Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Twenty-Four Banks

Chapter Twenty-Four

Banks

I’m Sawyer. Like Tom Sawyer . It’s a book.

It could be a coincidence. An unlikely one, but still a possibility. There are plenty of kids named after books. I went to school with a girl named Austen, spelled after the romance author Jane Austen. Her brother’s name is Woolf after Virginia Woolf. It happens.

But Sawyer’s mother’s hair is red.

Not orange like Carrot Top, but dark auburn with highlights the same color as the copper wire I used to help my father with when he did his summer projects at the house. The same color hair as the eight-year-old girl I used to share snacks with under the aging oak.

The same oak I rarely visited for peace and quiet after Katrina because it seemed…emptier when Sawyer stopped showing up. I waited. And waited. And waited. But the day never came.

Sawyer said she’s never dyed her hair before, which would be an odd thing to lie about. So is her name really a coincidence? It’s a steep chance, but one I can’t let my mind wander from because I miss those days when life was simpler.

Before my father’s drinking got bad and my mother left.

Life wasn’t perfect, but the days I spent in the shade eating fruit snacks under the tree with Sawyer the redheaded adventurer were close.

“There’s no way,” I tell myself, swiping my hand through my hair.

The last time I saw my Sawyer was right before Katrina hit. My family drove north and stayed at my uncle’s house in Mississippi, still getting plastered with the storm but not nearly as bad as Louisiana. Sawyer said her family was leaving too, but I never knew where they went or if they even made it. I pestered my parents with questions trying to find out, but we didn’t know their last name or anything that could possibly help get me answers.

Mom and Dad were going through their divorce anyway, so the last thing they wanted to deal with was some random little girl I’d grown attached to. I was upset with them at the time, but looking back, I can’t blame them. They didn’t understand how I could possibly grow to like somebody so quickly when I barely knew her.

But the truth is, it was easy to like Sawyer when I had nothing else that brought me peace.

Maybe she was the distraction I needed—the perfect person to help me get through all the arguments at home I never wanted to listen to. She came into my life at the right time, and when she left it…

“There’s no way,” I repeat, pacing in my apartment.

I’ve felt unsettled since the conversation outside yesterday. Between her mother’s familiar red hair to the number her father slipped me in the hall last night, I’ve been all but burning holes in the carpet from the back-and-forth pacing.

When I hear the laughter coming from the people I want to press for answers, I decide to stop torturing myself.

Sawyer didn’t want me around, which is a stab to the gut that I don’t like admitting. But it didn’t hurt as much as how quickly she corrected her brother when he called me her boyfriend. Normally, I would have appreciated it. Labels in the past made me feel suffocated, scared. I’d hear them and run the other way. In large part because of the skeletons I didn’t want anybody uncovering in my closet, but also because I felt like there was something more out there.

Some one .

And it pisses me off.

Since when is a girl not wanting more than fun a problem? I used to live for those moments. Hell, I stopped putting myself out there completely after I hurt a few girls’ feelings when they got a little too attached. I didn’t want to be a prick, so I didn’t bother giving anyone hope.

But Sawyer is different because she’s hiding something that I want to find out.

Obsessing over it clearly won’t get me anywhere, so I force myself out before I do something stupid. Like go to her apartment on her mother’s invite when she clearly doesn’t want me there.

And twenty minutes later, as if my brain is on autopilot, I pull up to the one place I haven’t been in months. Not since the fall when things got a little too heated between Dad and me. He’d almost hit me, and I was so, so close to doing the same. The second I raised my hand, I knew I needed to get out.

Because I didn’t want to be like my father.

I wanted to be the version of Paxton a redheaded little girl knew me as.

An entirely different entity.

Without cares.

Without problems.

Without a father who hit and a mother who left.

Pushing back the overgrown shrubs that my father let take over the once-well-kept area, I see the decrepit foot bridge that I accidentally damaged last year when I kicked one of the railing posts after a blowout at home. There’s a hole in the center from rotting wood, three missing pieces of railing, and a dried-up stream my father himself man-made to flow to a small pond past the tree line.

Walking past the fallen twigs, leaves, and debris that litter the ground, I kneel down by the end post where four letters are carved into the wood.

SH + PB

Running my fingers over the letters clearly written by two children, I’m taken back to all the snacks and gossip and good times spent in the backyard of a home I haven’t made decent memories at since.

The two acres my parents had attached to their house stretch far enough out that coming here felt like an escape without the risk of getting into trouble for going too far. Clearly nobody comes here anymore, but these days, it feels like a private park just for me. And, at one point, the redhead who somehow stumbled upon it in her explorations.

I smile to myself.

“This is my bridge,” she says.

“Did you build it?”

Opening my palm, I take in the tiny white raised scar from where the nail went into my hand when I helped my father put this place together. He designed the entire thing around the oak tree that he said has been there for longer than he’s been alive. The greenery, the bushes, the bridge: they were all his doing.

“Maybe one day you’ll design something just like this,” he tells me, eyeing our handiwork. “I know it would make your old man proud to see what you come up with. You’ve got an eye, kid.”

I helped him pick out some of the landscaping and chose the expensive wood for the project after seeing his sketches for it. It was one of the few bonding moments we had when he didn’t smell like booze or cigars and didn’t seem on edge from whatever fight he and my mother were in. Out here, he could let his mind stay busy outside all his problems.

Back then, he used his hands to create, not destroy.

Standing, I study the space and close my eyes, trying to remember what it was like when I was nine. The air was crisper, cleaner. The oak wasn’t half dead, with shedding limbs that come down with each rainstorm. It seems appropriate that the place I enjoyed escaping to is falling apart around me.

Unkept.

Unloved.

Forgotten.

My eyes go down to the carvings again before something hits me. Walking back to my truck, I grab my sketchpad from the back and study the design I’ve been working on aimlessly for months.

When I take it to the hidden spot, I realize I’ve been working on the very thing my father always wanted me to. A newer version of my favorite place—somewhere to go to. Something to rebuild what’d been broken a long time ago.

Maybe I always knew that was why I chose this design. It wasn’t to remember the times I had with the mysterious girl I never got to see again, but all to do with my father.

“Fuck,” I cuss, closing my sketchpad and shoving it into the back seat. Swiping a hand through my hair, I slam the door closed and…

Laugh.

Because I’ve been subconsciously trying my hardest to gain a man’s approval whose only focus in life is if he has enough liquor to get him through to the next week.

I sit in my truck for what feels like forever before I decide where to go next. Being trapped inside seems dangerous right now. If I’m left to my own devices, my shaky palm may wind up in the drywall by the night’s end. And I don’t want to think about how many holes I’ve seen my father patch or hide in my lifetime.

White-knuckling the wheel, I go to the only safe place I have left.

LSU’s Botanic Gardens have become the peace my mind needs when life becomes too much. I always find myself under one of the trees or shaded by the gazebo working on whatever latest sketch I’m trying to perfect. I people watch. Listen to nature—the wind rustling the tree limbs, the birds landing in the ponds, the distant laughter of kids in the gardens.

Sometimes I envy the happiness that surrounds me, as if everybody else has it so much easier. I know better than that, but it still eats at me when bitterness bubbles under my skin as couples walk hand in hand or kids run around laughing without a single care in the world.

Once upon a time, I was like that.

That seems like a lifetime ago though.

Hours pass, and the sketch in my lap barely grows from its last conception. I realize reluctantly that my father may have been right about needing a lot more time to get a scaled model created, which isn’t something I plan on admitting to him anytime soon.

Sometime later, a shadow casts over the book in my lap. “Thought I’d find you here,” Dawson says, dropping into the spot on the bench beside me and stretching his long legs out.

“Surprised to see you here,” I admit, abandoning the work I’ve been struggling with all day to focus on the gaunt boy beside me. “Where have you been?”

Dawson’s leg bounces anxiously. “Around.”

Around.

Scraping a hand down my face, I set my sketchbook down on the ground. “Look, I’m not in the mood for any more bullshit today. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here when you’ve gone out of your way to avoid me?”

His eyebrows arch as he looks at me, seemingly stunned by my withdrawn demeanor. I try to be reasonable, but my patience is limited, and my mind is already full of things beyond what my best friend is getting himself into when I’m not around.

“I tried your apartment,” he answers, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Sawyer said she heard you leave. Figured there weren’t many places to look.”

Sawyer was paying enough attention to hear me go. Interesting. “Was her family still there?”

He nods, slumping back. “Her dad answered. Pretty sure he wasn’t happy I was standing there.”

I don’t know her father well, but I know a lot of military men. They’re protective and observant. It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to see that there’s something wrong with Dawson.

The bags under his eyes are back, and he’s fidgety. Not to mention his skin tone is off. Not quite pale, but off-white. Yellow. Sickly. I’ve known him long enough to see the weight he’s lost, but Sawyer’s dad probably doesn’t know the difference. All telltale signs of drug use if you know what to look for, and I have a feeling the naval officer does.

Instead of indulging him on Sawyer, I say, “My dad said you dropped his class.”

I’m met with silence.

When I turn to him, I shake my head. “I heard you broke things off with Dixie too. Don’t get me started on your teammates, who told me you don’t go to practice anymore. Who are you, dude? You were doing so well in the fall. You had things to look forward to. What happened that made you fall off the ladder so fucking hard?”

Dawson straightens. “I didn’t—”

“All you wanted was to do was play ball when you enrolled here,” I cut him off, not willing to hear more lies. “That’s what you worked for. Now, you don’t show up to class, you don’t put in a fraction of effort to keep your grades up, and you disappear for hours on end doing God only knows what. What do you have left here? Because it seems like you pushed away everybody and everything that matters to you for something I don’t understand.”

He starts to answer before he presses his lips together and looks down. Evasion is a sure sign of guilt, which tells me what I need to know.

I stand, collecting my sketchbook and backpack. “I don’t know what to say to you anymore. We’ve been down this road before, but I sure as hell hope that it doesn’t take you as long to get the help you need since you won’t accept it from me. Not everybody gets a second chance at life. Why waste it?”

Dawson’s expression becomes pleading. “Don’t be like that.” He stands. “I just…” Stopping himself, he kicks the ground with the top of his sneaker.

“You what?” I press impatiently.

“Dixie deserved better,” he says to the ground. “Everybody knew that. I couldn’t be the person she needed.”

He won’t find me arguing, but I respect that he finally acknowledged it.

His hand reaches behind him, grasping his neck and squeezing. “I do need help.”

The admission has me standing a little taller, hope scratching the surface. “Then let’s go. I’ll take you wherever you need to go. Back to the clinic. To see your counselor—”

“No. Not…” His hands twitch. “I need to borrow some money.”

I blink slowly, repeating those words in my head to make sure I heard him right.

“Unbelievable,” I mumble under my breath.

“Banks, I—”

“Don’t.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the loose bills I stuffed in there after stopping at the café earlier. I don’t even know how much money I throw at him, but I toss it all in his direction and watch it flutter to the ground. “You’re not the only one who has problems, Dawson. But by all means, keep acting like you are. Hopefully you put that money to good use instead of giving it to Marco or his cronies.”

Something black tucked into the elastic of his pants catches my eye when his shirt rises up as he tries catching the floating bills. I reach for it, but Dawson is quick to pull his shirt down and cover it.

“Is that a fucking gun ?” I hiss, stepping toward him and looking around us. “Where the hell did you get that?”

He tugs at his shirt again, scanning the area nervously. “I needed it.”

What twenty-one-year-old needs a gun? “I cannot believe you right now. Do you see yourself? You’re a goddamn mess, Dawson. I don’t know who you are anymore, but it sure as shit isn’t my friend. If you’ve gotten yourself in so deep you need a—” I can’t let myself say it again, so I dip my gaze down briefly. “Then you need help. Real help. This is the last time I’m offering. Come with me and I’ll drop you off somewhere. But this isn’t healthy.”

His hand goes to where the deadly accessory is tucked away, not saying a word.

No explanation.

No admission.

“It’s for protection” is all he gives me.

Protection.

There are other options.

People to talk to.

The goddamn cops, for one.

Maybe that’s the moment I realize he’s too far gone for help. So I throw my hands up. “I don’t want any part of this. None.”

I hear him call out after me, but I don’t stop until I’m unlocking my truck and climbing in.

Once the door is shut behind me, I slam my hands against the steering wheel in frustration, the anger boiling over. “Fuck,” I yell, hitting the top again.

People pass by, some clearly disturbed by my outburst, some completely ignoring me. I’d normally be embarrassed, but I’m too emotionally drained to care about what a lunatic I must look like.

Leaning back in my seat, I peel off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. A tension headache is forming in my temples, which means I can forget about doing any more homework.

Maybe a forced break is what I need.

So I make my way back to my apartment in silence, gripping the wheel with one hand and holding my forehead with the other.

As soon as I get upstairs and pull my keys out to unlock my door, the one across the hall opens.

All I say is “Not now, Sawyer.”

She pauses, and from the corner of my eye, I see her frown. It only makes me feel a little bad when I hear her quiet “Okay.”

Pausing halfway through my door, I sigh. “I have a headache and need to lie down. I’ll talk to you later.”

I don’t wait for her to reply before shutting the door behind me. I only catch a flash of her confused expression before hearing the door click closed.

My phone goes off.

Dawson.

I ignore it.

A few minutes later, it goes off again.

Dawson.

I ditch it in the living room, hearing it go off once more before shutting myself in my bedroom to ignore whatever else he wants from me.

The last time he needed me, I put my life on hold for him and he promised he’d never go to that place again. I was dumb enough to believe him then, but I’m smarter now.

Still, the nagging pit in my stomach remains.

* * *

It’s after dark when a timid knock comes at my door, making me pause from searching the refrigerator for something to eat.

I have a feeling I know who it is before I even open the door, so I’m not surprised when I see my five-foot-three neighbor standing there with her arms full.

“What’s all this?” I ask in confusion.

She passes me a cup first. “Caffeine helps when I get headaches,” she tells me, shifting on her bare feet covered only in knee-high socks.

I’m assuming her family left because she’s changed into a pair of leggings and a T-shirt that has some cartoon character I’ve never seen before on it. “You brought me coffee?”

Sawyer nods. “And dinner if you haven’t eaten. It’s not much, but I googled some easy recipes using the ingredients my parents bought me.”

I stand aside, gesturing for her to come in. I watch as she dumps the food onto the kitchen counter and looks around. She’s never spent time here before because I always find my way across the hall.

“You didn’t have to bring me anything,” I say.

She shrugs, moving a strand of hair behind her ear. “You cooked for me when I was sick” is her simple reply.

I watch everything she does as she searches each cupboard and cabinet until she finds what she needs. Eventually I walk over and lean down until my elbows are resting on the edge of the counter farthest away from her.

Her hair looks different today. Brighter. Softer maybe. I try picturing her with red hair like her mother’s, but the image is foggy at best. When she catches me staring, her cheeks tint the same color as her shirt.

“What?” she asks, splitting the chicken and rice she prepared onto two plates.

Wetting my lips, I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Ask her, the voice inside me prods.

Her focus goes back down to the dinner in front of her. “I’m sorry if my mom made you uncomfortable earlier. She gets excited about me making…friends.”

I find it hard to believe she didn’t have any before. “You weren’t popular in school?”

Rubbing her lips together as she forks a pile of green beans onto the plate, she clears her throat. “No,” she murmurs. “I had a lot going on that people couldn’t exactly relate to.”

“I’m sorry.” I know how that feels. My father made it difficult to bring people over. Dawson was the exception, but he was also clueless. Anybody else would have asked questions. “Is your family still here?”

Sawyer puts the first plate into the microwave and heats it up. “They went back to the hotel for the night. Mom and Bentley are leaving in the afternoon.”

We’re quiet.

She looks around, noticing the picture hanging on the wall above the small table I picked up at a thrift shop. Walking over to it, she runs her hands along the edge of the cheap frame.

“That’s at the Botanic Gardens,” I tell her of the photograph. It’s a landscape picture I took with my phone right as the sun began to set. The lowering rays somehow illuminated the blooming myrtles I’d taken the image between.

Sawyer leans closer and points to something in the background. “Is that a little waterfall and footbridge?”

The microwave beeps, but we both ignore it. I step beside her. “It is. The waterfall is man-made—purely for decoration. A lot of local teenagers go there to take pictures on prom night because of the aesthetic.”

Something shadows her face, her shoulders slumping slightly. “It’s beautiful,” she tells me, turning with only a sad smile in my direction as she redirects her attention to the food.

“I can take you there,” I offer. “If you’d like.”

She passes me a plate and a fork, her lips wavering at the corners. “I’ve never been, so that’d be nice.”

“About what your mom said—”

Before I can ask the question taunting me, my phone goes off for the millionth time. When I woke up from my short-lived nap, Dawson had called a total of eight times and left me ten different texts, which I ignored. Then Dad called me to let me know Dawson had shown up at the house.

He wasn’t happy.

Sighing when I see my father’s name, I decide to answer, knowing that ignoring him again won’t lead anywhere good. “Is he still there?” I ask in greeting.

“I asked you to come here and get him three and a half hours ago,” my father informs me.

Technically, he asked my voicemail. “I wasn’t feeling well, Dad. I told him earlier that he had to figure his shit out. I never told him to go there and bother you.”

“You owe me a hundred dollars to pay me back for the money I gave him,” he tells me.

I shift away from Sawyer’s curious gaze, lowering my voice. “You gave him money?”

The nerve of this motherfuc—“What was I supposed to do? My son was being selfish, so I had to step in like I always do.”

A cool laugh bubbles past my lips. “Like you always do?” I repeat in dry amusement. “That’s classic. Who was the one cleaning up your messes growing up after Mom left? Who made sure you were okay whenever you’d have one of your stints?”

His voice lowers. “Paxton—”

“You can call me selfish all you want,” I cut him off, walking to the other side of the room and pacing in front of the television. “But maybe look at yourself in the mirror and figure out where I got it from. They say kids’ first role models are their parents. Guess that’s unfortunate for me.”

I hang up before he can start in on me like I can sense he’s about to. Turning my phone off, I throw it onto the couch with more force than necessary. It bounces off and lands on the floor, the crack in the screen protector visible from here.

Raking my hands through my hair, I give my back to the girl standing silently in my kitchen.

After a few minutes, I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Banks?” she whispers.

Taking a deep breath, I turn around.

She’s staring up at me. “I’m sorry.”

It isn’t her who should be saying those words to me. “He thinks I’m selfish.” An angry laugh escapes me as I look down at her. “He thinks I’m selfish.”

“You’re not,” she reassures, eyes sympathetic.

I grind my teeth. “Everybody else gets to do whatever they want without thinking of how it impacts the people around them,” I say, jaw ticking at everything I’ve endured trying to be a good friend—the better person.

Dawson. Dad. How many times do I have to put other people before myself? Consider their feelings when they can’t even consider mine?

I’m fucking done .

Sawyer steps forward, a frown curling her mouth. “Banks—”

I close the little distance between us, grab ahold of her face, and say, “It’s my turn to be selfish for once.”

The kiss is startling. Demanding. Angry. Wanting. A list of things that Sawyer’s surprised gasp only feeds as I taste her.

At first, she’s frozen, but it doesn’t take her long to melt into me. I tease her tongue and nip her bottom lip, drawing out a noise from her that hardens me as I roll my hips involuntarily forward to press against her.

In that moment, when everything inside of me is cold, I need her to be the warmth that thaws the thick ice layered around my heart.

I pull back far enough to say, “If you don’t want this, if you changed your mind about what you want, now is the time to tell me. Because I’m not sure I want to stop after that.”

I wait. One second. Two. Five seconds go by.

When she doesn’t say anything, my eyes flare with anticipation. The same moment my lips crash against hers, I grab her by her hips and lift her up. She wraps her arms around my neck for support, her legs doing the same around my waist as I walk her backward until her back meets the wall. Pressing myself harder into her front, I groan when a muffled cry comes from deep in her throat.

My body needs release. Needs a distraction. It needs Sawyer. This Sawyer. The Sawyer from my past. I need them both.

And she kisses me back, matching every little movement, albeit far more hesitantly. I’m getting lost in the moment, burying my fingers into her hair and pulling her head back when she locks up.

“N-Not the hair,” she says, breaking the kiss and pushing my hand away from the silky locks.

I release it instantly, pressing a warm kiss to the exposed column of her throat and offering her a quiet, “Sorry.”

She exhales a shaky breath. “Don’t be. I…it’s…”

I spin us around until she’s draped across the couch. There are a million things I want to do to the girl whose hair is spread out around her, but I’m not sure I have the patience for it all.

“You don’t need to explain,” I promise, taking in her body. I’ll never understand the pull that I’ve felt toward her since the day she opened the door and accused me of taking her food. I chalked it up to horniness at first, but it never went away. It’s like a string: pulling, pulling, pulling until it’s so tight it’s threatening to break.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, more to myself than her. The color that warms her cheeks makes me grin as I kneel down beside her, trailing my palms up her legs and watching her lips part with a shaky exhale from the slow, subtle touches.

Stopping when my hands meet her thighs, I lean forward and press a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then another, higher. Then another farther up until my fingers hook into the waist of her leggings and pull them down.

When I see the thin material covering her underneath, I trail my lips along the same path as the cotton I’m peeling off her until both her leggings and panties are discarded on the living room floor.

Selfish. That’s what I plan on being right now.

Because seeing her exposed to me this way with vulnerability shining in her eyes makes me realize one thing.

Sawyer trusts me.

And having that control nearly makes me forget the reasons I was angry to begin with.

I try forgetting about Dawson and any interest he had in the girl who’s writhing under my touch. I try pushing away the trouble he’s in and the more than likely illegal firearm he has on top of God knows how much money he’s taken from people. And I sure as hell don’t want a single thought of my father’s cruel words to enter my brain as my mouth acquaints itself with the warmest part of her.

In this moment, I do more than exist in a world where I try my best to keep to myself without intervening in things I can’t change. Because I want to take charge of this moment; I want to soak in every second. Every kiss, suck, and nip that draws noises from my neighbor drowns out the demons poking my conscience, reminding me that I’m here. That she’s here.

Nothing besides us matters.

She claws at my shirt, so I take it off.

Her shirt follows.

There’s a moment of hesitation before she unclasps her bra behind her, leaving her completely bare in front of me.

I stare, mesmerized.

“What’s this?” I ask, reaching out to brush what looks like a bump with a scar just under her collarbone.

She stops me, her fingers quickly wrapping around my wrist before I make contact. “It’s an old injury,” she explains, squeezing me once. “I don’t like people touching it.”

I nod in understanding, bringing her hand to my mouth and kissing the back of it. “You really are beautiful. Do you know that?”

My eyes rake over every inch of skin until she squirms, her hands reaching out to undo the button of my jeans. They shake, and I wonder if she’s nervous. I let her take her time, watching as she pops the button and slowly lowers the zipper before tugging on the waistband of the denim.

I’m painfully hard by the time she frees me, swallowing a moan when her soft palm wraps around me and gives an experimental stroke. “If you keep doing that, this is going to be over before it starts.”

Her blush deepens as she withdraws her hand apologetically, but I capture it and put it back, squeezing our hands until another sound rumbles from my chest from the sensation we create.

Sawyer’s eyes lock on the way I move our palms, helping her set a pace as she pumps me. When I twitch, pulsing in her hold, a spark grows in her eyes that does me in.

Suddenly, my mouth is on hers, earning me another startled gasp as I move her backward until she’s splayed out beneath me. One of my knees knocks into hers, guiding her to spread her legs until I’m between them.

In the back of my mind, I hear that word.

Selfish.

Then I hear another.

Enabler.

They repeat, taunting, haunting, leaving me desperate to push them away. Maybe if I stopped focusing on them and paid attention to Sawyer instead, on the moment my conscience was taking from me, I would have known something was wrong. Could have tried harder to be the man that the soft, mysterious girl under me deserves.

Instead, she gets the shell of me that struggles to put myself back in the moment.

The version of me who enters her to feel and kisses her to distract and touches her so the demons can’t touch me. I take no heed of her tight grip around my neck when I see the pleasure written across her face, and I lose myself in her warmth.

I see stars as I repeat the movement, feeling her around me, absorbing every sensation.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I kiss her throat, her jaw, her mouth, quieting the noises she makes every time I thrust forward, the subtle creak of the couch bringing me closer and closer to the brink.

I comfort her with soft murmurs, relax her with eased touches, stroke her with confidence as her muscles loosen and tighten around me all at once.

Her hands explore my back, shooting shock waves of familiarity down my spine. Every inch of skin she touches leaves a path of flames permanently scorched into my skin like a brand.

My heart races to a beat of a new drum that syncs with the heartbeat against me, and when I look down at the girl beneath me, something sparks inside my chest when we lock eyes.

I’ve definitely had moments when sex was a means to an end, an escape that I used to get in, get off, and get out. And despite how hard I tried fighting the demons off to let myself be here with her, I become consumed by them instead. They poke at me like a roaring in my blood that sends my heart racing as my body loses control entirely around her, in her. I bury my face in the crook of her neck as I stiffen and give her everything I have. Every tense moment, every argument, every raw emotion that was building and boiling over releases the moment I do, my demons going with them.

And for the first time in a long time, there’s nothing but an overwhelming sense of calmness taking over.

She did that for me.

If there’s one time since I was kid where I’ve felt at peace with someone, it’s now, lying on her, kissing her, caressing her soft, dewy skin.

My forehead leans against the crook of her neck, my hand stroking her upper thigh still wrapped around me until I peel myself up and pull out. She flinches, her eyes glassy as they briefly meet mine before looking away.

When I take the condom off, I notice the smear of red on the latex. My eyes move to her thighs, where I see other streaks of blood.

She closes her legs, sitting up and using one of the couch pillows to cover herself. I stare at the blood, then her flushed cheeks, and the way she evades my eyes. “I…I’ve…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper. I wasn’t as gentle as I could have been. There are red marks on her arms and thighs from my fingers that I pray don’t bruise.

I was too consumed by my own problems to even realize I was hurting her all for that peace I chased.

Selfish.

Sawyer quickly collects her clothes. “Does it matter? I’ve only done it once before, and that barely counted.”

She’s embarrassed.

I put my hand on her shoulder as she haphazardly redresses. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t.

She pulls her shirt on, forgoing the bra.

“Sawyer,” I say, standing without an ounce of shame that I’m still naked.

I move the hair she’s using to block me away from her face. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I just wish you would have told me. I wouldn’t have been so rough with you. I would have…”

I would have done a lot more. Checked in more. Made sure she was okay. Shut out those voices better instead of letting them in. Anything.

Her eyes briefly lift to mine before they move back down to the floor. “It shouldn’t matter.”

But it does.

I find my boxer briefs and jeans and tug them on so she’ll feel more comfortable and then stand in front of her and tilt her chin up. “Are you okay?”

Her throat bobs, but she nods.

Sighing, I pull her in for a hug, wrapping my arms around her and tugging her closer into my body so her hands are trapped between us. For a moment, she’s tense. Then she releases a breath and relaxes into me, her palms moving to my hips and resting there.

Selfish.

The word echoes in my head, making my lips twitch. I push it away, as far away as I can, and focus on the girl in my arms. The one who probably feels how my heart is drumming wildly against her. How my fingers twitch as they rub her back. She does that to me, and she doesn’t even know it.

My hand finds the underside of her jaw, stroking the skin underneath. I frown when I feel something hard under the pad of my thumb, moving her hair away to get a better look at the lump. “Did you get stung?”

She stiffens. “No. It’s nothing.”

“I have ice—”

“Banks,” she says, putting her hand on mine and moving it away. “I promise it’s nothing to worry about.”

I find myself nodding, unsure whether I want to believe her. But I relent, not wanting to ruin the night. “You’re an anomaly,” I tell her, shaking my head.

“Why?”

“I don’t think you realize how different you are than most girls.” I pull her into the kitchen, grabbing the plates she made for us.

When she takes hers, she stares at the food. “I know better than you think I do,” she murmurs, toying with the chicken.

“That’s not a bad thing,” I reassure when I see the ghost of a frown lingering on her face.

It takes her a long moment to face me, as if she’s lost in thought or misinterpreting the compliment. I’ve known a lot of women, dated quite a few of them, and none of them compared to the one standing in my kitchen.

She follows me into the living room after we finish eating, sitting on the couch that she looks differently at now. “I don’t have to stay. I can go.”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t usually part ways after hookups in the past, but the last place I want her to go is home, even if that’s only feet away. I want her to stay. I want her to be around. To pester me to do my homework. To argue with me about good music and TV. Her friendship fills a void that Dawson never could and keeps me away from the problems I have to face when I step outside this space.

“You don’t have to go either.”

We stare at one another, her lip back between her teeth. Biting. Hesitant.

Scared.

Her question is soft-spoken, with caution in every syllable. “Do you always ask the girls you sleep with to stay?”

“No.”

Swallowing, she offers me a subtle nod. “I don’t understand why you’d want me to then.”

I answer the only way I can. “I’m not sure why either, Birdie.”

There’s no way I can describe my will for her to stick around or the familiarity of her presence whenever she meets my eyes. I feel bad for taking over the moment we just shared and not being more present like she deserved. I want to be better than that—to give her the type of peace she gives me.

Her friendship and kindness offer me hope that I can be the man she deserves one day. Because she’s still here giving me the chance to prove it.

“I’ll never force you to stay, but I’m also not going to tell you to leave. I’d like the company. Today’s been rough. And I wouldn’t mind a…”

What do I call her that doesn’t make what we did weird? I’m never in my head about this kind of shit.

“Friend?” she finishes for me.

I dip my chin. “If you’re still willing to be.”

She finds my hand, squeezing her fingers around mine. “I told you before that nothing has to change. That’s what we said, wasn’t it? What we agreed on?”

I wet my lips. “It is.”

“Then we’re friends.” She lets go of my hand, draws her knees up to her chest, and hugs them close to herself.

Friends. I used to like the sound of that.

When did I stop?

We watch trash TV the rest of the night.

I go to the kitchen and pull out two packets of fruit snacks from my stash in the cupboard.

When I pass her one, she stares at it and says, “These have always been my favorite.”

I swallow. “I know.”

Her eyes meet mine.

Opening mine, I turn to the TV and quietly repeat, “I know, Birdie.”

I can feel her burning gaze on mine.

I don’t ask her about her mom.

Or her past.

I could, but it would ruin the moment.

And I wonder what would change if I knew for sure that this Sawyer was the same one from the past. I’d built her up in my head for years—the girl who saved me without realizing it. Who gave me peace without ever trying.

I don’t want to change anything.

Eventually, she also turns back to the TV.

I stretch her legs out across my lap, absentmindedly stroking my thumb along her shin as we listen to the mindless show.

She falls asleep on the couch.

I carry her to my bed.

And instead of pushing my luck and curling up beside her like I want to, I close the door and crash in the living room.

Only then does Dawson slip back into my mind, and by the time I text him back when guilt crests for what I said, I hear nothing at all.