to come home later. Dawson has been AWOL for a couple days, so the chances of actually seeing him are unlikely. If he doesn’t answer my texts again later, I’ll have to go to his apartment and make sure we don’t have a repeat of last year when I found him unconscious on the bathroom floor.
I’ve changed, Dad said.
I want to believe it. Like I want to believe Dawson has. But the last time Dad told me that, he got blackout drunk and started yelling so loudly the neighbors called the cops to make sure everything was okay. He didn’t lay a hand on me, but if the officers didn’t knock that night, I have a feeling he would have done more than leave me with a split lip.
Dad’s gaze moves from his computer screen to me, eyes darting to my lip and then back up again. “That was all. I wanted to make sure that we were okay.”
Not that I was okay. That we were okay. God forbid he thought I would badmouth him to the wrong people on campus.
At the end of the day, he’s still my father. I love him. No matter the battles we go through. And even if it’s hard for me to believe, he has gotten better in a lot of ways. I’m not sure I’d stick around if he hadn’t. Even if it meant giving up my free tuition.
“We’re good,” I reassure, grabbing my notebook because I have nothing more to say.
Enabler.
His shoulders ease from their stiff, squared position. “Good.” There’s a pause where he looks at what I’m holding. “And reconsider your little writing class. Your time is here valuable. There are other electives that could use more of your brain cells than what you’re being taught there.”
Replying would be pointless, so I salute him sarcastically and leave before he can comment on it. Halfway down the hall, I remind myself that he means well.
Most of the time.
Nothing he could say would make me drop the class. If I’m being honest with myself, a large part of that is because it’s the one time a week I get to know Sawyer a little better without feeling guilty about it. Sure, I don’t exactly play Mr. Nice Guy and converse with her unless she starts it, but being the wallflower gets results too. You learn a lot about people when you observe them.
Like how she touches her hair when she’s nervous or overthinking. Or how she’s friendly with everybody, always complimenting somebody for something she finds in their stories or the prompts Professor Grey gives us. And she indulges people with the smallest details of her life to relate to those she owes nothing to. Like when she brought up the golden retriever she misses back home. Or her little brother, whom she pretends she doesn’t miss as much but must based on all the stories she shares with a smile on her face.
I pick up the smallest mannerisms, which only tugs at the interest already anchored in my gut. She uses her hair to hide on the days it’s down, fidgets with her hands when someone is reading her work as if she’s not confident in it, and is always watching her surroundings the same way I am. I know because she’s caught me almost as much as I’ve caught her glancing in my direction.
I don’t feel guilty about knowing any of that. After all, I’m not seeking her out if we share a class together, which means I’m not imposing on Dawson’s dibs.
At least, that’s what I tell myself to feel better about my decision to stay.
* * *
After the start of semester hustle slows down, the campus store is always painfully boring. Kids already have their books and supplies and rarely need to come in for anything else.
“Three people,” Lucy groans, banging her head on the counter until her bright-blue-dyed hair falls out of its bun. “We’ve had three people all day. Why do they do this to us?”
“Better be careful what you say,” I remark, still working on the inventory list our manager gave me to do before he left. “They always cut back on hours after the first month or two.”
Lucy sits up and spins on the stool, her hair whipping around her. “Good, let them. I don’t know how you do it.”
Simple. I like having the peace that I don’t get elsewhere. “It gives me time to work on assignments without much interruption.”
“You live by yourself,” she points out. A fact she knows because she’s been to my apartment on a few occasions long before she got a boyfriend.
I’m grateful we can still be friends. If that’s what you want to call it. Otherwise, work would be awkward. The punk-rock chick was fun when we spent time together off campus, but I think we both knew it wasn’t a long-term situation. That probably helped salvage civility. “Dawson spends more time at my place than he does his.”
Lucy leans her elbows against the edge of the counter, one of her eyebrow rings catching the light as she arches the brow in inquisition. “I’m surprised he got over the Desiree thing so quickly. He swore up and down he wasn’t going to forgive you for that.”
I try to forget about the girl in question, and it’s safe to assume Dawson has too since his focus has been on other women. “It’s been over a year.”
“And then with Marco…”
I eye my former fling, feeling defensive over my friend. “Is there a point to this?”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “I think it’s nice that you two are close. It’s obvious after everything that he needs somebody. And you…”
My eyes narrow in warning.
Lucy sighs, standing up. “I obviously never got to know you that well, but I think you could use somebody too. Everybody needs at least one person in their corner.”
Guilt curls itself into a ball in my chest. I like Lucy. I liked her when we first started hooking up, and I like her now. But I never allow myself to get close to somebody because I never want them to know the version of me that I barely get along with.
“You’re a good person, Luce,” I tell her.
The compliment makes her roll her eyes. “I know. That’s why Sean smartened up and did something about it. Somebody had to.”
Had she been waiting for me to? I always thought she was fine with casual. “So you two are good?”
Her smile warms. “We’re great.” Jabbing her thumb toward the back, she says, “I’m going to finish breaking down the boxes if you need me. But Banks?”
I look at her.
That smile remains, making me feel like an even bigger tool for not giving her a real shot when I had one. She cares about people, about me, but never pushes the way most people tend to. She asked me about my lip, accepted the bullshit answer whether she believed it or not, and let it go. It made being around her easier. She was always easier.
“You’re a good person too,” she says. “I hope you let yourself believe that one day.”
Gaping at her as she disappears into the back room, I lean back in my stool. Swiping at my jaw, I look down at the inventory sheet and sigh.
After a couple of hours pass by, the sliding doors open, and a familiar face walks in, beelining right for the snack section.
When Sawyer sees Lucy organizing the chips, the girls laugh at something like old friends. I watch them from the counter, ignoring the sketch pad in my lap that I’ve spent the last forty minutes working on when I see how they lean into one another and giggle in low voices.
One of my brows draws up when Lucy points in my direction, causing Sawyer to turn. When she sees me sitting behind the register, she straightens. I don’t know why her smile disappears or how I notice that it’s only gone for a millisecond before reappearing.
She grabs something from the shelf and walks over. “Long time, no see, Just Banks. I didn’t know you worked here. I’ve only ever seen Lucy and some skinny guy who looks like he hates the world and everybody in it.”
Lucy snorts at the description of Teddy, which is oddly fitting. “That’s our manager. Can you blame the guy when this is his full-time job?”
Sawyer giggles again, the sound stirring something in my chest. “Poor guy.”
I pick up the Pop-Tart and scan it. “I didn’t know people still ate this cardboard.”
She passes me the cash for it, down to the cent, and grabs the snack that I barely tolerated as a child. “At least the cardboard has frosting. They’re a guilty pleasure of mine. Don’t you have a comfort food?”
Lucy chimes in. “She’s the one who’s been selling us out of that flavor.”
Sawyer shrugs, unashamed. “The vending machines around campus only have the ones with strawberry filling. It’s gross. I prefer chocolate fudge. When the peanut butter ones came out, those were my favorite. Then they stopped making them.”
My coworker beams. “I used to go for the s’mores. Although the chocolate fudge is a close second. And if you toast them, they’re like an orgasm in your mouth.”
The last thing I want to hear from two attractive women, especially one whose body I’m familiar with and another I might like to get familiar with, is anything having to do with orgasms. Or their mouths.
Gazing between the two of them, I can’t help but ask, “Do you two know each other?”
It’s my neighbor who shakes her head. “Not really. She’s the one who usually sells me these.”
“Some of us are actually personable enough to make friends easily,” Lucy teases. She turns to Sawyer. “Sorry. Banks is the broody type. He’d prefer sitting here in silence, as horrible as that sounds.”
Sawyer smiles at me, her eyes dipping down to the sketch pad beside me. “Are you really broody, or is it the tortured artist in you?”
It takes everything in me not to smirk. “Who says I’m tortured, Birdie?”
Her answer is quick. Smooth. “Your eyes.”
One of my brows raises again at the response.
Lucy stares between us curiously. “Do you two know each other?”
Sawyer tucks her Pop-Tart into the back pocket of her jeans and smiles at Lucy. “I moved in across the hall from him.”
My coworker’s eyes land on me, but I choose to ignore them. “Interesting,” she says, a secretive smile tilting her lips.
I roll my eyes at them. “Not really.” Going back to my sketch pad, I say, “Enjoy your flavored cardboard.”
Sawyer laughs. “I will.” Before she leaves, she notices the open package of fruit snacks on the counter by my set of pencils. Her smile is small, amused. “Guess you do have a comfort food after all.”
I glance down at the food I’ve been picking at, which tastes like my childhood. “Who doesn’t like fruit snacks?”
She shrugs. “Heathens, probably.”
I chuckle.
Sawyer waves me off. “Bye, Lucy,” she calls out.
I can feel Lucy’s eyes on me when it’s just us. “What?” I ask.
“She says it reminds her of home.”
I look up. “What does?”
“The Pop-Tarts.”
I blink.
Lucy looks at the closed doors. “I can’t tell if that’s sweet or sad if that’s all she has to remind her.”
Thinking about it, I follow her gaze to where the blond disappears down the sidewalk. “Sweet,” I go with before returning to my project.
If something as small as a childhood treat can make her think of home, she must have a lot of love that she left behind.
I can’t think of one thing I miss that I’d want to keep around to remember.
It’s hard to ignore my former fling’s gaze. “Is there a reason you’re staring?” I ask, still focusing on my sketch.
Lucy waits a moment, her eyes going to my lip before moving away. “No. No reason.”
I don’t call bullshit because once I see that grin on her face, I decide I don’t want to know what she’s thinking.
She starts humming, going back to the project she was working on before Sawyer sauntered in.
I can’t help but glance at the door and then at the empty box of Pop-Tarts Lucy tosses on the floor to be thrown away.
Before she can catch me staring at them, I force my eyes back to my work with nothing but Lucy’s humming filling the silence.