Chapter Fourteen Banks
Chapter Fourteen
Banks
There’s fearlessness in the girl beside me as she leans closer to the railing of the boat that separates her and the reptiles she’s hoping to see, her smile big as her eyes roam the murky waters.
Captain Pat is going on about how the cold weather will impact which animals we’ll see, which I can tell disappoints my neighbor. “If we see an alligator up close, you’ll be able to see the ridges on its back. Those are called scoops, and they regulate their body temperature. If their body temperature goes below seventy-five degrees, they’re at risk of food sitting in their stomachs and rotting.”
A few of the other people on the tour with us scrunch their noses and make noises of disgust, but not Sawyer. “So their back is basically a solar panel,” she comments to the captain.
The elderly man in charge of our tour smiles at her. “Exactly. That’s why you’ll see a lot of them lying on logs. They’re warming their bodies. And since today is a cooler day without a lot of sunshine, a lot of them are going to be trying to keep warm by burying themselves in the mud. I’m sure we’ll come across a few along the way, which I’ll point out, but it won’t be the same number as if it were eighty out.”
For the first forty-five minutes, I watch Sawyer more than I do the water. She happily tosses some of the food we were given into the water, watching as a few smaller alligators come to accept the offerings. When she’s happy, her whole face brightens. Once in a while, she’ll look at me, and those blue eyes get me feeling some kind of way. My chest swells with a ridiculous amount of pride that she’s paying attention to me. Like a goddamn schoolboy. She doesn’t say a word, just smiles and quickly turns back to the turtles to take a few pictures for Dixie.
I think back to Dawson’s favor. Spying on Sawyer is the last thing I want to do. Because I’m not sure how I’d feel if there were somebody else in her life. And realizing that reminds me of all the reasons I shouldn’t be here at all.
I’m glad Dixie bailed though. It gives me time to see Sawyer’s face light up over facts most people wouldn’t think twice about or spew a few of her own that I’m not sure how she knows.
Like how she could tell the giant bird I would have assumed was a bald eagle was actually a red-tailed hawk.
My eyes go to her hair again, trying to picture it red. I wonder what my Sawyer would look like and if she’d like this one.
“The cypress trees are gorgeous,” Sawyer says to me, nudging my knee with hers and pointing until I lose my train of thought. “Look.”
I’m impressed she knows what they are. “Did you know they’re the state tree?” I ask. “It’s one of the most sought after around here because the wood is impervious to rot. You can’t cut it down, but it’s fair game if it falls. People make good money on it if they can get some.”
“You’re into landscape, huh?” She leans back, tucking her hands into her pockets to protect them from the chill. “You doodle a lot of plants in your notebook during class.”
I’ve never been a note taker, but if I draw, I can almost always remember the material we’re taught based on the picture I’m drawing while the lecture happens. “My father teaches at the college. His specialty is in landscape, so it’s something I grew up around.”
She watches me with arched brows, her head tilting as she studies me. “That’s kind of cool. Most people I know have parents who are in banking or something boring.”
“Is that what your parents do?”
Her face softens at the topic, her gaze drifting back over the water. “My dad is in the Navy actually.” There’s pride in her voice when she talks about him. “He’s stationed here in Louisiana right now, but he’s been thinking about retiring and moving to be with my mom and little brother in New York.”
Thanks to the bases around, I grew up with a lot of military kids. I used to feel bad when their parents had to go away, until I was old enough to wish mine would do the same.
I keep staring at her, remembering that my Sawyer’s father was in the Navy too.
My eyes graze over her blond hair.
A coincidence.
There are a lot of military families stationed in Louisiana. Sawyer’s family wasn’t the first or the last.
Wishful thinking, I decide.
“What about your mom?” I ask, letting the curiosity go.
Her tongue dips out as she turns to look at the trees lining the swamps again. “She’s a stay-at-home mother.”
It seems like there’s more to the story, but she doesn’t elaborate. “You miss her,” I note, seeing the way her lips waver downward.
When she looks at me again, she lets her shoulders drop a fraction. There’s a shine in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Yeah. Is that silly?”
“Doesn’t matter how old we get, we’re always going to miss our parents. Just means we love them no matter the circumstances.” I’d know better than anybody. “What’s silly about that?” I finish.
Her knee bumps into mine again in appreciation, but it stays there this time. The warmth from her leg is making it very hard to pay attention to whatever Captain Pat is saying about the swamp.
I should move my leg.
For Dawson and whatever feelings he may have for the girl next to me.
But I don’t.
I put my hand on her knee.
The next time she looks my way, her gaze roams over my face. “Your eyes,” she says quietly, watching me watch her. “They remind me of the muddy river.”
Her head tilts thoughtfully, slowly shaking as if thinking of something that she doesn’t share.
Then she glances down at my hand still on her knee, bites her lip, and turns back to the water.
* * *
Giggling as she hops out of my truck, Sawyer rounds the front where I’m waiting for her. “You’re really trying to tell me that modern country is better than the classic kind?”
If only my dad were with us to hear somebody finally agree with him. He loves everything circa Alabama, Merle Haggard, and George Jones. His version of “modern country” is Reba McEntire, George Straight, and Garth Brooks. The man has been stuck in the nineties for as long as I can remember.
He doesn’t like many people, but even a man as miserable as him wouldn’t be able to fight Sawyer’s easygoing wit.
“There’s variety nowadays,” I reply, after we spent the last twenty minutes arguing over what to listen to as we found somewhere to eat.
Unlike her Taco Bell excursion, I plan on feeding her true Louisiana cuisine—and not the kind we get served at school. So I pulled up to a new creole seafood joint that opened right outside New Orleans and ignored her rant on how modern country is more crossover than anything when I turned the radio to a preprogrammed station.
“It’s not the same old dry shit you always hear. Old country is depressing.” She makes a noise of disgruntlement at my statement. “Those artists followed a formula to the point where every song was the same.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” she tells me, her eyes scanning the big chalkboard menu placed outside the ordering counter before turning to me. “Look at Garth Brooks. His music made waves when he came onto the scene, and he got a lot of shit for how different it was, but now he’s respected for bringing his flare to country music, and it’s inspired a lot of contemporary artists. Same as Shania Twain. Even the legendary Dolly Parton shifted her music tone after a while. All of those people are who grew the kind of music you like today. They made it okay. So can you really put a formula on creative expression?”
I can’t say I’ve ever thought too deeply on any music genre. I’ve only ever used it as background noise to drown out life. “I think there’s a formula on what sells,” I counter easily. “Music labels see what works in a market and produce similar products. I won’t argue and say those artists didn’t make an impact. All I’m saying is that I prefer today’s music.”
She shakes her head, blowing out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, I’ll let it go even though I think it’s a disservice that you could disrespect such legendary people who helped form your favorite music.”
I snort at her dramatics. “Speaking of music, how’s Dixie, the prodigy?”
Sawyer’s smile falters for the briefest second, her eyes going back to the menu as we get closer to the front of the line. “She’s fine. I’m sure she would have enjoyed herself today since we barely saw any gators.”
Does she wish her friend was here instead of me? Because I can’t relate. “She missed out,” I reply, stepping forward when the line moves.
“She likes Dawson,” Sawyer admits, as if I couldn’t tell from the few hours we spent at the bar together. “He invited us to some party tomorrow, and she got all weird about being a third wheel.”
I shouldn’t butt into business that isn’t mine, but I’m interested in how she gauges the situation. For Dawson, of course. “ Would she be a third wheel?”
Sawyer frowns. “No. Why?”
I lift a shoulder. “Curious, is all.”
Her eyes narrow, but I look at the menu and avoid the way her gaze pierces into the side of my face. “Seems like more than that.”
It’s finally our turn. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You bought the tour tickets,” I say dismissively. “I’ll get lunch. But you have to at least try the crawfish. Deal?”
She doesn’t fight me on it. “Okay.”
Once I pass the cashier my card, we wait off to the side for our order. “Dawson is a good guy,” I tell her when we fall to silence. “I said the same thing to Dixie when it was obvious she had a thing for him.”
“She mentioned as much.” A pause. “And I know he is.”
“But he’s…” How do I put this nicely? “I love the guy, but Dawson is a little aloof. Your friend likes him. He likes you. I’m pretty sure he likes her too. I don’t think he sees what we both do though, when it comes to how invested she is. So where does that leave you in this?”
She blinks up at me. I don’t know what’s going through her mind, if she’s contemplating an honest answer or a bullshit one. I hope she’ll give it to me straight, but she doesn’t owe me that.
Toying with the ends of her hair, she glances at the people collecting their food and walking to the nearby picnic tables. “I’m not playing games with anybody, if that’s what you’re wondering. I want Dixie to be happy, and I want Dawson to be happy. That’s why I keep suggesting they hang out together.”
“And you?”
When she finally meets my eyes, there’s a distance to the blue tone, making them look more like dark denim than the crystal color they usually are. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
How could she think that? “That’s a sad way to live if you’re putting everybody else’s happiness before your own.”
Her tongue darts out again, wetting her bottom lip, and I track each little movement until it rests in the corner in thoughtful contemplation. “Happiness is subjective,” she replies, walking to the counter when they call our number. I follow her. “If my friends are happy, so am I. It doesn’t have to be a sacrifice.”
I help her, taking the big tray and gesturing for her to grab our drinks. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”
We walk over to an unoccupied table. She puts her lemonade down across from my sweet tea and sits. “Why are you pressing me about this? You couldn’t have cared less about me weeks ago. What changed?”
On the contrary. I was far too interested and had way too much going on. Between Dad and Dawson, giving any heed to what my dick wanted was only going to add more trouble into my life. “I care about my friends. Dawson is my oldest one. I’m looking out for him.”
He spent a hell of a lot more time with me over the years than he did at his house, and I appreciated it. Dad was on his best behavior when he was around. It was for after Dawson left that he saved the drinking and other shit. I owe Dawson a lot for things he’ll never know. Things I swore I’d take to the grave before telling a soul. It was my burden to bear, not his. Especially not when he had his own shit to get through.
Sawyer takes one of the shrimp, carefully studying it before peeling the tail off. “Life is already a game as it is, Banks. The last thing I plan on doing with mine is playing with people to make it more complicated than it needs to be. I’m here to be twenty-one and experience college and the culture. I’m here to live and be happy. That includes making friends.”
She seems defensive. “You’re upset.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Her eyes stay on her food. “I told you before, I never dated. I never…” She stops herself, processing as she plays with the fries in her basket. “I’m not used to the attention, and I like it when I get it. Does that make me a bad person?”
If she’s a bad person, then we all are. “No, I don’t think so. We’re human. We like feeling wanted.”
“Dawson has always been nice to me,” she says quietly. “I guess I soaked that in a little more than I should is all.”
“He’s easy to get along with,” I reason.
All she does is nod, and I can tell she’s shutting down.
I pick up a crawfish. “A deal is a deal,” I tell her, wiggling it.
She looks from the offering up to me and then back down again before accepting it. “You’re something else, Banks.”
I lean back. “Sounds familiar.”
We stare at one another before clinking our shellfish together in cheers and digging in.
“Dawson doesn’t always make his mind up easily,” I offer after a stretch of silence while we eat. I wipe my hands off as she pauses what she’s doing to peer at me through her lashes. Swiping a napkin across my lips, I set it down on the table with an easy shrug. “Sometimes you have to help make it for him.”
She sets down her food. “And what decision is it you want me to help him make?”
The question is a challenge.
Not a hard one.
A test.
“Whatever you want,” I answer.
Be with him or let him down gently.
I know which one I’d prefer.
For a moment, she doesn’t say anything at all. Then a thoughtful noise rises from her throat as she digs back into the food. No words. No indication as to what her choice will be.
It’s not mine to make. Or influence.
An hour and a half later, listening to classic country instead of the modern station I usually opt for, I’m pulling into my usual spot behind our apartment building and cutting the engine.
“Are you going to the party tomorrow?” she asks, unbuckling. “The one Dawson brought up. He said it was at one of the frats.”
That doesn’t narrow it down any. “I’m not sure what I’ve got going on.”
Lies. I never have plans on the weekends.
She nods, glancing out the window before turning her body toward me. “Think about it” is all she says, leaning in and pecking me on the cheek. I turn just enough to feel her lips graze the corner of my mouth, causing her to suck in a startled breath.
Sawyer pulls back a fraction, our mouths so close I can feel her small, exhaled breaths. They’re warm. Inviting.
My eyes focus on her lips, a hunger rising from my stomach.
When she leans forward, her mouth brushes over mine in the barest kiss that I’m not even sure happened by the time I can process it. It feels like a middle school move—one you want to make but aren’t sure of. But she did it.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her to do it again.
“That should answer your question from before,” she tells me, her hand touching mine before she grabs the door handle and climbs out of the truck. “Good night, Banks.”
She shuts the door before I can reply, waving through the window as she disappears into the building.
All while I sit dumbly behind the wheel, still buckled in and still thinking about that kiss.
That should answer your question.
She’s wrong.
Because now I have a hell of a lot more.
From the rearview mirror, I see another figure too tall to be Sawyer disappear into the building.