Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Twelve Banks

Chapter Twelve

Banks

I’ve always thought Valentine’s Day was a scam—a consumer’s holiday. If you don’t bother spending money buying people gifts on any random Friday, do you really love them?

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. You get a bouquet of flowers, maybe a box of cheap chocolates from the store, and lay on your thickest charm. Women go nuts for it.

I’d know because I’m just as guilty of doing it in the past, except I never really cared that deeply about the girls I showered with half-assed presents—like the stuffed animals with those stupid mushy sayings on them or boxes of those pharmacy fifty-percent-off chocolates they keep on the endcaps for people like me who don’t want to think too hard or spend too much.

Which is why I find it so ironic that I’m standing in front of the candy display at work, looking at the Valentine’s Day–themed chocolates that come out once a year. Most of them are sold out—students buying them for their significant other last minute to say they got them something, the way I used to.

Lucy shows up beside me, knocking her elbow into my rib cage. “Are you shopping for a special someone?”

Peeling my focus away from the assorted candy, I give her an unserious look. “Are you forgetting who you’re talking to?”

She snorts, walking over to the counter and hopping onto it. “On the contrary. I know exactly who I’m talking to, Mr. I’m Too Damaged for Relationships but Still Do My Best to Make Them Happy.”

The glower I give her doesn’t stop her from teasing. “Whatever,” I grumble, walking away from the display and fixing a few of the shirt hangers off to the side.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she appeases. “I think if you find the right person, you won’t be so closed off. But word of advice?”

I don’t know why I look at her like I actually care what she has to say about the topic. It only supports her suspicions, which are hardly accurate.

Lucy’s lips waver into a knowing smile as she leans back. “Get her something she’ll actually like. Not some random candy bar from the college store. You can do better than that.”

I play nonchalant. “That would imply there’s a ‘she’ to begin with.”

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Stupid isn’t a good look on you, my friend. We both know that there’s a ‘she’ with blond hair who has a hankering for sweets. If it’s not her buying us out of those fudge Pop-Tarts, it’s you. And I know you don’t eat them.”

My silence says nothing and everything all at once, giving her an answer I don’t verbalize. I should have known she’d bring that up, but I was hoping she wouldn’t.

She taps her temple. “I have eyes, Banksy. I know a crush when I see one. I don’t buy people their favorite snacks just because.”

“You used to bring me my favorite pretzels,” I remind her, thinking about all the times she’d show up at my apartment with the honey mustard–dusted pretzel bites.

She snorts. “That’s because I had a crush, dummy. It wasn’t out of innocence. I get paid way too little to be buying things for people who don’t mean something to me.”

Huh. “I didn’t know.”

“We were sleeping together,” she muses with a roll of her eyes.

“I—” I stop myself. I don’t know what to say. Am I that oblivious?

She must read my mind. “Boys are so dumb.”

Can’t argue with her there. “Pop-Tarts don’t have to mean anything.”

Lucy’s smile grows. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

My eyes involuntarily go to the snack display where the Pop-Tarts usually are. The only flavor laid out is the strawberry-filled ones, making my lips twitch.

Unfortunately, Lucy is still watching. “Banks and Sawyer, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N—”

“Stop,” I cut her off with a glare. “Don’t go starting that shit. I don’t have a crush.”

“You totally do.”

There’s one relatively big problem with that theory that I let her in on. “Dawson likes Sawyer,” I mumble, putting the sizes of the sweatshirts we sell back in order on the rack.

Lucy is quiet for a second. “Oh.”

I wait a minute before glancing in her direction. Her feet have stopped swinging on the counter as she studies me.

Her brows are arched on her forehead. “So is this a Desiree situation or…?”

Desiree . The name makes my eye twitch as old memories resurface of the raven-haired girl coming on to me at a party. I liked her. I liked the way she watched me. The way she flirted. If I was honest with myself, I liked how forward she was without being overbearing.

But Dawson liked her too.

And he liked her first.

And after a night of drinking at a party we’d both been at, when Dawson was off doing God only knew what for Marco, Desiree made a move. In the back of my mind, I knew it was a dumb decision to let things progress.

But I did.

And when Dawson found out…

Well, things got bad. Fast.

I swore to myself I’d never hurt him that way again, especially not when he’s vulnerable. One wrong move would send him over the edge, and that’s what I’m trying to avoid.

“No,” I decide, looking over at the snack display again briefly before clearing my throat. “It isn’t like that.”

I can feel her eyes on me, but I opt to get back to work and ignore her for the rest of her shift.

Before she leaves for the day, she says, “In case you want to do stock, we just got a new shipment of food in. I left some of them out to go on the shelves.”

She knows stock is the one thing I hate doing, but I nod anyway and tell her to have a good night.

Twenty minutes before closing when I’m bored and trying to kill time, I go to the back and find the box she was talking about. She left it out in the middle of the room with a note taped to the top.

Just in case there ever becomes a special someone in your life.

Sighing, I grab the box of Pop-Tarts and take it to the front to scan. When I clock out, I’m carrying the whole box with me and trying to ignore Lucy’s taunts echoing in my head.

* * *

The panicked look on Dawson’s face when I pull into the driveway has me on alert as I park my truck in its usual spot.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, closing the rusty door behind me as he walks over, rubbing the back of his neck.

His eyes go down to the Pop-Tarts, forgetting whatever is on his mind. “Since when do you eat those?”

He knows I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth. “The mood struck,” I reply, not willing to bring up the real reason and make him think twice about it.

Dibs.

Not that it matters.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he says, lifting his red-rimmed eyes to me. I try not making a face when the wind blows and I get a whiff of marijuana. I knew he liked dabbling in pot, but I thought he was going to try giving it up when his sponsor said the California sober tactic rarely worked.

“What about it?” I ask, frowning when he scratches his nose.

He looks behind him before his shoulders slouch. “I sort of suggested getting dinner with Dixie tonight, but I didn’t know what day it was.”

Dixie? I don’t know whether to be confused or relieved. “I thought you called dibs on Sawyer. Isn’t going after the best friend a little cliché?”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” he replies coolly, eyes narrowing in accusation.

I hold up my hands in surrender because I’m not in the mood to do this with him. “It was an honest question. You’ve been all about Sawyer since she moved in. I didn’t know you were even interested in Dixie, since you were pushing me on her at the bar.”

Defense takes over his face. “Maybe I like them both. You’ve never had an issue playing people, so why can’t I?”

What the hell? “I’ve never intentionally played anyone, and you’re hardly the type to.”

“And why is that? Because I can’t get anybody I want like you can?”

I drop my head back and take a deep breath to calm myself before answering. “No. Because you’re a good guy.”

He’s quiet, cringing when he realizes what a dick he sounds like.

“Are you okay?” I ask, studying him. “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping, and you smell like pot.”

Dawson shifts. “So?”

“If you want to go to a meeting, I can go with you. Screw Valentine’s Day. It’s a pointless holiday anyway.”

“I don’t need to go to a meeting,” he snaps. “I told Dixie I’d take her out, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

Since I can’t force him, I let it go. “Fine. I still don’t see why you’re taking Dixie, but I hope you two have fun.”

I start walking around him when he grabs my arm to stop me. “Shit. Wait. I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t been sleeping.”

He sounds genuine, so I brush off my irritation.

“I tried asking Sawyer if she wanted to hang out, but she said she wasn’t feeling good,” he explains. “And then Dixie and I were talking, and it somehow led to us making dinner plans. I didn’t even think twice about it being Valentine’s Day, and I can’t back out on her.”

My mind wraps around one thing. “What’s wrong with Sawyer?”

He eyes me in exasperation. “I don’t know, dude. Focus on the real problem. I basically agreed to take a chick out on a Valentine’s date, and I’m not prepared at all.”

I remind myself to check on Sawyer later when Dawson is gone. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I…” He frowns. “I don’t know. You’ve always been better when it comes to this shit. Girls are all over you all the time. For once, I want that to be me. Is that so bad?”

He honestly thinks I have it that easy? “Look, the only advice I can give you is to figure out what you want. And who. Because I think we both know that two friends involved with the same person can get messy. You don’t want to hurt anybody like that.”

The way you were, is what I don’t say.

Dawson sighs, scratching the column of his throat. “What if I don’t know what I want?”

“Then you’ll have to figure it out.”

He’s silent, looking back at the building. “Maybe you can find out what Sawyer’s deal is for me,” he remarks, perking up.

Is he out of his mind? I’m willing to do a lot for the guy, but not that. “What exactly do you want me to do, pass her a note that says, ‘Do you like-like Dawson Gable; check yes or no?’ I’m not doing that.”

“You live across the hall. You can tell me if she’s bringing somebody home so I’m not wasting my time.”

He wants me to spy on Sawyer? “You’re literally doing the same thing. With her friend.”

“Come on. You owe me.”

I owe him? “When are you going to decide enough is enough? I’ve done a lot for you over the past year. Or have you forgotten?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes when he quietly murmurs, “I haven’t.”

I may not be particularly close with Dixie, but I don’t like knowing she’s some sort of consolation prize to him. We are all a part of other people’s choices in life—they either want you or don’t, which inevitably determines if you find the person who does. But there’s something in the tremor of his eyes that are still bloodshot from who knows what that tells me he’s not exactly of sound mind. I don’t want either of these girls being mixed up in something that I know from personal experience is mentally taxing.

“Just tell me if you see anything,” he says.

I relent, not that I ever plan to do that. Mostly because I don’t think he’ll give up first. “Fine. But this is the last time you tell me I owe you.”

“ I’ll owe you if you can help me figure out what to get Dixie before tonight,” he bargains. “I’m short on cash, and the stores are probably picked through.”

I happen to know both of his parents put a significant amount of money into his checking account for rent and food every month. There’s no reason he can’t afford a ten-dollar box of assorted candy. “Where did the money your parents gave you go?”

“Had to buy textbooks.”

Books for classes aren’t cheap, but I highly doubt that’s where his money went.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says before I can question him. “They haven’t been giving me as much since last year because they don’t want me spending it on the wrong shit.”

That might be the first smart thing I’ve heard them do. I reached out to them for help when I first found out he’d been using, but they didn’t believe me until they got a call from the hospital after he was given Narcan from overdosing.

I glance down at the Pop-Tarts. If they stay in my apartment, they’ll go stale until I eventually throw them away. But if I give them to Sawyer, then Dawson could find out.

I could do a lot of things right now.

Help him or not.

Either choice would be a selfish one.

If I stick to my original plan, it’s to gain something from Sawyer. But if I help Dawson win over Dixie, it’s to keep him away from the girl across the hall who’s long since piqued my interest.

Wetting my lips, I gesture toward the building and start walking. “Come on,” I call out, making my choice. “I’ve got an idea. It’s cheesy, but it’ll work.”

Dawson follows blindly, and I only feel a little bad that he doesn’t question my intentions.

Maybe that makes me a shit friend.

But when I dig out my mother’s old cookie-cutter set and find the heart-shaped ones, I don’t feel nearly as guilty when I tell Dawson to cut into the Pop-Tarts.

I’m doing him a favor, I tell myself.

An hour later, he’s out the door with a paper plate full of Saran-Wrapped snacks, and I’m left staring at the few I snatched up.

I take the leftovers over to Sawyer’s, hesitating to knock. Instead, I place the plate of heart-shaped Pop-Tarts on the floor with a Post-it note saying I hope she feels better, knock twice, and walk back to my apartment.

I hear the door open.

Then silence.

I debate looking out the peephole but decide against it.

It’s a few minutes later when I hear the door across the hall close.

Only then do I glance out the peephole and see the missing plate.

I tell myself it’s an innocent gesture—that everybody needs a Valentine at least once in their life.

The next day, the empty plate is back in front of my door with a new Post-it note attached. When I pick it up, I realize there’s a package of fruit snacks underneath the paper.

All that’s written on it is a phone number.

I don’t use the number.

And I stare at the fruit snacks until that fuzzy feeling creeps up the back of my neck again.