Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Twenty-Two Banks

Chapter Twenty-Two

Banks

The first thing I’m greeted with when I open the door to my father’s house is the strong stench of expensive tobacco. I’ve spent weeks avoiding him at all costs, hoping by the time I showed up for dinner with him again that he’d have cooled off.

“Paxton,” he calls out when I close the door behind me.

I hesitate only a moment before walking into the living room to see him sitting in his favorite chair. The place looks clean—cleaner than normal. Minus the cigar smoke, there’s a hint of Febreze in the air. When I glance into the open kitchen, I notice the garbage is empty and there aren’t any plates or dirty dishes scattered on the countertops.

It’s…strange. “Hey, Dad.”

“It took it being spring break for you to come home,” he comments, face void of any emotion.

As far as I’m concerned, he should feel lucky. I know a lot of people who fled Louisiana altogether for vacation, but I stayed. “I’m here now,” I tell him, walking into the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of water from the tap. “Did Laramie share the good news?”

Dad lowers his cigar, tapping the end against his crystal ashtray. “I’m not going to apologize for prying about your education, considering I’m the reason you have one. So if you were expecting one, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

That’s typical of him. “He approved my final design, so I can start working on the physical concept. Apparently, I have potential.”

Dad huffs, and I doubt it has anything to do with the abuse he’s putting his lungs through right now. “I could have told you that.”

I’m almost surprised he agrees with Laramie since he hasn’t exactly verbalized a lot of praise in my life.

Before I can feel good about it, he ruins the moment. “As far as I’m concerned, anybody is capable of potential. It’s raw talent that gets you places in life.”

Teeth grinding, I force myself to nod. I don’t bother asking him if he thinks I have the raw talent to make it. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“That’s the only way to.” He takes another puff of the stogie in his hand. “Life is far too easy without a little criticism given out. That’s what makes Laramie a good professor.”

I want to ask if that’s what makes him a good father, but I smarten up and bite my tongue instead. Why start another fight on the brink of our last one? I don’t have the energy for it today after spring cleaning and closing down the campus store for the next week. Most of the students who normally work there are gone, save for me, Lucy, and our manager. It makes for a lot more work and a lot less time on other things.

Namely, the girl across the hall.

Which is probably a good thing.

Because I can still feel her clenching around me, still hear the ghostly echoes of her moans as she comes apart. It took everything in me not to come in my pants or take up her offer to get me off the way I desperately needed to.

I feel a little less guilty now that Dawson seems resigned to the interest I have in Sawyer, but I don’t know if that’s enough to make me want to take things further with her. He’s too vulnerable to test the waters I’m tempted to with my neighbor.

The problem is, how much do I want Sawyer to know? There always comes a time when the people in my life get too close to the truth. Dawson was always too focused on his own little world to think about what was going on in mine, and while I sometimes resented his aloofness, it made things easier.

Sawyer is smarter than that.

The closer she gets to me, the more she’ll uncover. Namely, about the man smoking another cancer stick mere feet away.

I sip the water to quench my parched throat, staring at the liquid as it ripples in the glass.

Sawyer wanted to feel good.

That was all.

She never said anything about love.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Clearing my throat, I roll my shoulders back. “After break, I’m going to start the test model. We have until the end of April to get it done and submitted for our final project.”

“Don’t you think you should start it sooner?”

“It’s break,” I reiterate. I’ve been swamped all semester. The only class that hasn’t completely drained me is creative writing, but I choose to keep that to myself since I know my father’s feelings on it. “If I’m going to submit my best work, don’t you think I should be able to rest up when the school gives us the opportunity to?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Lifting his wrist, he looks at the time on his watch. “Dinner should be arriving any second. I ordered from Rocky’s tonight. Make sure you give him a tip when he answers the door.”

Dismissed. I’m okay with that as long as it doesn’t lead to an argument. Truth is, I hate avoiding my dad. As unpredictable as he can be, I like coming around and checking in on him. I never know if I’m going to walk into something bad after the long stretches when I don’t hear from them. One of the few upsides to him working at the school is that I hear people talking about him enough to know when he shows up and when he doesn’t.

“Got it,” I reply, about to turn toward the door and wait. I stop myself when I see an old photo of Dawson and me as awkward teens. We’re grinning at the camera, covered in mud. My mother took that. Gripping the archway that separates the foyer from the open living room, I force my eyes away from the image collecting dust on the wall. “I know you can’t tell me any details, but has Dawson been doing okay in class?”

My father’s eyebrows rise at the same time his cigar does to his mouth. “That boy dropped my class weeks ago. I’m surprised he hasn’t said so.” Blowing out the plume of smoke, he settles into his chair. “You want to talk about failed potential, he’s the poster child.”

Son of a bitch. I’ve stopped by his apartment a few times, but he either is never home or refuses to answer.

Wasted potential. My father’s words echo in my head, lingering there when the doorbell rings and the delivery man passes me our dinner. I absentmindedly hand him a few bills that I had stuffed in my pocket before closing the door.

Dinner is quiet, and I hate it.

It’s nothing like Sunday nights with Sawyer. We could sit in a room of silence and I’d feel the same as if we were having a conversation or joking, but it’s not like that here.

It never has been.

And it makes me want to ditch my father and knock on her door, ignoring the fact that her family arrived today from New York to see her for break.

It’s probably a good thing we’re spending some time apart. The more involved we are, the likelier Dawson would use it as an excuse to spiral. He’s already at his breaking point. He’s been sporadic and unpredictable, not sleeping, and moody. The old version of him never used to be so angry or paranoid. Now, I watch him look over his shoulder like he’s waiting for somebody to pop out of the bushes at any second.

If he knew how badly the temptation to be with Sawyer fully is, would he jump off the deep end?

I’m not going to be the reason he falls off the edge. I won’t let Sawyer be either. Nobody should feel responsible for somebody else’s downfall the way I’ve felt for Dawson’s and my father’s.

Enabler.

The only time my father speaks to me during dinner is to say, “Pass the ketchup.”

We don’t talk about school or classes or Mom.

The unfortunate thing is that it leaves me to my own devices, which include thinking about my friend’s drug problem and my neighbor’s sexy moans.

I knew I was fucked the second I saw her in the hallway the night she moved in, and the feeling was only cemented when she called me out in class for being a dick.

Dawson could never handle a girl like Sawyer.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean I can.

Even though I’d love to try.

After an awkward, thick silence that only the news on the television breaks, I grab my things to leave.

Only then does my father look at me. “Make yourself useful for once and grab me a beer on the way out.”

My eye twitches.

For once.

I could point out all the times I’ve been useful in the past, but where would that leave us? In another fight.

So I get him the last beer in his fridge.

He doesn’t thank me.

I don’t want him to.

Neither of us says goodbye.

* * *

It’s late, well after the sun goes down, when I see Dixie walking through downtown Baton Rouge by herself. I slow down a few houses ahead of her, pulling over to the curb and rolling the window down.

“You okay?” I call out, watching her body lock until she lifts her head.

Christ . Her eyes are glassy, and her face is damp. She’s been crying. I’ve never done well with people who cry, especially women. I blame my mother for not sticking around to set an example because my father sure as shit didn’t show me what comfort should be like.

Dixie uses the back of her hand to wipe at her cheek, hesitating only for a moment before she drags her feet over to my parked truck. “What are you doing out?”

I frown at her raspy tone and wonder if the dipshit I call a best friend is responsible for it. “I could ask you the same thing. It’s not safe to be walking out here on your own at night.”

Limply, her shoulders lift as her damp eyes move to the ground. “I needed some air.”

Checking my watch, I debate my options. Draping my arm on the open window, I lean back in my seat and use my free hand to grip the back of my neck. “Did you talk to Sawyer about whatever is going on?”

She sniffles. “She’s with her family. I didn’t want to disturb her. And we’ve been a little…off lately.”

I’m tempted to ask why, but I decide not to pry.

Looks like we’re both having a shit night.

I think about what I used to like doing when I was upset growing up. “How do you feel about ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” she repeats, swiping a finger under her eyelashes to catch tears before they fall.

I climb out. “I know a place that’s open late. They’re good too. Only if you want. I don’t want to go back yet, but I can drop you off at the dorm if you’d prefer going home.”

Dixie nibbles her lip and rubs her arm. “I’m not ruining your night?”

The only thing I had planned was going home and watching TV, so I suppose ice cream is a better alternative. “Nah. Climb in. It’s my treat.”

I walk over and open the opposite door for her, waiting for her to get in. Before I close it, she whispers, “Dawson ended things today.”

Ah, fuck. What am I supposed to say to that?

I know she liked him a lot. And maybe if Dawson was a little clearer headed, it could have been reciprocated, but I’m not sure he would have ever gotten there in his current state. Telling that to the sad girl beside me is definitely not going to be as comforting as I’d mean it to be.

So the only thing I can say is “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know if I should press for details unless she wants to tell me. And, frankly, I don’t want to. It’s not my place, and God only knows what she’d say.

Shifting on my feet, I cuss to myself when I see her bottom lip quiver. “Don’t cry. Dawson is an idiot. He’s not in the best mindset right now.”

She nods, not meeting my eyes.

There’s no defending whatever he did, so I won’t bother. “My favorite ice cream growing up was cookies and cream. But when I was sad, my mom used to take me out to The Dairy Lounge and get me their special.”

Dixie blinks past her glossy gaze. “What was their special?”

My smile comes easily, remembering all the times my mom and I would sneak away just the two of us and enjoy a sweet treat before my father got home. Those were the good days when I knew what peace felt like. “Mint chocolate chip.”

Her face scrunches. “You honestly like that stuff? It tastes like toothpaste.”

I chuckle. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you eat it. You can get whatever you want.”

Her sniffle is a little less sad as she inhales and exhales one more deep breath. “I like cookies and cream.”

I nudge her arm. “Cookies and cream it is.”

The first ten minutes go by in silence, which isn’t totally uncomfortable. Dixie stares out the window, her reflection contemplative. I give her the time to think, to process whatever she’s feeling.

Five minutes from the parlor, she starts fidgeting. “Banks?”

I hum.

“Sawyer is a lucky girl.”

My eyes dart to her, one eyebrow rising.

Her smile is small, knowing. When she rests her head back, she closes her eyes, the smile disappearing. “Hopefully you two smarten up and actually do something about it.”

That’s the last thing we say to one another the rest of the night.

I buy us two ice cream bowls—I get her cookies and cream and me mint chocolate chip. She tries mine despite hating the flavor and then gives me some of hers.

It’s quiet, which I think we both need.

To think.

To figure out what to do next.

Hopefully you two smarten up and actually do something about it.