Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Eleven Banks

Chapter Eleven

Banks

When Wednesday rolls around, there’s a notable absence in class that has me staring at the empty seat Sawyer usually occupies. When ten minutes pass by after the professor starts his lecture on proper grammar, I realize the girl who’s usually more punctual than me isn’t coming.

I check the time on my phone every few minutes, my eyes going to the door in between the doodles I draw in my notebook. I shouldn’t care. I don’t , I tell myself. But…a nagging feeling nips at my stomach.

The first hour of class goes by quickly, learning about shit we should have known since elementary school pertaining to sentence structure and punctuation. But the way people seem to be taking notes on it all makes me question America’s education system.

When we get our twenty-minute break before the last hour of class, which focuses on workshopping our four-page short stories, I pull out my phone and debate shooting Dawson a text to see if he’s with her. I’m not sure how I’d feel if he was. It’s none of your business, I remind myself.

So why the hell does it feel like someone punched me in the stomach when I keep glancing over at the empty spot?

Tapping my pen against my open notebook as my classmates start pouring back into the room, I glance at the clock on the wall.

A minute goes by as I contemplate my next move. Another thirty seconds crawls. Then another.

It’s none of your business, I tell myself again, hoping it’ll stick.

It doesn’t.

Before Professor Grey can come back, I slide out of my seat and grab my things. Nobody looks twice when I leave the room, not that I’m shocked. I haven’t exactly become buddy-buddy with anybody since the semester started, so very few people pay me any mind.

Except for the girl whose apartment door I’m knocking on twenty minutes later.

I hear distant rustling coming from inside, but nobody comes to the door. Brows furrowing, I wait a few minutes before knocking again. I’m not sure why I’m here. People skip class all the time. But Sawyer doesn’t seem like the type.

Tucking my hands into my front pockets, I step back and listen to the little noises inside. This is stupid. You don’t care, the voice tries to convince me.

I’m about to listen to it and walk away when the deadbolt clicks and the knob turns before I see Sawyer in the cracked opening. My eyes narrow when I see the bright-red tissue she’s holding to her nose.

Without thinking, I push the door open, forcing her back. Eyes narrowing, I stand to full height and ask, “Who did that to you?”

Her eyes widen at my tone. “What? Nobody.”

I close the door behind me using my boot, not caring that I’m being rude and inviting myself in. She told me she was good at cleaning up wounds, which sat the wrong way with me since the day she said it. “If somebody did this—”

“Nobody did this to me, Banks,” she promises, voice muffled from the way she’s holding her nose.

I guide her over to the couch and sit her down, tilting her chin up. “Keep your head back,” I direct. Her apartment is set up the same way mine is, with the exception of the rooms being on the opposite sides, so it’s easy to navigate.

Going over to the kitchen, I search the cabinets for a washcloth, wet one with warm water, and then grab fresh tissues from the box on the counter.

She accepts the Kleenex and watches as I sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.

Has she always been this pale? The only color on her is the blood smeared between her nose and lip. “How long has this been going on?”

Sawyer blows out a raspberry, leaning back on the couch. “It started right before class. I thought it was finished after a few minutes, but it came back. It’s been off and on since.”

Christ. She’s been bleeding for the past hour?

“Is this normal?”

When she doesn’t answer right away, I can’t help but examine her exposed skin for anything else. Cuts. Bruises. I’m well versed in what to look for when somebody lays a hand on a person.

Besides a tiny bruise on her arm that can’t be from anything like a hand, she’s clean. Only then am I able to relax my shoulders.

“Sometimes it is,” she answers, sighing. “It’s been a while since this has happened. I used to get them a lot during the winter because of the air. The house my mom bought had a wood stove, so it was hot and dry. A humidifier helped.”

“You got one of those here?”

She shakes her head. “Like I said, it’s been a while since this has happened.”

I take the moment of silence to look around her place. It’s almost as bare as mine, but there are a lot more decorations littering the living room. Colorful pillows on the couch. A throw blanket that looks handmade. Pictures of a golden retriever on the wall that must be the one she talks about a lot.

“You’re supposed to be in class,” she points out, breaking me from my nosiness.

I shrug, taking note of the take-out containers piled in the kitchen garbage. “You weren’t there. Wanted to make sure you weren’t dead. I hear that’s what friendly neighbors do.”

Her laugh is featherlight, perking my ears up. It almost makes me smile. Almost. “Touché,” she muses. “I wasn’t avoiding you. Just slowly bleeding out. No big deal.”

The attempt at humor doesn’t sit well with me, even though it’s something I’d usually appreciate. “You’ll be fine. People get nosebleeds all the time. Let me look.”

She cringes but pulls the tissue back. It looks like the bleeding has stopped, so I give her the warm cloth to wipe off the stained blood on her skin.

“Did I get it?” she asks, wiggling her nose.

I take the cloth from her and gently wipe at the one spot that she missed. Her lips are pressed together and her cheeks pinken, and I don’t know if that’s because of me or because she isn’t feeling well.

Clearing my throat, I set the cloth down. “Got it,” I murmur.

We stare at one another before her eyes dip down to the blood-stained items. She gets up, swaying slightly on her feet. I grab her arm until she stabilizes herself, the pink in her cheeks darkening as she pulls her arm back. “I’m fine. I got up too quickly.”

I stand, watching as she throws out the dirty tissues and tosses the bloody washcloth into one of the back rooms.

When she comes out, she crosses her arms across her chest. She’s wearing the same baggy college sweatshirt as the first time I saw her, but instead of the shorts that showcased her nice legs, she’s in matching college sweatpants that do little for her body.

It’s probably better that way.

Dibs, I remind myself, thinking of Dawson.

The last thing I need is a repeat of Desiree.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I grab the silver-wrapped snack from my back pocket that I almost forgot about. “Got you this.” I don’t make eye contact as I pass her the Pop-Tart. Chocolate fudge. “Probably broke it when I sat down, but it should taste the same.”

She slowly takes the gift like I pass her a check for a million dollars, her mouth curving upward as she stares at the treat. “You didn’t have to make up an excuse to see me, you know.”

“I didn’t,” I lie. I totally did.

Why else would I justify buying frosting-covered cardboard? Lucy giggled the whole time she cashed me out at the store, only laughing harder when I told her to shut up.

“Does this mean we’re friends?” she asks, not calling me out on the way my eyes lazily drag down the front of her.

“Do you want to be?”

She licks her lips, the tip of her tongue darting out the side for a moment in contemplation. “I don’t see why not. Not many people are willing to clean up a random person’s bloody nose. Or buy them snacks.”

My eyes go to the part of her in question to make sure it hasn’t started bleeding again. “You going to be good?”

She nods, waving the food I gave her. “Now that I have this, I’ve never been better.”

We’re silent again.

Sawyer moves her weight from one foot to the other. “So…?”

Huffing out a laugh, I stand from the coffee table and walk toward the door. “Yes, Birdie. We’re friends.”

My eyes catch a piece of paper taped to the refrigerator as I walk past it, but I don’t see what the handwriting says before Sawyer moves in front of it.

“Thank you for the Pop-Tart,” she tells me with a soft smile. “ Friend .”

Her blue eyes glimmer with playfulness, making me grin in amusement. “Anytime, pal .”

* * *

Professor Grey pairs us up in teams of two the following week to work on a new set of prompts for the last hour. Since Sawyer and I were absent from the last class, we get partnered.

I’ve seen her a total of two times at our building since I came to her apartment. Once, when I was coming home from another mundane shift at the store, and another time when Sawyer was walking out in a pair of workout pants and matching top that left very little to the imagination. I asked if she was going for a run.

She laughed. Loudly. And then she produced a Pop-Tart out of thin air and bit into the top as she walked away, still giggling at the question with a shake of her head.

Another tidbit of information I tucked away.

Not a runner.

“These are dumb,” she grumbles now, reading over the prompt selections. We’re supposed to pick one sentence a week from the options Professor Grey prints out and turn it into a story. We get twenty minutes to come up with something and then another twenty to share with our partners before spending the final twenty minutes of class having a few people share with the group.

My eyes rake over the choices, realizing they all have to do with love. “It’s Valentine’s Day this week,” I tell her when I see the theme.

She makes a face, her lips twisting down as she taps her pen against the paper. A quiet “Oh” is all I get in response.

I lean back, stretching my legs out. “Not a fan of the commercialized holiday? I thought women loved that shit. You guys get chocolate and flowers and all that other lovey-dovey crap they push on us.”

Her bottom lip tucks into her mouth, trapped by her top two teeth digging into it. She stays like that, contemplative as she circles one of the prompts and says, “I’ve never had a Valentine before. Unless you count elementary school when they used to make everybody bring in those stupid Valentine’s Day cards for their classmates.”

I don’t count that since it was obligatory. Plus, there were always some parents who went all out with the fancy ones that had candy they probably spent a fortune on. I was lucky if my parents even remembered to get the dollar store versions amid all their other issues.

“You’ve never gotten chocolates from a boyfriend?” I ask.

There’s another moment of hesitation where she plays with the ends of her hair loosely hanging past her shoulders. “No.”

“Huh.” I watch her a little more closely, but the only thing she’s focusing on is the assignment. She only looks up at me when I say, “They’re idiots then.”

Her tongue slowly drags across her bottom lip before her teeth dig into it again. The faintest dots of pink coat her cheeks. “I’ve never… I didn’t really date before.”

The response takes me off guard. “How old are you?”

“Does that really matter?” she snaps, embarrassment in her tone.

I think about it before dismissing it. “I guess not. I’m just trying to figure out how any guy could be dumb enough not to shoot his shot with you.”

Maybe she’s as oblivious as Dawson when it comes to people being interested in her. Sometimes, naivety can be cute. Especially with a face like hers.

Sawyer starts writing in her notebook, only getting a sentence down before bringing the pen to her mouth and staring at the words for a long, silent moment. “Have you dated a lot?”

I could lie to her, but I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. “Depends on what you consider dating. I had a girlfriend in high school. Two, actually. Last one broke up with me before graduation. It was for the best.”

We were going to two separate schools on opposite sides of the country. It was never going to work, so we called it. She still reaches out sometimes to see how I am. Half the time, I forget to reply.

“And since then?” she presses.

“Tit for tat,” I offer in compromise. “I tell you something, and you have to do the same.”

She thinks about it, her teeth coming down on the pen again, before nodding.

“I’ve never dated seriously in college,” I answer. “I found it too distracting.”

“But dating casually isn’t?” she doubts.

I grin. “It’s my turn.” The nervousness on her face has me amused, but I keep it simple. “How old are you?”

Her shoulders relax. “Twenty-one. So is casually dating not as distracting?”

“It’s certainly more fun when there’s less pressure,” I tell her honestly. “We’re college students. We have our whole lives to find significant others. I never came here expecting to meet mine.”

Sawyer looks away, studying the other people writing and talking among themselves. There’s a distance to her eyes that make them look like the stormy waters of the Gulf Coast during hurricane season—moody and dark.

I expect her to ask me another question, but she simply goes back to writing her story without so much as another peep.

“Was that all?” I doubt, wondering why she shut down so quickly.

“You don’t have much longer to write your prompt,” she answers quietly, her pen scribbling along the lines of her notebook paper.

I try figuring out what I said to upset her. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve opened my mouth and said something dumb. I’m sure it won’t even be the last. “There’s nothing wrong with coming here looking for love.”

Her daggered eyes have the potential to be lethal if looks could kill. “I’m not here for that either.”

I’ve touched a nerve, and it intrigues me. “I guess we have that in common. So why exactly are you here then, Sawyer?”

“What are any of us here for?” she counters, her eyes on her paper instead of me. “I’m here hoping to figure myself out. Before…” She stops herself, shaking her head.

“Before what?”

Clearing her throat, she asks, “Is Banks your first name or your last name?”

“Last.”

“What’s your first name?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “My turn. Why put a time limit on figuring out who you are? That comes with life. We’re always changing. Evolving. Adapting. Who you are in college won’t be who you are five years from now. Or ten.”

She offers a thoughtful head bob, and for a moment, I don’t think she’ll give me an answer at all. “Not all of us have the same timeline, Just Banks. Time is relative that way. Same as how we spend it.”

I hum, unsure of what else to say. It seems like she’s thought about this before, and I wonder why.

Eventually, Professor Grey says, “Time’s up! Go ahead and exchange your stories with each other and we’ll have three new people share theirs with the class.”

I look at my empty paper.

Sawyer looks at the paragraph on hers.

When she looks up, I smile. Then I reach over and use the pad of my thumb to smooth her bottom lip. “Ink,” I murmur.

A little breath from her caresses my thumb, and I watch as her throat moves with a thick swallow. “Oh.” She touches her lip. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Except there was no ink.

Sorry, Dawson.