Chapter Nineteen Sawyer
Chapter Nineteen
Sawyer
Dumping my bag of Skittles out onto the library table, I sort the different colors into piles while Dixie jots down notes from her sociology textbook. “This may be the driest class I’ve ever taken,” she complains. “I should have taken creative writing with you and Banks. It sounds way easier.”
I thought it’d be a cakewalk, but when I got back my first short story and saw the comments marking the margins, I realized I was wrong. Very wrong. “It would be easier if the professor didn’t have favorites.”
Dixie looks up from her notebook, clearly amused by my grumbly tone. “Is this about Banks again?”
When I asked him at lunch the other day if he’d finished his assignment yet, he told me he still hadn’t started. “He admitted to me that he wrote it two hours before class and still got an A. I spent a week on my story only for Professor Grey to tell me there’s an emotional disconnect. What does that even mean?”
When he told us to write our short story based on something personal to us, I had no idea what to write about. The obvious choice was ruled out by pride, which left me at square one.
Making something up.
“Did you read his?” Dixie asks. “Maybe if you saw what he did, it can help you for the next assignment.”
Ask to read it? Something tells me that would feed Banks’s ego, knowing he did better than I did after I spent days on mine.
“No way,” I reply, popping a red Skittle into my mouth. “Then he’ll want to read mine, and that’s out of the question.”
“Why?”
“Because I made the whole thing up, but he doesn’t know that,” I admit. “When the professor told us to write something personal, I figured I could write about a relationship ending because everybody goes through that. Well…almost everybody.”
Skepticism takes over her face. “You’ve never gone through a breakup? Even I have, and I barely talk to boys unless a copious amount of alcohol is consumed.”
Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I slowly shake my head. “I’ve never really dated, unless you count that one time in middle school.”
Dixie blanches. “I wouldn’t.”
I lean back in my chair. How can I explain the reason for my lack of experience without outing myself?
Don’t we all have secrets?
Mine is a big one, and I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to write about it.
“Do you have your story?” she asks, pushing her book away and dropping the topic. “If I read another sentence in this textbook, my brain might explode. I need new reading material.”
My nose scrunches. “It’s obviously not very good. Your brain might still explode.”
She laughs, reaching out her hand and making a gimme motion. “I’ll take my chances.”
Making a face, I dig out the assignment and pass it over. I don’t bother watching her as she reads it, too afraid of what her face might say.
Distracting myself with the view of the quad out the window, I people watch until I see a familiar gentle giant.
Dawson is walking next to two guys who seem to be having an intense conversation with him, digging into their pockets and smacking whatever they pull out into his chest. One of them has a tattoo sleeve and biceps bigger than my head, making Dawson stumble backward with the force of whatever he’s given. He captures it before it falls, quickly studying his surroundings before tucking it into his bag.
The tattooed guy steps up to him, getting in his face. Are they going to fight? I hope not, since Dixie said Dawson just got his stitches out.
They’re talking, but I have no idea what they’re saying before the men who approached him back off and point toward something in their waistbands. I see the way Dawson straightens, towering over them, but not in a threatening way.
He looks…scared.
Before I can say something to Dixie, the two strangers walk around him, bumping his shoulder and disappearing from view.
I grab another Skittle from the table and peel my eyes away from the window. “Have you heard from Dawson lately? I don’t see him around as much.”
Dixie finishes scanning whatever line she’s on and looks up from my story. “We went to dinner a couple of times.” Nibbling her lip to suppress a smile, she leans her chin on her propped palm.
My eyes trail back to the window, but there’s nobody in sight. “And you’re happy?” I ask, a nagging feeling in my gut thinking about what Dawson has in his bag.
“I was a little upset after the party, but Banks told me that he provoked Dawson. I won’t pretend like that didn’t hurt, but I think we’ve managed to get past it.”
I hadn’t realized Banks talked to her about it, but it makes sense. They spent a lot of time together at the hospital that night. They had to talk about something.
“But I am,” she adds. “Happy.”
I play with another piece of candy before tossing it into my mouth. “Good. I think…” Glancing out the window again, I clear my throat. “I think you’re good for him.”
She smiles. “Thanks.”
Her eyes go back down to the paper, skimming it before she releases a tiny breath. “I think Dawson might be hiding something from me though. And I don’t know if it’s something I should worry about or not. I’m not experienced in relationships, so I don’t know how to navigate this.”
After what I just saw, she might be right.
But I don’t tell her that because I don’t think it’s my place to speculate what happens in Dawson’s personal life. I make a mental note to keep an eye out just in case though.
I think back to what Banks said. “Somebody told me recently that we all have skeletons in our closets. I guess we just have to decide if those skeletons are worth sacrificing the people in our lives for.”
Dixie watches me carefully, but she doesn’t say anything. I play with my pile of Skittles and think about the brown-eyed boy who is always at the forefront of my mind. And I can’t help but wonder if my skeletons are worth losing him over when he’s brought something into my life that I haven’t felt in forever.
Peace.
Excitement.
Moments to look forward to.
We haven’t talked about our make-out session or had any repeats. But my body still buzzes with the memory of his mouth on mine and his hands trailing along my body, gripping, grabbing, and pulling at me like he wanted more.
Midterm week has put a damper on anything moving forward while we prepare for exams, but it hasn’t stopped him from leaving treats at my door. From the silver-wrapped Pop-Tart packages to the white bags of beignets, he’s letting me know he’s still thinking of me.
The girl across from me shifts gears, going back to my assignment. “This is really good, but I can see what he means. You can tell this is from an outside perspective. Why didn’t you write about the list you made? That’s personal to you.”
So is the reason behind it.
I think back to Banks’s question. “I don’t want people to think it’s pathetic. I’d rather lie about some fictional breakup than admit to writing down random things I want to do with my life.”
Dixie frowns. “What’s so pathetic about that? I think it’s cool. A lot of people have bucket lists.”
“I’m not exactly putting things like ‘travel to Paris’ or ‘hike Machu Picchu’ on there.” If Banks saw it, would he laugh? Would others? Having sex, going to parties, and making friends should be part of everyday life. Not things people strive for on the level I am, working to check them off.
I’ve never been ashamed of it before, but I’ve also never had anybody outside my family judge me for what I’ve gone through. They understand the reasoning. I’ve made sure that nobody here can.
“If I wrote about it, I’d have to explain it,” I add, voice quiet. Fingers tracing the indents left on the wooden tabletop, I ignore the curious gaze she’s giving me. “Some things are too personal to share with strangers.”
For a long moment, Dixie is quiet. She sets the paper down and slides it back over to me, fiddling with her pen. “What about sharing them with friends?”
I lift my head up, biting down on the inside of my cheek.
When the silence stretches on, she slowly nods. I can’t help but sense the hurt on her face when she drags her textbook back to her. “I guess those are the skeletons you were talking about.”
Suddenly, my appetite is gone.
* * *
A bottle of water appears in front of me, shaking until I sit up from where I’m resting on the desk. I knew it was going to be a long day when I woke up this morning feeling like lead weighed my limbs down. I slept past two alarms and was barely able to peel myself out of bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this weight on my shoulders, and I know part of it has to do with the guilt of hurting Dixie’s feelings. I haven’t heard from her in two days.
I rub my eyes and look up at Banks. “What is this for?” I ask, voice hoarse from the slight cough I woke up with. I raided the medicine cabinet that my father stocked with cold medication before he left on move-in day. A few people from my classes have been fighting colds, so I knew it was only a matter of time before I caught one too.
Lack of sleep and a worn-down immune system will do that to a person.
“You need to drink,” he tells me, setting the cold bottle onto my desk.
I frown at it. “I need coffee,” I grumble, twisting the cap off and taking a sip.
From behind his back, he also produces a bottled cold brew. My favorite coffee. “I figured as much when I saw you drooling on your laptop.”
I sit up and swipe the back of my hand along my mouth. “I don’t drool!”
He chuckles, passing me the caffeine before taking his seat. “I don’t know, Birdie. I’m pretty sure I saw your computer short-circuiting.”
Birdie. The playful tone makes things feel normal between us.
Sniffling, I grab a tissue and wipe my nose as discreetly as I can. “I don’t get how you’re not sick. There are at least five people out in our class alone with whatever this is.”
Banks stretches his legs out, studying me. I want to hide my red nose, flushed face, and glassy eyes, but he’s been looking at me since I walked into the room. The second he kicked my chair out for me to sit, he knew I wasn’t okay.
“I’ve always had an iron immune system,” he answers. Crossing his arms over his chest, he shrugs. “Can’t remember the last time I got sick.”
Must be nice to be God’s favorite.
“What about you?”
I look at him. “What?”
“Were you the sick kid?”
My stomach drops. “Why?”
His brows go up at the slight rise to my voice, which gives me away. “It was just a question. My mom would get sick any time someone around her did. I take after my dad.” His lips twitch, eyes dimming. “When it comes to staying healthy, anyway.”
Playing it off, I grip the coffee. “Out of my brother and me, I’m usually the one who gets stuck with all the problems.”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “Bummer.”
I simply nod, unwilling to elaborate on just how unlucky I really am.
“Is your family coming to see you over break?” he asks. I’m grateful for the subject change. “I know you were looking forward to seeing Bentley.”
Smiling at the sound of my brother’s name, I move a piece of hair behind my ear. “I think my mom is going to pull him out of school for the week to visit.”
“Shit,” Banks praises. “I wish my parents would have done that whenever I wanted to go on vacation.”
It’s hard to keep my smile when I know the reason why she’s making the time to come out. But I choose not to tell him any of that either. Like he said, some secrets will always be under lock and key. “We’re close,” I tell him. “It’ll be good to see them.”
Fidgeting with my laptop so I evade his wandering gaze, I pull up a random page and scroll through the news articles.
Banks clearly wants to keep talking. “I have a family recipe for chicken noodle soup. Maybe I can make it for you this weekend.”
When I look at him, I can’t help but shake my head. This is the same boy who stole my Taco Bell unapologetically. The same person who avoided me for almost two entire weeks. I can’t help but smile again, knowing how far we’ve come.
“You want to make me soup?” I ask quietly.
He studies my face before his eyes go forward. “It’s just soup,” he murmurs.
But I don’t buy that.
And I don’t think he does either.
“It’s a shame,” he murmurs not long after we fall back into silence.
I look at him.
“I was going to suggest we pick up where we left off the last time I was over,” he says nonchalantly. “To celebrate midterms coming to an end. Guess that’ll have to wait.”
No matter how crappy I’m feeling, it doesn’t stop my heart from picking up. I squirm on my chair, muttering, “Tease.”
All he does is chuckle, going back to the doodles in his notebook.
* * *
I know the second I answer the phone that I should have let it go to voicemail. When I woke up, I could barely talk. My throat hurt, and my neck was swollen. After downing half a bottle of NyQuil at six in the morning, I opted to go back to bed and ignore all other responsibilities.
Mom’s voice is full of concern when she hears the raspiness that I greet her with. “You never told me you were sick” is the first thing she says. “What have you taken? Are you drinking enough? Have you eaten anything today? I’ll call your father.”
Groaning, I force myself to sit up in bed. “It’s just a cold,” I tell her. I knew she’d freak out, but this was the risk I took by coming here. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I caught whatever was going around. “You don’t need to call Dad.”
“I can look into getting a plane ticket sooner. I’ve got the paperwork printed out.”
The paperwork? “Did you print the ticket information?” Who does that anymore?
“And the insurance information,” she adds, papers rustling in the background. “Just in case. You can never be too safe.”
Rubbing my tired eyes, I lean back against the headboard. “There’s an app for that, you know. I showed you before I left for Louisiana. It’s a lot easier than carrying around paperwork.”
Mom sighs. “Old habits die hard. I’m too old for all that phone stuff. Your brother just tried to show me how to use that dancing app he’s on all the time.”
“Are you talking about TikTok? Why do you want to use that?”
I remember begging her to let me have a Facebook. She was against social media for a long time and only agreed if she made an account too. She promised not to stalk me online and then started using it more than I ever did, posting embarrassing photos of me from when I was a kid and tagging me in them.
It was a great way to make sure I didn’t go online often.
“Bentley was just showing me how it worked. It’s not something I’d ever use. But enough about that. How are you feeling? What do you need? Your father can be there in an hour if I call him now.”
I grab the glass of water that I put on the nightstand when I got up earlier and take a sip to relieve my achy throat. “Mom, I’m fine. I’ve been taking cold meds. It’s nothing.”
Mom’s voice lowers. “Do you remember what happened the last time you said that?”
That isn’t fair. “It’s not like last time.”
When I ignored the stomach bug that came after the party I’d snuck away to, it turned into a cold that medication didn’t touch. I’d been sick for weeks when I finally went to the doctor and was prescribed antibiotics for bronchitis. But at the weeks passed, those hadn’t helped either. Then came the chest X-rays when they sent me to check my lungs for pneumonia.
Except that’s not what they found at all.
Nobody expected to see the lump that had closed off one of my lungs, much less suspected it was cancer. Within two months of seeing the first doctor, I started treatment. While other girls my age celebrated their sweet sixteen at parties full of close friends, I was hooked up to a machine in the treatment center with strangers.
My mom and aunt bought me a chocolate cake for when I got home.
I threw it up by bedtime.
Then I cried myself to sleep.
It was a low point in my life.
“It isn’t like last time,” I repeat, voice hoarse for an entirely different reason.
I hate this—hate feeling vulnerable. Remembering the times when I could barely function without my mom and aunt by my side. Or all the times Bentley had to run to get the puke bucket when I woke up in the middle of the night sick from my chemo. I’d always feel bad waking him up, but Mom reassured me that he wanted to help.
I didn’t want help then, but I needed it.
And I loathed every second.
I’m determined not to need help now. “I’ll be fine. Don’t come sooner or you’ll catch it too. Then you’ll have to deal with sick Bentley, and he’s a bigger baby than I am.”
Mom is quiet for a second. “You were never a baby. Sometimes I wish you were because it would have been understandable. Seeing you fight everyday…” Her voice trails off. “I’m grateful for your strength. I always will be. But I never wanted to see you in a position where you had to be strong.”
My throat tightens as I swallow down the emotion rising up. We’ve had this conversation before—the one where she feels like I was more of an adult than she was in the time when I needed her most. We’ll never agree. Because I always thought she handled things ten times better than I ever could.
“But you’re right,” she adds reluctantly. “Man colds are no joke. One day you’ll experience that for yourself.”
There’s her optimism again.
One day.
I don’t want to make her sad, so I force a smile on my face as if she can see me and whisper, “Yeah. Maybe one day.”
We hang up after I agree to do a virtual appointment with my primary care doctor in New York. Within ten minutes, I get an email confirmation for the appointment. It’s the least I can do for her.
Peace of mind if nothing else.
I don’t remember falling asleep after that, but I wake up to somebody knocking on the door.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I groan at the achy limbs that drag me across the living room. Everything hurts from my head to my toes, I’m groggy, and I can barely keep my eyes open. Right as I approach the door, I realize that I’m still wearing the silk scarf I sleep in. Hands touching my head, I glance out the peephole to see Banks standing on the other side.
“One second,” I call out, voice cracking in panic.
I don’t give him time to reply before I’m frantically rushing back to my room, searching for the wig he’s used to seeing me in. My room is a disaster, clothes thrown everywhere, textbooks scattered, and my wig nowhere to be found.
I was too tired to care when I got home yesterday, so I tossed my belongings everywhere on my way to bed. Cringing when I see my dirty underwear on the floor, I kick it under the dresser.
It takes me under two minutes to hide the majority of my things, shoving wigs and clothes out of sight. Then another few minutes to secure a new wig to my head, cringing at the soreness of my scalp as I adjust it as best I can. Trying to be quick, I rush to the door before Banks can go away.
The movement has me swaying as I open it, my vision becoming blurry as everything around me spins.
I hear, “Whoa,” before hands grab ahold of my upper arms. Blinking rapidly to regain my vision, I feel heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks as Banks carefully walks us inside and over to the couch. “Sit.”
My body slowly becomes overheated, ears ringing and heart racing in my chest. I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t like it. Within minutes, I feel something cool press against my head. Peeling my eyes open to Banks squatting in front of me, I watch him hold a cold cloth against my forehead. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table that wasn’t there before, capturing my attention when locking eyes with him is too much.
“I’d say you look like shit, but I’m pretty sure you already know that,” he remarks with a small smile teasing his lips. He reaches out and touches a piece of my hair with his free hand. “You did something with your hair. It looks darker.”
Glancing down at the ends, which are slightly longer than before, I frown.
The strands aren’t that much darker than the sandy color I was sporting for the first couple months of school. I’m surprised he even recognized it. Most men don’t notice the little things, like when Mom spent a lot of time and money at the salon changing her hair to a completely different color and cut only for dad to come home and bring up what was for supper instead of her new hairstyle.
She was mad.
“I like it,” he tells me, dropping the strand between his fingers. “Did you dye it?”
I tell him the truth. At least part of it. “I’ve never dyed my hair a day in my life.”
His eyes stay on my hair for a moment longer before dropping back down to my gaze. “Huh.” That’s all he says before, “It suits you.”
If I wasn’t already overheated, I’d probably be blushing. “You’re going to get sick,” I tell him. I don’t buy the iron immune system bit, and I’d feel awful if he got sick right before spring break.
“I’ll be fine,” he says casually.
It hurts to talk, but I ask, “What are you doing here anyway?” It’s not one of the normal days he brings over goodies or cooks for me. Not that he has to use those excuses to come over. I like being able to see him outside class.
“Nobody knew where you were,” he explains, gently brushing the cloth over my face. “I texted you. So did Dixie.”
“I think my phone died,” I admit quietly. I don’t remember plugging it in after getting off the phone with my mom this morning. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Banks shrugs. “I know where you live. Dixie offered to come check on you, but it was out of her way.”
I’ll have to remember to text her once my phone is charged. “What time is it?”
“Almost five.”
I wet my dry lips. “You should be in class.”
Maybe I should be embarrassed for knowing that, but I’m not.
But then he says, “So should you.”
Swallowing past the pain in my throat, I nod. It’s nice to know he keeps tabs too. “I didn’t feel well.”
His eyes wander around my face. God knows what he sees. Paleness. Glassy eyes. Chapped lips. I don’t need a mirror to know I look horrible, but I’m too tired to care.
“I can see that, Birdie.” He sets the washcloth down on the table and passes me the cold glass of water. “Drink,” he directs.
I take it. “Bossy,” I croak, wincing at the sound of my voice. Taking a long sip of water to relieve the ache, I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. “You don’t have to stay here. I’m fine.”
Banks is quick to reply. “Usually when women say they’re fine, they’re not.”
I manage to look at him. “Speaking from personal experience?” I guess, jealousy nudging my stomach.
He hums. “My mother.”
Oh . I cross my feet under me on the couch, watching as Banks pulls the throw blanket over my lap as if he’s going to tuck me in. “Tell me about her,” I say, knowing he’s not going anywhere.
He’s as stubborn as I am.
Banks stands, bringing the washcloth over to the sink and draping it over the middle of the basin. “Not much to tell. She and my stepdad live a couple hours away. I don’t see them often, but I talk to her once in a while when we have time.”
“Do you like him?”
“Joe? Yeah, he’s a good dude. Good for her.”
Was his father not? “Is your father remarried? You said he lives in the Garden District, right?”
He pauses with his back to me, shoulders tense. After what sounds like a long, drawn-out exhale, he says, “That miserable bastard will probably die single. I’m all he has.”
My eyes widen at the cool tone of his voice, but I don’t question it. I don’t know his dad beyond what he does, but it makes me sad that Banks feels that way. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Eventually, Banks turns and leans his back against the edge of the counter. “You can ask me anything.”
So I do. “Why do you call me Birdie instead of my name?”
It feels like it goes beyond the shorts he saw me in, even though he clearly liked them based on how long his eyes locked with them the first night.
“It’s fitting. You’re adventurous, even if I didn’t know it the first time we met. You’re unafraid, which not a lot of people can say they are. Hell, I’m not. You moved from New York on a whim to experience new things. I admire that about you. Birds learn how to fly by jumping out of the nest not knowing if they’ll make it—not knowing where the flight will take them. Seems like you.”
That’s the last thing I expect him to say. I’m quiet as I take in his response, toying with the hem of my blanket as he watches me from across the room. “And here I thought it was just my shorts,” I murmur, amusement in my tone.
He grins. “Trust me. Those were a big part of it.” When he winks at me, it goes straight to my chest. Then that feeling intensifies when he adds, “I’ve always been a leg man.”
Not knowing what to say, I stay silent.
Banks chuckles to himself. “I’ll be right back.” He leaves, keeping the front door cracked open, coming back five minutes later with a plastic container of something in one hand and his backpack hanging from his shoulder.
I watch as he sets his things down, making himself at home. His backpack beside me on the couch, the container on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t take long to realize that he’s pouring out soup into two different bowls before putting each in the microwave to heat up.
Sheepishly, he looks over his shoulder and admits, “I made this last night. Figured you could use it after seeing you in class. Guess I was right.”
He really made me soup .
When he brings it over to me, I accept it with a small smile on my face, staring at the steam billowing from the top. “Thank you.”
He sits with his bowl beside me, his small backpack in between us. We eat in comfortable silence; the only sound is our spoons clanking against the ceramic.
When we’re done, he gets me more water and another cool cloth before sitting down again and pulling textbooks and notebooks out of his backpack.
“What are you doing?” I ask in confusion.
He props his feet up on the coffee table. “If I don’t get my homework done, you’ll keep pestering me about it.”
I sniffle. “You’re staying?”
Without looking up from his textbook, he says, “Somebody should.”
And maybe it’s the cold or the warm soup finally heating up my body. But I feel…tingly. Unlike my mother, I don’t fight him.
As I close my eyes and settle in, I murmur, “It isn’t just soup.”
There are a few seconds of silence between us where I hear only his breathing before one of his hands grazes my leg and stays there.
Then, “Go to sleep, Birdie.”
As much as I want to stay awake and enjoy the time with him, I can’t fight the fatigue plaguing my body.
When I wake up in a dark apartment, I realize my head is nestled on the lap of my neighbor. The blanket is up over my shoulders, tucked carefully.
And the boy in question is sleeping soundly exactly where I left him.
For the first time since I met him, he looks…at peace. So I don’t wake him up. I don’t move to my bedroom. I simply lie back down and let his calm breathing lull me back to sleep.