Chapter Seventeen Sawyer
Chapter Seventeen
Sawyer
The next few days go by seamlessly thanks to the mundane routine I’ve fallen into. Wake up at nine, drink an entire pot of coffee, go to classes, and avoid the two boys who live in my building.
It’s easy to do when I’ve learned from observation, and a little nosiness, that Banks gets up at the butt crack of dawn to go God knows where and only returns in the evening when I’ve gotten back from classes. He’s tried coming over a few times, but I never answer the door. The first time he tried, I was still in bed after a horrible night’s sleep, wearing nothing but an oversize shirt and a silk scarf on my head. Dad came in after he brought me breakfast, setting down a mug of steaming coffee onto my nightstand and saying, “Banks is a weird name for a kid.”
I stared at the coffee with a frown, wondering what Banks must have thought after I ran away like an inexperienced moron at the party. What college girl gets kissed by a guy and then bolts on the verge of tears? This one, apparently.
It wasn’t even that big of a deal. Sure, I hadn’t expected Dawson to kiss me, but he was drunk. I could look past that because I’d been there before. But considering Dixie had already been on the fence about coming, the last thing I wanted was to hurt her by having her see something like that. And Banks…
Well, if my lack of experience wasn’t obvious before, it’s blatant now. And I shouldn’t care what he thinks about something as silly as that, but I do.
I care more than I wish I did.
The second time Banks tried getting me to open the door, it was with the allure of beignets. A weakness I learned I had after he took me out to lunch at Commanders Palace the day he showed me around the Garden District. He’d gotten us three huge fried treats from a local bakery to split. I’d made a mess of myself from the powdered sugar I’d accidentally breathed on as I took a bite, but it was worth it. He promised to buy me some from the famous Café de Monde the next time we went into New Orleans, which is where the white paper bag was from—the one he left outside my door after I ignored his knocks again.
He has my number but never reaches out.
I’m sure if I’m grateful or not.
“You’re not listening at all,” Dixie accuses, shaking a giant cup of soda at me. The ice cubes rattle against the plastic until I finally take it from her. “I asked if I look okay.”
She looks cute. Sporty. I don’t know why she doesn’t wear more outfits like the ripped black jeans and high-tops she’s in that she paired with her purple-and-yellow LSU jersey. When she asked me to come over before the basketball game, I was more than happy to help her get ready. It got me out of my apartment, where I’d been sulking, and reminded me that we were good after what happened this weekend.
She wasn’t mad the way I was at myself.
For making Dawson think he had a chance.
For letting him assume it was okay to kiss me.
Banks had been right. I led him on.
“You look great, and your butt looks amazing in those jeans,” I compliment, sipping the overpriced Coke she bought for me and trying to brush off the guilt settling into my chest.
Two pink dots appear on her cheeks. “Thank you. Let’s hope Dawson notices.”
“He’ll be playing,” I remind her. Wiggling my eyebrows, I say, “But after…”
When we get to our seats, I scope out the gymnasium where the game is being held. I’m met with a lot of unfamiliar faces, which makes me ease into my seat.
“He’s not here,” Dixie says, slurping her cherry slushie.
Playing coy, I set my purse down between my feet on the bleachers. “Who?”
Dixie smirks. “Dawson said that Banks never comes to these things.”
I’m both relieved and oddly a little disappointed. “Huh.”
She doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just like she didn’t make one out of the kiss. I’m not sure what happened the night at the hospital, but the time she spent with Dawson there must have bonded them enough for her to forgive him the way I had. After all, they’d been on a date. According to Dixie, that didn’t mean they were exclusive. If I were in her shoes, I’m not sure I would feel the same though.
“You can’t avoid him forever,” she tells me, bumping my knee with hers.
I look at her, biting the inside of my cheek.
She shrugs. “Just saying.”
I lean back in my spot, pushing the thought away. Glancing at the court, I realize I have no idea what I’m about to watch. “Do you know anything about basketball? Because I don’t. I tried playing horse with my dad and brother once, and I never made a single basket.”
She stares at the empty court below, studying all the lines painted onto the floor. “I know they don’t score touchdowns,” she replies.
We share a look before breaking out into clueless laughter.
“This will be interesting,” I muse.
* * *
A few hours later, I realize that Dixie isn’t the shy twenty-one-year-old I thought she was. I’ve never heard someone so little yell so loudly at the referees calling the shots when LSU loses. It was a close game, which makes me feel bad for Dawson, who only got to play for a few minutes.
As the crowd starts dispersing, I stand and drape my bag over my shoulder when I hear, “I guess he does come sometimes.”
A tingling sensation shoots down my spine before I even look at where her eyes are. When I see Banks leaning against the doors on the floor of the gymnasium, my fingers twitch.
And he’s looking right at me, as if we aren’t surrounded by at least a hundred people trying to leave at the same time.
How long has he been here?
Dixie takes my hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, voice weak.
She knows I haven’t seen him since the party but has been encouraging me to talk to him. Every time I tell her I will, I find a reason not to.
She calls me a chicken.
I don’t deny it.
The pit of my stomach clenches as we descend the bleachers, and I can feel one particular set of eyes on me the entire time. I’m suddenly hyperaware that my face is naked of makeup, save for the cherry Chapstick that’s become a staple in my life. The pair of leggings I’m wearing has a mini hole in it from when Maggie’s claw dug into it trying to give me a hug once, and the yellow jersey with a tiger on it that Dixie lent me is big enough to be a dress. To hide my frizzy hair, I threw it into a bun that started coming undone halfway through the game, and I look like I haven’t slept in days.
Which isn’t totally untrue.
Anxiety bubbles under my skin when we approach Banks, whose eye looks like it still hurts from the fight that I feel partly responsible for.
It’s Dixie who squeezes my hand and says to him, “I bet Dawson will be happy you came.”
Banks’s eyes aren’t on her but me, and they’re stormy—like an angry surge that moved the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. The way he stared at me on the swamp tour reminded me of something. Maybe it was the river I loved seeing as a child when my father would take me on it in a rented fishing boat. But my gut said it was something else. Some one . “Yeah, I’m sure Dawson will.”
If that’s a dig at me, it’s deserved. Heat blossoming on my cheek, I murmur, “Hi, Banks.”
His lips press together.
Dixie clears her throat, awkwardly patting my hand. “I’m going to wait for you guys out there so you can talk.” She looks between us, wincing. “Or just stare silently at each other. Whichever you prefer.”
She walks away, giving me no choice but to address the elephant in the room.
Banks doesn’t hesitate. “You gave me shit for avoiding you, but you’ve been doing the same thing to me the second it was convenient for you. What gives?”
Swallowing nervously, I rub my arm. “I…” Words get stuck in my throat. I wish he’d let that night go and never speak of it again.
He watches me, jaw ticking at my silence. “Sawyer…”
Sawyer. Not Birdie. The way he says my name has me shifting on my feet.
“I thought we were friends,” he says, adding onto the guilt already weighing on my shoulders.
My eyes dip to my feet. “We are.”
“Then talk to me.”
Kicking my shoe against the floor, I close my eyes for a second and take a silent, deep breath before allowing myself to speak. “Is Dawson okay?”
He blinks slowly. “You’re really asking me about Dawson right now. Seriously?”
“He got hurt,” I reply.
“He crossed a line he shouldn’t have with you,” he points out matter-of-factly. “As far as I’m concerned, he deserved what happened.”
Aren’t they friends? I’d never say that about Dixie, even if she did something to hurt my feelings. “It went too far, and instead of sticking around to talk about it, I ran away. Even if he shouldn’t have done that, he didn’t deserve to get hurt. Neither did you. I’m—”
“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” he all but growls.
I quickly shut up.
Banks looks behind me, gently grabbing my arm and moving us aside to let people pass us. “Most girls would be ready to press charges for the shit he pulled, and you’re over here defending him,” he mumbles in astonishment.
“I’m not saying what he did was right,” I relent softly. “But I can’t waste my life being mad at people. Life is too short.”
Banks clearly doesn’t agree, but he chooses not to push it. “He’s doing fine, as you saw tonight,” he murmurs. “Although I wouldn’t be shocked if he messed up his stitches playing. He was supposed to be on the bench for the next few games while he recovered.”
“The tall redheaded guy got hurt, and the guy with the goatee got benched for picking a fight with the person who did it,” I explain, unsure of how much he actually saw. “Somebody in the crowd said they didn’t have a choice but to put Dawson in or they’d have to forfeit.”
His expression is pinched, like he’s not ready to let this go. “You looked scared that night.”
Closing my eyes, I internally groan. I can count the number of boys I’ve kissed on one hand. Less than one full hand. It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of and definitely nothing I want to admit to him.
His voice lowers. “Did something happen that made you react that way?”
What is he talking— oh my God. He thinks something bad happened to me. “No. No . Dawson startled me, that’s all. I wasn’t… I didn’t expect it.”
There’s something shadowing his face as he stands there with stick-straight posture. The way he looks at me is as if he’s attempting to see through a lie. “Nobody should ever feel the need to put their hands, or anything else, on you.”
This again. “Banks, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He was clearly drunk. I puked all over my high school crush once because I had too many tequila shots.”
I prefer not thinking about that, like I prefer never thinking about my one and only college party experience. I’m starting to think parties just aren’t for me.
He shakes his head. “It was enough to make you leave. If I didn’t have to bring him to the hospital, I would have tried going after you.”
I got home within ten minutes and didn’t think twice about walking alone. I’m sure my parents would scold me for it, but there were a lot of people out and about party hopping. Some girls by themselves, some in groups of friends. I was fine.
“I want to know why,” he presses.
“Why what?”
“Don’t play.”
“I’m not!” I counter in exasperation. I mimic his posture, trying to show him that I’m being serious. “Look, I don’t like talking about this stuff. Shouldn’t all that matters be that I’m okay?”
His jaw grinds. I’m not trying to make him upset. Frankly, I don’t know why he’s getting worked up. I stand by what I said—people do stupid things when they’ve had too much to drink. It wasn’t cool, but it also wasn’t the end of the world. Considering I was more worried about what Banks thought of me and my exit or what Dixie would assume, I’d say things are okay. Especially since Banks is here, at a game that he apparently doesn’t normally go to, and so is Dixie.
“Why are you so angry?” I ask, hoping to dispel the tension clearly coursing through his body. I appreciate that he cares, but I don’t understand it.
Banks shakes his head, teeth clenching once, before he grumbles something so quietly under his breath that I can’t hear it. There’s no way to describe the intensity behind his stare when those eyes meet mine, but I feel it deep in my chest. It’s penetrating.
His next words have my gaze going back to the bruising on his face. “Because I know what it’s like to have people cross lines they shouldn’t. I’m used to it, but I don’t want you to be.”
My heart reacts to those words as I scan the deep-colored injury before dropping to his lips where a scab used to be. What has he gone through that he’s not telling me? “Nobody should be used to that, Banks. Whether they deserved it or not.”
He knows I’m not referring to Dawson. “You’re right, but sometimes those are the hands we’re dealt in life.”
I know that all too well, don’t I?
If I ask about his past, I doubt he’d tell me. It’s hypocritical, but if anybody understands the reasoning behind a secret, it’s me.
“I’m not mad at Dawson,” I tell him honestly.
“You’re a better person than I am.”
“You’re the one who took care of him after he punched you in the face,” I remind him. He doesn’t give himself enough credit if he thinks that isn’t being a good person.
Banks hums. “I suppose.”
“Why’d you take the hit?” I question. It may have happened fast, but he could have at least blocked him. Dawson could barely stand straight. If Banks wanted to stop him, he wouldn’t have had to try hard.
“Because I deserved it too.”
The answer has me gaping at him.
“He likes you,” he adds, lifting a shoulder.
Yeah, and because I didn’t turn him down, it led to the utter chaos we’re talking about now.
“Man has good taste,” my neighbor adds, more as an afterthought to himself than something he meant to say aloud.
Eyes widening, I watch as Banks stuffs both hands into his pockets, like he doesn’t trust that he’ll keep them to himself.
“What does that mean, exactly?” I ask.
He doesn’t need to spell it out for me. I know.
But it still gives my heart a little jump when he says, “There’s something about you that I can’t put my finger on, which makes me want to stick around and figure it out. I don’t blame Dawson for being pissed at me for that. He wanted my help gauging your interest, and instead, I fed mine.”
“I’m not his to claim” is my only logical response, voice a notch above a whisper because I don’t trust the emotions crammed into each word. I’m too busy thinking about one little piece of that.
He’s interested. In me .
A noise rumbles from deep in his chest as he looks away, sighing. “You aren’t mine either.”
For some reason, hurt inches its way into my chest cavity. I swear, it’s always one step forward and five steps back with this boy, who’s now sweeping his gaze along the crowd of people waiting in the lobby.
“I don’t regret kissing you,” I admit, hoping it’s enough to spark something that will tell me how he feels. Because right now, all I feel is confusion.
“Good.” Banks’s eyes darken when they meet mine, pinning me. “I sure as hell don’t regret it either.”
Relief has me nodding, waiting for something more. “So what are we going to do about it?”
He hasn’t made a single move on me, so it’s hard to figure out what’s going through his head. He’s interested, but not enough to move forward. Is it because of me? Or because of Dawson?
“Tonight…” he murmurs, closing the distance between us. His hooded eyes spark something in my chest that makes me nervous and giddy, but not nearly as much as when he leans down.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
Just when I think he’s going to kiss me, those lips subtly press against my cheek.
My cheek .
They linger only a moment before he straightens, looking down at me with that stupid half smirk on his face. “For tonight, I’m going home. Alone.”
The skin where he kissed me tingles, which sends disappointment into the pit of my stomach.
“That’s it?” I doubt, frowning.
One of his brows rises. “Did you expect more?”
What a tease. “With you, I’m not sure.”
He winks. Actually winks at me.
“Good.” Mischief dances on his face. “It’ll keep things interesting.”
I want to say something else, but he doesn’t give me the time to before slipping away.
As he walks through the crowd of people, Dawson takes his place in front of me. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I look from him to where Dixie is talking to a group of girls all wearing the same jersey.
When I glance back at Dawson, I nod.
He rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, shifting from one foot to another. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”
“You don’t—”
“I do,” he insists. “It was screwed up of me. I wasn’t… I’m not in my right mind lately. It’s no excuse; it’s just the truth.”
Wetting my lips, I peek in Dixie’s direction again. She’s still occupied with the girls, laughing at something one of them says. I smile a little at how carefree she looks making friends with other people.
Good, a voice says inside my head. That means she won’t be alone.
“Look, I think you’re a good guy,” I start, seeing him wince at the choice of words. “And I think Dixie is a good girl—good for you.”
His eyes go to the floor and stay there. “And you’re not?”
I answer honestly. “No.” Smiling sadly when he meets my eyes, I admit, “I don’t think I’m good for anybody.”
His brows furrow. “That’s not true.”
It is though. And he’ll never know why.
“I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”
He tugs on the T-shirt he changed into after the game, clearing his throat. “Is there a reason?”
Involuntarily, my eyes go to where Banks disappeared, and Dawson’s gaze follows them to the double doors his friend walked out of.
I say, “No.”
But his eyes stay on the door, his hands clenching and unclenching before he gives me a tense nod.
When I look over at Dixie, she’s watching Dawson and me. I offer her a small smile and wave, which she returns.
I turn back to Dawson. “Sorry about the loss,” I tell him of the game.
His eyes are distant when they meet mine. It takes him a second to reply. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”