Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Thirteen Sawyer

Chapter Thirteen

Sawyer

The headache that’s been pulsing in my temples for the last few days finally subsides enough to let me leave my apartment without wanting to cry. I blame myself. Without my mother’s constant nagging about drinking water and taking my medication, it was easy to forget until it physically hurt too much to do anything. Every time I got a text, it took everything in me to answer it until I couldn’t look at the screen anymore without feeling like I was going to vomit.

My mother was the only person I texted back within minutes. If I didn’t, she’d make Dad come check on me or book a flight to do it herself. I didn’t need that, no matter how much I missed her.

Dropping my phone to the bed after watching an old video uploaded online of Dixie playing a Led Zeppelin song on the piano, I flop onto my back and shake my head in disbelief.

“Insane,” I tell her, propping my feet up against the wall and wiggling my freshly painted nails, which Dixie made purple. “I thought piano players only did stuffy music. Like that deaf guy, Mozart.”

Dixie is upside down from the angle I’m looking at her at, but she slowly turns to me from her desk chair. “Beethoven was deaf, not Mozart.”

I think about it. “Oh. Which one had a dog named after him?”

She blinks. “Beethoven.”

All I say is “Huh.”

Dixie moves on. “Classical is what most of us are trained in. It’s what my parents wanted me to play. But I won more competitions playing AC/DC and Def Leppard mashups. You should have seen their faces when I got onstage and started playing Bon Jovi.”

From what she said, her parents are the ritzy country club types who go golfing every week and attend charity galas. I’ve never seen photos, but I picture them wearing matching cashmere sweaters and khaki pants while drinking tea at the club with their pinkies up. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I guess. But it seems like they’re all about their image, and Dixie playing what she wants and coming here ruins that for them.

The girl whose shoulder-length hair I put into a French braid twirls in her chair mindlessly. “My parents both come from old money, so it isn’t like they depended on what I earned from my performances to get by. That would have been way too much pressure.”

I could imagine. My parents had the misfortune of getting a daughter who cost them more money than I earned them.

She props her elbow on her desk and rests her chin on her palm. “I think it was a pride thing. They liked bragging to their friends that I played at Carnegie. When I told them I wasn’t applying to Juilliard, my mother about had a conniption.”

I roll my head to get a better look at the subtle frown on her face. On the outside, the girl who owns more cardigans than I can keep count of looks like she’s too soft for life. Her features are doe-like and fragile, she’s quiet, and she barely goes after what she wants. Like Dawson Gable, who she talks about relentlessly, especially after he brought her Pop-Tart-shaped hearts that looked suspiciously identical to the ones at my door on Valentine’s Day. Except I know it wasn’t Dawson who dropped them off because he doesn’t know my secret obsession with the childhood treats. And I also know for a fact Dixie doesn’t even like overly sweet things like I do. She’s a savory type of person, and anyone who hangs around her knows that if they pay enough attention.

Which begs the question—why did Dawson give those to Dixie? And whose idea was it?

It was easy not getting in my head about it when my brain felt like it was going to explode, but now that I’m better, I can’t stop wondering what the motive was. And that always leads to thinking about the boy next door. And the fact he never used my number I left for him.

I’m secretly dreading class on Wednesday, hoping he doesn’t feel awkward about it.

Forcing the thoughts away, I ask, “Are you close with your parents?”

I can tell Dixie loves her family, and sometimes they’re the hardest people to stand up to when it comes to what you want.

Even though I know my mother and father would do anything for me, it wasn’t easy telling them what I wanted to do. With all the money they spent on me over the years and all the worrying they did, I knew asking to leave was risky. Selfish, even. Thankfully, they understood.

“I need to do this,” I tell my mother after Bentley goes to bed. “For me. Please .”

Dixie leans her elbows on her bent knees. “Not as close as we used to be, but we talk still. They clearly accepted my decision to come here, even if they didn’t like it. I think they’re letting me live my life and spend time figuring myself out.”

Figuring herself out. Sounds familiar. “That’s good then.” As far as I’m concerned, that’s what all parents should want for their kids. If they want to spend college learning who they are, they should be encouraged for it rather than questioned. Like some people tend to.

She nods in agreement, a faraway look about her as she starts spinning in the chair again.

When we get quiet, I decide to break the silence. “You never went into detail about how your date went. Have you heard from Dawson since you guys went out?”

She hasn’t said much about the bubbly boy who joins us a few times a week for lunch. He typically sits by me, save for the few times I’ve made up excuses to leave early to give them some one-on-one time. Dixie always texts me asking what to talk about as soon as I’m gone, which I conveniently miss seeing so she can figure it out.

Dixie’s head tilts back, groaning. “No. I saw him on campus last night with a group of people, but I don’t think he saw me.”

“Why didn’t you go up to him?”

Her expression turns dumbfounded. “Do I look like the type to go up to a cute boy and strike up a conversation?” She gestures to herself with a frown, flicking her cardigan. It’s a blue one today. Yesterday, it was beige. The day before, white. The day we went through her closet to find something to go out in, I understood why she wanted to raid my wardrobe. Apparently, you can take the girl out of the country club, but not the country club out of the girl. “Plus, he was talking to another girl. So…”

Oh. Oh. “Maybe they’re friends?” I offer weakly.

Doubt clouds her features. “Maybe.”

Dawson seems like a flirt, but he doesn’t seem like a serious relationship guy. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

She makes a face. “That’s what Banks said.”

When did she ask Banks about Dawson? “I didn’t know you two talked.”

Dixie’s lips grow into a tiny smile. “The night we all went out. Sometimes he’ll sit with me at lunch if I’m alone and you’re at class.”

How come I didn’t know that? And why does that make me… I don’t know. “Mad” isn’t the right word. “Jealous” would probably fit better, and I hate that the little green monster stirs to life simply because Dixie gets attention from Banks.

“That’s nice of him,” I offer, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as off as I feel. “You should suggest doing something with Dawson again if you want to see him.”

She gapes. “Like another date?”

“Or just a casual hangout to feel him out.”

Her nose scrunches, making it hard not to snort. I can see she thinks that’s a terrible idea. “I don’t think I can do that.”

I point out the obvious. “You didn’t think you could suggest dinner out either, but you did. And he took you out on Valentine’s Day. But it was only a suggestion if you don’t think you can do it again…”

Dixie’s eyes flicker into a mischievous grin. “Is that what you’re going to do with Banks? Suggest ‘casual hangout time’ to feel him out?”

Dixie thought it was cute that he came over to help me with my bloody nose because he was worried about me not showing up for class. I’m glad I didn’t tell her about what he brought me, or she would have wondered the same thing about Dawson’s gift as I did.

Eventually, I shrug. “Maybe I will.”

After all, he prefers casual. And maybe…maybe that’s what’s best for me too. Nothing too serious. Nothing that could hurt feelings. If he’s willing to offer it, who’s to say it’s a bad idea for me to accept?

“I wish I had your confidence.”

I watch her, biting the inside of my cheek. “It isn’t confidence,” I reply quietly.

Her brows furrow. “Then what is it?”

How could I possibly explain to her what it is when there’s so much she doesn’t know? When you’ve lived as little as I have, you make up for the lost moments. “I guess it’s about figuring out what you have to gain when you have nothing left to lose.”

Dixie stares, a frown sweeping over her features. It dims her eyes that remind me of the fuzzy moss I used to love leaning against when I was a kid. “That’s a sad way to look at life.”

“Or it’s a smart one,” I counter, sitting up and crossing my legs under me. Not wanting to be a Debbie Downer, I change the subject. “Let’s cross some things off my list together! I was looking into doing something this weekend, actually. Living it up. You could invite Dawson along if you want.”

She’s seen the extensive list, so I’m not surprised to see a wary look on her face. “Which item are you looking into exactly?”

I grin. “Wanna see some alligators up close?”

Dixie pales. “Uh…”

“Dawson could play protector,” I reason, trying to sweeten the deal. “You could suggest the swamp tour to him.”

Her top teeth dig into her bottom lip. There’s reluctance on her face, but I’m guessing she relents when she sees the excitement on mine. “I suppose I have nothing to lose. Except maybe a limb…”

I beam, picking up my phone. “I promise all of your limbs will be accounted for by the end of the tour. I’ll buy the tickets.”

* * *

I lower the phone after reading the message and frown as a bite of wind hits me. Zipping up my jacket all the way, I tuck one of my hands in a pocket while the other reopens the text as if it’ll change somehow.

Dixie: I’m sorry. Don’t be mad

I wish she’d told me she didn’t want to go when I suggested the Cajun Swamp Tour because these tickets weren’t cheap. But what can I do? I’d never make somebody do something they’re uncomfortable with.

Her name flashes on the screen when I don’t reply after a couple of minutes. As soon as I swipe to answer, she repeats, “Don’t be mad.”

My shoulders are heavy as the twinge of disappointment burrows itself in. “I’m not, Dixie. Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want to go earlier this week? You could have been honest.”

Her tone has a mixture of embarrassment and guilt in it. “Have you ever seen CSI: Miami ? My dad used to love that show, and it scarred me as a kid. They were always finding body parts in the swamps or inside gators’ bodies. It freaks me out to be up close and personal with one.”

“That’s just a TV show,” I remind her. “And I looked it up. Only four percent of alligator attacks are even fatal. That’s practically nothing. Plus, it’s crocodiles you have to worry about anyway. Alligators are like the black bears of the marshes. Harmless. Usually.”

The noise she makes isn’t one that sounds like she believes me. “Dawson couldn’t go anyway. He said he had plans with the basketball team after practice. I didn’t want to seem clingy since I’m the one who suggested we hang out last time too.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to have a girls’ day with me anyway?”

Dixie is quiet for a second. “No offense, but I think our versions of girls’ days are different. If you wanted to get your nails or hair done, I’m totally down. Maybe even shopping, since you think I own too many cardigans.”

I do think that, but I would never make her change something she loves. And the thought of going anywhere to get my hair done is laughable. What would I do? Take my wig off and ask them to shampoo it? I plan on taking my fake hair with me to the grave.

Literally.

“I’m sorry,” she says again when I don’t respond immediately.

Instead of pushing her on a girls’ day, I try to reassure her it’s fine. “Don’t worry about it. By the way, I saw Dawson when I was heading out of my apartment, and he said there was a party on Greek Row tomorrow night that we should go to. Maybe we can do that together instead.”

Dixie doesn’t answer right away. “Who is ‘we’ exactly? Because I don’t know if I want to be a third wheel.”

What? “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s just…” She sighs. “He never said anything to me about a party when I asked him to hang out. But then he sees you and invites you to one. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Okay, I see her point. “Maybe he found out about it after you talked. It’s not like that with me and Dawson anyway. You know that.”

“But does he ?”

Frowning, I stare at the ground. I’ve never done anything to make Dawson think otherwise.

But you’ve also never done anything to make him think there’s not a chance.

“I…” Guilt crests in my chest. Maybe, secretly, there’s a part of me that enjoys the possibility of someone giving me attention because I’ve never gotten it before. Being flirted with is a new experience—one I like. So, no. I guess I haven’t turned Dawson down anytime he’s gotten that way. I let it go.

And that’s not fair to Dixie. “I don’t know,” I admit sadly.

I’m met with silence.

Then she says, “I just remembered I have to do some homework. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“If you want, I can skip this,” I offer weakly.

“No,” she insists. “I really do have homework. You go and have fun.”

I pull the phone back to check the time. “I have to call an Uber to get to the meeting place for this tour then. Say you’ll come to the party! I’ve always wanted to go to one, and we don’t even have to think about boys. I’ll even let you raid my closet again to find something cute.”

“Sawyer…”

“Please?” I beg, drawing out the word until it’s borderline annoying. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’ll think about it,” she relents, pausing. Her voice is softer. “Be careful on the tour.”

“I’ll text updates to let you know I’m alive and avoid sending you any pictures of the scary animals I see.”

That seems to appease her. “You can send turtle photos. And I’m really—”

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” I tell her, ears perking up when I hear the apartment door open behind me. I turn to see Banks walking out, so I wave at him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Banks stops beside me. “Who shouldn’t be sorry?” he asks curiously.

He still never used my number, which makes me regret ever giving it to him. And since he hasn’t mentioned it, I don’t either. The few times we’ve been around each other, he’s made it a point to acknowledge me whenever he sees me. Usually with a greeting that ends in “pal” or “buddy” to prove some sort of point.

I just don’t know if it’s a point he’s making to me or himself.

I tell myself being friends is a good thing, so I accept the small victories. During last Wednesday’s class, he doodled me a picture of Tweety Bird when Professor Grey was lecturing. The day before that, he offered to give me half his shrimp po’ boy to finally have a taste of Louisiana cuisine. They’re baby steps in the right direction.

“Dixie is bailing on the Cajun Swamp Tour that I booked for today,” I tell him.

His brows pinch. “You actually want to go see the wildlife?”

I find an odd sense of pride that he’s surprised. “One thing you should know about me if we’re going to be friends is that I love adventures. And I’ve never seen an alligator up close. I hear there are wild boars too, and I always thought they were cute in an ugly kind of way.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, but he slowly starts shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I power up the Uber app and start searching for a ride.

“Are you going alone?”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, thumbing through the rideshare app. “I already promised Dixie that I wouldn’t get eaten by anything while I’m out there.”

“Wasn’t worried about that.”

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Friends should be worried about other friends being harmed by things with pointy teeth.

After a moment, I hear his keys rattle. “Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the truck I’ve seen him get in and out of plenty of times when I may or may not have been watching out the window. “I know where they meet.”

“You don’t have—”

“We’re friends,” he cuts me off. “Right?”

That stops me from arguing. We joke that we are, but it isn’t like we talk that often. “Well…right. I guess.”

He nods and starts walking to the pickup, not waiting for me to follow. It takes me a few seconds, but I finally catch up in time for him to open the passenger door for me.

Nobody has opened a car door for me besides my mom and dad, and that was usually only when I was weak and drooling on myself from treatment. It’s hard to fight the smile as I climb in, ignoring the way he watches me.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

We stare at one another for a moment longer.

He eventually breaks eye contact, shuts the door, and rounds the front of his truck. With one hand casually draped on top of the wheel, he says, “So when does our tour leave?”

Our? “You want to come with me?”

Banks doesn’t bother looking at me as he backs out of his parking spot. “Unless you don’t want me to. But it sounds like you’ve got an extra ticket, and I’ve got the know-how to get there. Beats doing homework today.”

It probably isn’t flattering that he’s only coming with me because his other alternative is school assignments, but I’ll take it.

Because I think Banks likes me more than he wants to admit.

Friends.

I settle into the seat and watch the passing surroundings with a big smile on my face. And the silence between us doesn’t feel awkward at all. It’s comfortable. Calming.

Friends.

As we’re driving, I see a large bird swoop down in front of the truck, pulling me from my thoughts. “Look,” I exclaim, pointing in the direction of the large, feathered bird making circles around us. “I think that was a red-tailed hawk.”

Banks’s eyes go to the direction I’m pointing before he looks at me with a skeptical gaze. “You know a lot about birds?”

I watch as the bird in question swoops down like it found its prey, its pretty red tail the reason for its name. “Not really.” Not like I used to, anyway.

A lot of the pointless bird facts I used to retain went away after the first few rounds of chemo. Banks doesn’t need to know that though.

“When I looked up the Cajun tour, it mentioned possibly seeing hawks on it because they hunt snakes and small reptiles. The swamps are good hunting grounds for them.”

I can feel his eyes on me for a moment longer before he eventually focuses back on the road.

All I hear is a quiet “Huh.”

When I look back over at him, his fingers are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.

He must not like birds.