Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Twenty Banks

Chapter Twenty

Banks

A few days after I play nurse at Sawyer’s apartment, I’m walking through the quad when Professor Laramie stops me. “Paxton,” he greets, using the name that makes me wince. “I really appreciate the effort you’ve put into improving your project design. I was just talking to your father about it.”

I grip the strap of my bag hanging haphazardly from my shoulder. “You spoke to my dad about it?”

Laramie nods innocently, a professional smile on his face. “We have lunch from time to time. He was asking how you were doing. I told him the same thing I told you when I handed you the first draft revisions. You’ve got a lot of potential in your future.”

I never know what to say when people bring up my father here, and I don’t want to press Laramie for what his response was. I can use my imagination to figure it out given the less-than-stellar conversations my father and I have had lately.

Especially after I stormed out of his house last time we saw one another. He left a few voicemails that included some colorful curse words, which I never finished listening to before deleting.

He calls.

I don’t answer, even though my fingers have twitched over the “accept” button every time his name pops up.

Professor Laramie doesn’t sense my internal tension over the man he works with, not that I would expect him to. I’ve grown used to saving face when I’m on campus. “It’s always nice to see parents involved in their kid’s education. He seems impressed by what you’ve come up with.”

Unless those are the words my father used, I don’t believe it. “He’s always made sure to keep track when it comes to my education,” I answer carefully. “Not hard to do, given where we are.”

My father’s squeaky-clean reputation here has gotten him far. He’s well liked among students and faculty, and that’s in large part because they don’t know who he is behind closed doors. The man they see in front of a classroom is a very different version than the one I see at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

I’ve accepted it. Reluctantly. Defeatedly.

Laramie offers a quiet laugh. “I suppose that’s true,” he replies. “I’ve seen plenty of students come and go without any type of support from home, so it’s refreshing when I experience it firsthand. He’s a good man with a good kid.”

My father must have laid it on thick during their lunch. It takes everything in me not to react negatively, no matter how badly my eye wants to twitch from the false appreciation.

From the corner of my eye, I see Dawson stumbling toward the library. He can barely walk in a straight line, so I decide to cut my conversation with the professor short and go help the idiot before he gets hurt. “Tell my father I said hello if you see him before I do. I’ll see you in class,” I tell Laramie, walking away before he can reply.

Jogging over to my friend, who I haven’t seen or heard from in days, I swat his arm as soon as I stop beside him. Dawson has always been skinny, but he looks like he’s lost weight that he didn’t have to begin with. When I get a glimpse of his face, I can’t help but flinch. His eyes are sunken in, and there are bags under them like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Dude. What the hell happened?”

He jerks his arm away from me. “Nothing.” When he scratches his nose, I know he’s bullshitting me. “What are you up to?” he asks as if everything is okay.

“I tried calling you last night.” I’ve texted him almost every day with no response. It isn’t unlike him to ignore messages, especially since our fight about Sawyer, so I didn’t want to assume the worst. I hoped he was with Dixie or the guys on the team. Someone to distract him from the other people in his life who encourage his bad behavior. “Where have you been?”

Dawson stumbles back. “What are you, my mom?”

I deadpan. “If I were, I wouldn’t be around or concerned.”

His mother was upset that I risked her son’s scholarship by talking to the campus police about Marco. I never pointed fingers or ratted Dawson out for using drugs because that would have gotten him kicked off the basketball team, but enough word spread that it got him on probation. Apparently, taking time to get sober and heal from a near-death experience wasn’t what she wanted her son to be doing.

I’ve never particularly liked her since. As far as I’m concerned, she’s as bad as my mother. Worse, even. I’d like to think if I almost died, my mom would at least want me to take time off school to get better instead of encouraging me to finish my degree before I was ready.

“Fuck off, Banks. Don’t talk about my mom.”

Dawson goes to move around me and into the library, but I won’t let him pass. “Come on, man. I just want to make sure everything is good. My dad asked about you the other day. Said you haven’t been in class again.”

The six-six twenty-one-year-old in front of me fidgets before rubbing his nose again and then scrubs a hand through grown-out hair that needs a trim. “Needed a break. I’ll pass in the assignments that are due next week.”

That’s not what I’m worried about. “I thought we talked about this. The shit with Marco—”

“Don’t worry about Marco,” he cuts me off, eyes narrowing in anger. “I’ve got it under control.”

His eyes dart around, unfocused. Wary. It doesn’t sit well with me. “You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right? I don’t want to see you hurt, man. I know you don’t like going to meetings, but I’ll go with you. I’ll take time off from the store. Just tell me what you need.”

Dawson looks down before shaking off the hand I put on his shoulder. “What I need is for you to leave me the hell alone for once.”

His attitude has my nostrils flaring. “I’m just trying to help.”

He starts backing up. “Help somebody who wants it. I’m fine.”

He’s not, and it’s obvious to anybody with eyes. “Where are you headed, anyway?”

He gestures toward the library. “Gonna study for my chem class.”

His backpack isn’t even on him. “Where are your things then?”

“I left them inside to get some fresh air. Are we done with the third degree, or can I go now, Mom ?”

Christ. I know it’s not smart to let him go, but how much trouble can you get into at the library? If I didn’t have a test today, I’d probably join him and get some work of my own done.

“If you change your mind about wanting to go to a meeting, you know where to find me,” I say, relenting that he’s never going to accept help from me when he’s like this—pent-up and exhausted from however much sleep he’s not getting.

He murmurs, “I won’t.”

Clicking my tongue, I rub the back of my neck and check my watch. I need to get going, but I’m still reluctant to leave him. “Dixie mentioned something about a list that Sawyer has, and going to a Mardi Gras parade is on it. I was thinking about taking them if you want to tag along.”

After checking in on Sawyer last night with a package of Pop-Tarts in hand, I figured she’d be good enough to go out this weekend. I’d like to thank my chicken noodle soup for doing the trick. Or maybe it was all the cold medication that I constantly force-fed her along with the water I fetched nearly every two hours while I worked on homework in her living room and watched her sleep.

She told me I should have gone to medical school. Dad would have probably laughed at that.

“You in?” I ask, hoping he’ll say yes. In hindsight, the last place he should be is near Bourbon Street where all the bars are. But at least I can keep an eye on him if he’s with us. “We said we’d do more things this semester since we’re almost done with school. Who knows what comes next for us. We should enjoy the time here while it lasts.”

Dawson rubs his lips together, eyes wandering to the library as if he’s afraid somebody is watching. “First Sawyer and now Dixie?” he grumbles like a question.

“Don’t start.”

His mouth twists into a scowl. “You’re the one always around the girls I like.”

I’m not doing this again. “Do you ever think maybe we just both enjoy being around good people? It doesn’t have to be more than that.”

He finally meets my eyes, a distance in his that breaks way to reluctance. “I…” Pressing his lips together again, his focus goes back to the library.

Who is waiting for him in there?

“Sawyer said Dixie is good for me.”

It isn’t what I expect him to say, and I don’t agree or disagree. It’s not my place to.

Dawson’s weight shifts from one foot to another. “I’ll think about the parade. And…” His eyebrow twitches as he scrubs at his nose. “The other thing.”

The other thing. The meeting.

It’s as good as I’m going to get.

Once again, his eyes move from me to the building next to us.

“Are you sure you’re good?” I ask one last time, knowing it’s for nothing. “I’ve got a test in ten minutes, but I can skip and tell the prof—”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he snaps, walking away from me.

I can’t help but watch him disappear into the building. My gut is silently urging me to follow, but I go against it.

But he’s in the back of my mind the entire test, an antsy feeling making it hard to sit still as I’m filling out multiple-choice questions.

By the time I rush through the test and make my way back to the library forty minutes later, there’s no sign of Dawson anywhere. I recognize a few of his teammates sitting off to the side.

“You seen Dawson?” I ask the center for the team.

The guys all share a look before one of the point guards turns to me and says, “No, but if you see him, tell him to come to practice. Coach is pissed that he’s been skipping for the past two weeks.”

A few of them nod, making my eye twitch.

I know the rules just as well as Dawson does. If he misses more than three practices, he’s out.

He used to love the game, even when he didn’t see a lot of play time.

What the hell are you doing, Dawson?

* * *

The next day, I walk across the hall, knock on the door, and wait for the blond to greet me like she always does. When she opens the door, I instantly offer her the steaming mug of coffee I just brewed and brush her shoulder as I walk inside.

“Please come in,” she says sarcastically.

Her voice is back to normal, not hoarse or raspy, and her face has color again. “How are you feeling?”

“Human,” she answers, closing the door. She brings the coffee over to the couch and sits down, crossing her legs under her. “Or as human as I can feel. You’re up early.”

“We’ve got places to be.”

Her brows move to her hairline. “We?”

I tip my chin toward her cup. “Drink up and we’ll go. We have to pick up two more people along the way.”

Confusion furrows her brows. “What do you have in mind? I’m behind on schoolwork, and I need to catch up on the notes I missed.”

I sit on the opposite end of the couch, draping my ankle over the opposite knee. “Trust me, this is better than homework. That can wait until you’re back.”

When she remains silent, I sigh, knowing she’s not going to let it go until I give her some information. “You want to see a parade. There are four today, all along the same route in the French Quarter. There’s going to be a lot of people, so we’ll have to go early if you want to get a good spot.”

Her eyes widen. “How do you know abo—”

“Dixie,” I answer before she can finish. “She might have mentioned something about your little list.”

Embarrassment heats her face, but I don’t give her time to overthink. “As a local, I’m the perfect guy to help you cross some things off it. It’s going to be a nice day out. And I hope you have a good arm because you’ll need to catch some beads.”

Her answering silence only lasts for a moment. “What exactly did Dixie tell you was on my list?”

The nervousness in her voice makes me grin. “She only brought up a couple things, but there must be some interesting stuff for you to blush that hard. Care to elaborate?”

The hitch to her voice rises. “N-No.”

I chuckle. “Figured as much.”

But I’ll be damned if I’m not curious.

She traces the edge of the ceramic mug as if she’s lost in thought.

“What’s on your mind, Birdie?”

She rubs her lips together, shifting on the couch again uncomfortably. “What exactly…happens at these parades?”

Her expression is almost comical, and I know what she’s really asking. “You mean, how are you expected to get the beads?” When her cheeks darken even more, I can’t help but laugh. “Relax. You don’t have to flash anybody if that’s what you’re worried about. That’s a myth. Don’t get me wrong, some parades get a little crazier than others, but they have become a lot more family friendly over the years.”

She visibly relaxes into the cushions, making my lips curl higher at the corners in subtle amusement. “Okay, that’s…good.”

My eyes go to the framed picture of the golden retriever on her wall. “There’s one in particular that I know you’ll like. It’s a dog parade. Hundreds of people come with their dogs to watch it.”

She perks up at the sound of canine companions, which I can only assume she misses having here. “Who’s coming with us?”

“Dawson and Dixie.”

I’m not sure how to interpret the way her smile slackens at their names. “Have you seen Dawson lately?” she asks, her voice quieter than before. Her fingers wrap snugly around the mug. “He looks a little rough.”

I hate that she’s seen him that way, and I know he would too. “I don’t think he’s sleeping much these days.”

Her tongue starts out, dragging slowly along her bottom lip. “Should I be worried? He passed by me yesterday out front but didn’t say anything when I said hello. It was like I wasn’t even there. He used to be so much livelier than that.”

Does she miss the days he would flirt with her the second he saw her? I certainly don’t. But I get her point. That version of him is a hell of a lot better than the one walking around like he’s auditioning for a role on The Walking Dead.

I wish I could reassure her that he’s fine, but she’d see right through the lie. I give her the safest answer I can. “It’s nothing you have to worry about.”

After taking a sip of coffee, she slowly lowers it to her lap. “I’m not asking for me.”

She’s asking for Dixie. We both want to be good friends, but we’re in two entirely different situations. I can’t lie and say Dawson is fine or even tell her that he’s on his way to getting better. He’s not. But hopefully we can change that.

“I already told Dixie to be careful,” I admit.

Sawyer only looks at me, saying nothing.

“He went through a lot of shit over a year ago. I had to learn the hard way that in order to help him, he needs to be willing to accept the help.”

For a while, my neighbor says nothing as she stares down at the drink that she’s barely touched. “I’ve been around a lot of sick people in my life, but it doesn’t seem like it’s the same kind of sickness.”

Addiction is a disease in itself, but I don’t tell her that. “I don’t know who you’ve been around, Birdie, but there are a lot of different illnesses in this world. Dawson is just fighting one of them.”

“And he’s won before?”

I look away, unsure of how much to divulge. This isn’t my story to tell, but she’s part of the narrative now. “He has, and it wasn’t easy. He needs to get there again.”

I can’t explain the look on Sawyer’s face as she sets the coffee cup down on the table. Her voice is barely audible when she says, “I understand better than most.”

I want to ask how, but Dawson yells up from downstairs asking where we’re at.

“Speak of the devil,” I remark, pushing up from the couch. I cup my hands over my mouth and yell back, “We’re in Sawyer’s apartment.”

Sawyer peels herself off the couch before Dawson comes in. “Let me change. Give me five minutes.”

She disappears behind her bedroom door as the front one opens and Dawson saunters in. He looks a hell of a lot better than he did yesterday, the bags under his eyes lighter and the redness gone.

“She not ready yet?” he asks, studying the place. He goes over to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator, pawing through the inside.

“Dude,” I scold, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him away. “Quit it. You can grab something to eat when we get to the city.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sawyer wouldn’t mind.”

But I do. “Doesn’t matter.”

His sigh is long and dramatic. “If you’re going to be a buzzkill all day, I don’t know if I want to go.”

“You love Mardi Gras.” He’s been asking me to go to parades with him and his buddies for the past few years, but I always find a reason to turn him down. Last year was the easiest because he was in the middle of his program and without a license.

He gestures toward the bedroom where Sawyer is getting ready, a blank expression on his usually playful face. “And you don’t. Guess it only takes a leggy blond to change your mind, huh?”

It probably isn’t a dickish thing to say if it’s the truth, but I thought we were past this. “She and I are friends,” I explain to him. “This is a group of friends going to see a parade together. She hasn’t been to one yet. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

For a moment, Dawson stares at me with his arms crossed over his chest. Except his eyes, which are usually gleaming with mischief, are narrowed in silent accusation. “I may not be the smartest dude around, but I’m also not an idiot. You can’t pretend like there’s nothing going on between you and Sawyer.”

My eyes go to the closed door where the girl in question is.

When I don’t say anything, Dawson murmurs, “My point exactly.”

When I look back at my best friend, I can’t help but shake my head. “Not today.”

He watches me for a long time, leaning against the countertop. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to deal with,” he says, not looking me in the eyes. “I hold onto grudges. I make dumb choices. I get jealous. But I…”

I wait to hear what he has to say, seeing the old version of him—the laid-back, carefree one—peeking through. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Why does this sound like some sort of goodbye? “We’re friends,” I remind him. “Brothers. Brothers fight.”

His gaze remains on the floor. “She reminds me of you.”

My brows pinch. “Who?”

“Sawyer,” he says, tipping his head toward the door she disappeared through. “She doesn’t think she’s good for anyone. Sound familiar?”

Why would she think that?

“Just thought you should know,” he adds as the door opens and Sawyer walks out.

She threw her hair up so it’s out of her face and put something glossy on her lips that draws my attention directly to them. It isn’t like the red lipstick she wore at the party, but I notice it all the same.

Dawson gives her a once-over in appreciation of the tight jeans and long-sleeved shirt that leave little to the imagination. “You look good,” he tells her, voice more chipper than moments before. This version of Dawson is dangerous—the one who can flip a switch like he’s got another personality on standby.

Sawyer flattens her hands along her shirt. “Thanks,” she tells Dawson. After doing another quick scan of my best friend and me, she asks, “Are we ready?”

It’s Dawson who answers. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He turns to the door, walking out before anyone can say another word.

Sawyer’s lips drop into a frown, but when she looks at me as if she wants to ask what’s wrong, I simply shake my head.

Why don’t you think you’re good enough, Birdie?

As the three of us walk downstairs toward the front door of the apartment building, I notice Dawson darting swiftly into his apartment at the end of the hall before coming back with a backpack hanging from his shoulder.

Unease claws its way up my stomach. “Why do you need that?”

Sawyer watches Dawson with wary eyes that match my own. But all he says is “We’ll need something to put all the shit we catch in, right?”

It seems to appease the blond beside me, but I’m a different story. I watch him carefully as he saunters out to the truck. Something in my gut tells me to be cautious.

And my gut is never wrong.

* * *

The sea of green, yellow, and purple makes it easy to spot Sawyer in her red top. She must notice the same thing when she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to me. “You should have told me there was a color scheme. I could have probably found something in my closet that would fit in more.”

Dixie, who’s been arm in arm with Dawson since we got out of my truck, looks over her shoulder at us. She barely spoke to Sawyer on the drive, and I can tell there’s a reason why that I haven’t been clued in on.

Her distant eyes go to Sawyer. “You’ll be fine. Nobody is going to call you out for it. They’re too busy having fun.”

I bump Sawyer’s shoulder. “I like you in red anyway.”

I’ve never had a favorite color, but I think red might be it. Although the dark pink that likes to creep into her cheeks when I compliment her is a close second.

Dawson stares at me, then at Sawyer, and I wonder if he notices the inches I’ve put between us. See, Dawson? I’m doing this for you.

We walk farther down to where the crowd is gathered along either side of the streetcar rails. Police line the streets, blocking off the side roads and doing crowd control as the music from the parade gets closer and louder.

I can’t help but notice the death grip that Dawson has on his backpack, which stands out far more than Sawyer’s red shirt does. He placed it between his feet the entire ride here, protecting it from something. Me? I was going to suggest he leave it inside when we found parking half a mile from where the parade route ended, but he grabbed it as soon as we parked, getting out of the truck and using Dixie as a way to divert the conversation.

“What about right here?” Dixie suggests, pointing to an area that doesn’t have nearly as many people littering it. “We stand a better chance at catching a few things here than we do anywhere else.”

She’s not wrong. A lot of people get up early and arrive as soon as they can at the start of the parade route so they can get as many throwaways as possible. By the time parades end, there aren’t as many items being tossed.

I smack Dawson’s arm to get his attention, grinning when he turns his head. “Remember that time I finally agreed to come with you to one of these and you tried catching the Styrofoam football they were throwing off the float and you almost tackled that old woman?”

Dixie gasps. “Was she okay?”

Dawson’s lips twitch upward, fighting a smirk that he doesn’t want to give me. “I avoided her.”

“Yeah,” I snort. “And he ended up landing in somebody’s rose garden. They weren’t very happy.”

Sawyer cringes. “That sounds painful.”

Dawson’s eyes brighten the way I hoped they would by bringing up the story. “It wasn’t all bad. There were a few sorority girls who saw what happened and decided to play nurses. I spent a lot of time at their house getting thorns taken out of me while they served me alcohol.”

He talked about that for months . It was the first thing that really got us past the Desiree situation because he finally had people paying attention to him who were completely separate from me. And I was happy for him, even if it looked like he’d gotten into a fight with a porcupine after.

“I still have that football,” he reminisces.

Dixie elbows his rib cage playfully. “I’m surprised you didn’t give it to the sorority girls for helping you.”

He winks at her. “Don’t worry. I gave them something else.”

Sawyer rolls her eyes, and Dixie blanches at the crude remark. It’s something I would never say in front of a girl who’s obviously got it bad for me, but that’s Dawson. He doesn’t always think with the right head.

When the music starts getting louder, I see Sawyer’s face light up. She leans forward, trying to see past other people nearby, her lips stretching upward as she sees the floats make their way toward us.

“They must have pretty good aim,” she remarks, shaking her head. “I’d never be able to do that. I’d be hitting cars or windows.”

I explain the parking bans they have leading up to the event. The businesses lining the streets are far enough away to be safe from the bigger items being thrown, but there have definitely been a few injuries over the years that the medics on standby have dealt with.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m laughing along with the bubbly blond, who’s jumping as the last float goes by. The collection of colorful beads I’ve helped her catch is around her neck, bouncing right along with her chest. I peel my eyes away from her in time to catch another purple necklace before it smacks me in the face.

Sawyer turns to face me. I smile down at her as I put the new addition around her, my knuckles accidently grazing the swell of her breast. Her teeth bite down on her bottom lip as she looks up through her lashes at me.

Even with all the noise, I can hear the subtle intake of her breath that accompanies the rise of her chest.

The moment is broken when Dixie asks, “Where did Dawson go?”

I quickly look to the spot Dawson occupied only moments before.

He and his backpack are gone.

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath, stepping away from Sawyer to search the area. “He couldn’t have gotten far. Come on.”

The girls follow me, calling out Dawson’s name. I tell them to stick together while I go over to the group of people by the food vendors, hoping he’s just grabbing something to eat since he’s been bitching about being hungry for the past twenty minutes.

After a few moments of looking through the different crowds gathered by the food trucks, street vendors, and surrounding bars, I come up empty-handed.

“Where the hell did you go?” I ask under my breath, irritated that I took my eyes off him.

Suddenly, I hear a frantic, “Banks!”

Looking over my shoulder, I see Dixie lowering Sawyer to the ground.

I bolt over to them, quickly realizing that something is wrong. Wrapping an arm around Sawyer’s waist, I take her from her struggling friend and rest her on my lap on the pavement.

I look up at Dixie. “What happened?”

Dixie is pale, shaking her head. “I don’t know. She said she was feeling dizzy, and then all of a sudden she was falling.”

Fuck. It’s warm, and she’s been jumping around trying to catch things. I should have gotten her a water before we settled in. “She’s probably dehydrated.” I reposition her as her eyelids start flickering.

There’s barely any color on her face as she comes to, blinking until those striking eyes look up at me.

“Dixie, go find the EMTs—”

“No,” Sawyer cuts me off, forcing herself to sit up. She holds her head, her body swaying slightly until she steadies herself. “No, I’m fine. I just got a little hot. That’s all.”

“You should get checked out. There are medics right over there. They won’t make you go to the hospital unless they think it’s serious.”

If it’s possible, she gets paler. “No hospitals. I don’t need anybody to look at me. Please?” Her eyes fill with panic, making me wonder what she’s so afraid of. “I need water. That’s all.”

Dixie is quick on her feet. “I’ll go get you some.”

When it’s just us, I brush fallen hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. “You scared the hell out of me, Birdie.”

She looks down. “I’m sorry. I…”

I frown when her words trail off. “What?”

Silently, she shakes her head.

Dixie approaches, holding out a bottle of water to me with a nervous expression. “Er, Banks?”

I uncap the bottle and give it to the girl still leaning on my lap, unfazed by the people walking by and staring. “What?”

Her voice is so quiet, I almost don’t hear her say, “I found Dawson.”

It takes a couple of seconds for that to sink in before my eyes dart over to her right, where my dumbass friend is standing with blood on his face and a swollen eye. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I got mugged. Someone stole my bag.”

Since his eyes won’t meet mine, I don’t buy it for a second. “Mugged, huh?” I gesture toward one of the officers standing by the blockade gate. “You should report it then. I’m sure they’ll want to know what was in it.”

I see his throat bob. “Banks…”

“Don’t.” I stop him, holding my hand up. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”

We fall into tense silence.

It’s Sawyer who says, “I think it’s time to go.”

I nod, helping her up and not caring when Dawson watches me hold onto her hand. “I think you’re right.”

Dixie sticks by Dawson, whose attention is on Sawyer, not me.

“Unless you’re going to wait for the mugger to come back, I suggest you come too,” I tell Dawson.

Dawson swallows, finally looking at me. “I fucked up.”

My nostrils flare. “I know.”

Putting my arm around Sawyer, I guide us to where we parked.

It’s a silent ride back.