Chapter Twenty-Six Banks
Chapter Twenty-Six
Banks
There’s only one light on in my childhood home as I pull up to the curb, which means Dad is watching the nightly news in the living room like he always does. The question is, is he sober or not?
A heavy feeling weighs down my gut as I unlock the door using the spare key and push it open. “Dad?” I call out, smelling the smoke from his cigar.
I haven’t heard from him in a while, and he didn’t answer the phone when I called to check in on him so I wouldn’t need to come here. As much as I didn’t want to, I knew I needed to make sure everything was okay.
“Dad?” I say again, walking into the living room.
The old man is fast asleep in his recliner with a lit cigar in his hand burning a hole into the arm of the chair. When I see it spark, I jump into action.
That was my first mistake.
The second was not noticing the empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. Or the empty twelve-pack in the kitchen. There’s no food around—no dirty plates or take-out containers. Nothing to soak up the alcohol that must have caused him to pass out with a lit cigar in his hand.
I grab the cigar from him before it burns a bigger hole into the upholstery, and he jerks awake. And for a second time in less than six months, he swings at me. Except this time, his fist knocks me off balance until I fall backward into the coffee table and crack the wood and glass.
My ass and back take the worst of the blow, glass shattering around me until piercing pain stabs me through my clothes.
And the man above me doesn’t stop there.
In his alcohol-induced rage, he fights like I’m an intruder trying to take away his vices, and I have no time to see the foot coming down before it connects with my rib cage.
Once.
Twice.
“Dad,” I gasp, voice barely more than a desperate rasp from the insufferable pain as his boot swings at me a third time.
Blood spurts from my mouth as I try to breathe, but it feels like somebody is suffocating me—squeezing my lungs as I curl into the fetal position to try protecting myself.
“D-Dad,” I gasp. “It’s m-me.”
He stops, blinking, foot midway to another strike before snapping out of it. When he looks down, his face drains of color. Then he falls to his knees, reaching for me.
I flinch as his hand nears my face.
He frowns, lowering it slowly to his side.
Frowns like he doesn’t understand the terror in my eyes as I struggle for air.
I cough, blood splattering onto his face.
“Paxton,” he whispers, still blinking like this is all some nightmare.
My head drops to the ground, eyes closing from the energy it takes to keep them open.
The pain is numbing.
So numbing.
I think I groan.
Maybe even black out for a second or two.
He doesn’t apologize.
Doesn’t offer to take me to the hospital.
He simply kneels there in pale disbelief, staring as I bleed out on the floor. Under his voice, so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the thundering pain I’m too focused on, he whispers, “Please don’t leave me like her.”
That’s when I know my father is a broken man. More than the shards of glass on the floor or the splintered wood underneath me. He’s been fractured for a long time since Mom left, but each year split him apart further and further until the void became too big.
It consumed him.
Consumed us.
He says, “I swear I’ve changed.”
But he hasn’t.
His hands shake as they clean me up with washcloths and paper towels, blood soaking everything he uses.
I want him to stop.
To not touch me.
But I can’t speak.
Pain silences me, takes me hostage inside of myself.
“Don’t leave me,” he repeats, almost as if he’s talking to himself and not me.
I black out.
* * *
Cussing under my breath when I lift the garbage bag out of the can, I wince from the pain shooting out of my ribs. “Fuck,” I growl, dropping the bag and scattering the contents everywhere.
I close my eyes as the empty beer bottles roll across the dirty floor, mixing with the food scraps and bloody paper towels.
It’s been almost a week since the incident.
Nearly seven days of being trapped here, unable to move, needing help from the very man who’s responsible for the bruises and swelling covering my body.
I hate it here. Hate that I’ve let it get this bad—that I told myself I couldn’t leave the city because he needed me more than I needed my sanity.
Enabler.
I didn’t answer my phone or go to class. I’m sure my father wouldn’t have wanted me to draw attention by showing up looking like…this. Bruised. Beaten. Hunched over from the pressure in my torso.
Defeated.
Professors emailed me with what I’ve missed, classmates have sent me notes, and my neighbor has left me a few messages that I didn’t have the heart to answer because it would mean explaining.
I can barely explain to myself why I put up with this.
How could I ever explain it to her?
To anybody?
Ever since I gave her the dehumidifier, she’s shut down. The way she stared at it would have made it seem like I’d given her a diamond, not a machine. She barely talked that night, except to say goodbye at the door when she walked me to it. Dismissed. That’s what I felt.
And maybe I told myself that was the exact reason I didn’t need to try harder to reach out or respond.
Carefully kneeling down, I break myself from the pitiful thoughts and begin collecting all the garbage that’s been piling up at my father’s house. The only good thing about the injuries is that he plays nice. For a while. He hasn’t hounded me about school or touched a sip of alcohol. I haven’t even seen him light a cigar since he took the one that burned a hole into one of my favorite shirts after it fell when I went down.
A hand comes down on my shoulder, locking my body up. “Let me,” Dad says quietly.
I didn’t even hear him come in.
“I’ve got it,” I murmur, shaking off his touch and cringing at the movement.
He doesn’t stop picking up the trash, his hand pausing over a beer bottle with a crack in it. After a moment, he tosses it into the bag and then does the same with the next one. Then the third. His posture stiffens and his frown settles deeper, as if he actually acknowledges the problem staring him dead in the face.
Not that it matters. He’s seen it for years.
Let it fester. Grow.
He made it what it is.
“I spoke to Laramie today,” he says, clearing his throat once the floor is cleaned. He takes the bag from me and ties it up. “He said he could give you an extension on your assignment if you need it. He hopes you feel better soon. I told him you got the flu.”
The flu.
Of course.
“I don’t need one.”
I stand, feeling so much smaller next to him even though I’ve got a few inches on his five-feet-eleven height.
“Son…” He won’t meet my eyes, but he stares at the garbage hanging from his hand.
I wait silently.
He clears his throat. “Your mother called this morning. She said she hasn’t heard back from you about if you’re visiting her this summer. You should call her. Let her know you’re okay.”
Let her know you’re okay.
Am I though?
Rubbing my lips together, I nod. No words. No promise that I’ll do exactly that.
He goes to the door to take the garbage out to the bin, stopping halfway out. “And don’t…don’t worry about the money you owe me for your friend. I’m not worried about it right now.”
Closing the door behind him, all I can do is stare at the wood.
He’s not worried about the money he thinks I owe him for Dawson? He thinks I owe him?
I stand in the middle of the room.
And I laugh.
Coldly.
Bitterly.
With exhaustion.
It fucking hurts. With each breath I try to draw, my ribs ache. Yet I can’t stop myself. I laugh until tears form in their ducts.
He beat me.
Literally kicked me while I was down.
And he thinks I owe him.
I’m glad he doesn’t come back to see me in the middle of an obvious breakdown because God only knows what he’d do. Would the nice streak end? Would he raise his hand? I don’t know.
And I don’t care.
God, I don’t care at all.
I grab my truck keys and head to the door, walking, or more like limping, right past him to where I’m parked by the curb.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me.
I don’t answer him as I pull open the door and climb in, flinching at the way my ribs bend on the way up. Dad starts walking toward me, but I start the engine and drive away before he can say another word.
* * *
My mother used to tell me to never come to a woman’s house empty-handed, so I stop by two different gas stations until I find Sawyer’s favorite flavor of Pop-Tarts.
As I’m leaving the store, I see Dawson get out of the passenger seat of a beat-up vehicle that some guy smoking a blunt is driving.
He stops when he sees me, his eyes bloodshot and his body reeking of pot.
I stand there silently, one hand gripping the edge of my truck door as he studies the bruises covering half of my face and disappearing into my clothing.
His eyes widen. “What hap—”
“Gable,” the man behind the wheel calls out impatiently. “We don’t have all day.”
Dawson’s eye twitches.
I don’t say anything as I take him in.
Every bone is hollowed out, covered in skin that looks so frail and thin. His eyelid tremors. He’s fidgety.
He rubs his nose. “I gotta go” is all he says, walking around me and into the store.
He doesn’t bother asking if I’m okay.
I make eye contact with the man behind the wheel of the piece-of-shit SUV parked a few feet away.
He asks, “You got a fucking problem?”
Yeah. “I’ve got a lot of them,” I say honestly.
He blows out a plume of smoke, grinning. “I can see that by the look on your face. Keep staring and I’ll add another bruise to it.”
My fingers clench the Pop-Tart tighter.
I could go inside and talk to Dawson.
But I know what he’d say.
I don’t need your help.
“Run along now,” his new friend encourages.
I look over my shoulder at the gas station before sighing. There’s no point wasting my energy when I can barely function as is.
Climbing into my truck, I suck in a breath, my ribs getting pinched as I position myself behind the steering wheel.
Dawson made his choice.
This is me making mine.
Ten minutes later, I’m hobbling up to the door across the hall from mine. Right before I knock, I hear a fit of giggles coming from the other side. Caution stirs in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with the injuries I sustained.
When I finally rap my knuckles against the wood, I wince and step back, holding my breath as the lock turns.
Two soft faces greet me, both quickly shadowing with shock.
“Oh my God,” Sawyer whispers, eyes raking down the front of me. From my swollen face to my hunched posture, she takes me in while Dixie stands behind her looking just as horrified.
Quickly, my neighbor takes the things from my hand and puts them on the counter. “Get in here. Do you need ice? Hold on.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to talk before I’m being tugged inside, flinching at the jerky movements as I’m led to the couch and sat down. Dixie closes the door while my neighbor-turned-nurse gets a washcloth from the kitchen and an ice pack from the freezer.
Dixie stands by the door, still gaping at my face.
I offer her a half-assed smile even though it hurts. “I’m okay,” I tell her.
Neither of the girls believe that, not that I blame them. I could barely look at myself in the mirror the day after the misunderstanding. The bruises have gotten darker, the cut on my cheek looking worse as it’s started healing. God forbid they see the discoloration on my side. They’d have nightmares.
Dixie swallows. “I think…” Her eyes go to Sawyer before she backs toward the door, unable to glance in my direction. “I’ll let you two talk. I hope you feel better.”
I’m about to tell her she can stay when she makes a swift escape.
Sawyer appears in front of me, the cloth wrapped around the ice pack that she carefully presses against my face. “What happened to you?”
This isn’t why I came here, so I take the ice pack and lower it. “I came to apologize for ghosting you, not to make you take care of me.”
She crosses her legs under her. “I should have known something was up, but I never thought…” Her tongue slowly drags across her bottom lip as she studies me, sadness masking her face. “Did Dawson do this?”
Dawson? We may have gotten into it that one time, but it’s the first time we ever fought. I don’t anticipate him doing it again. “No. He’s avoiding me right now.
“Dixie said you helped her when he ended things. Thank you for being a friend to her when I wasn’t.”
“I barely did anything.”
She shrugs. “It meant something to her.”
I know what a handful Dawson can be, and Dixie seems sweet. Maybe too sweet to be the person my friend needs right now, as much as I wish she could be. But nobody should have that much responsibility on their shoulders.
I’d know.
Sawyer nervously takes my hand, tracing along one of my fingers. “If it wasn’t Dawson, then who?”
She won’t let this go. If I were in her shoes, I’d probably be the same way. Hell, when I first saw her with a bloody nose, I was ready to go after the person responsible without knowing her well at all.
But the truth is too damning.
She must know I’m trying to find an out when her fingers squeeze mine, pulling my attention to her wide blue eyes. “Please?”
That fucking word…
Nostrils flaring, I look down at our hands. Her touch is so light I almost don’t feel it at all despite the warmth that soaks into my skin. It’s calming, making me forget about the pain plaguing my body. Momentarily.
“Some things are too heavy to burden people with, Birdie. Because once you know…” I let my voice fade, shifting and sending pain shooting through my sides until it’s hard sucking in the oxygen my lungs desperately need.
“You can’t unknow,” she finishes, as if she understands all too well. Her touch on me lightens, but I keep ahold of her, afraid that she’ll let go. I need her to keep me grounded right now, not to pull away.
Her eyes go to our hands before they close.
“It was an accident,” I tell her, hoping it’s enough to placate her curiosity.
“What kind of accident leads to this ?”
My free hand clenches tightly against my side where she can’t see it. I’m careful when I lean back until I’m flush against the cushions. Blowing out a breath, I refrain from making a face. She’s already worried. If she knew what happened…how bad it really is…
All I can manage to say is “He didn’t mean it. Life happens sometimes.”
Even with my eyes closed, I can feel her watching me intently. “Who? If it’s not Dawson, then who could be responsible for this?”
“Let it go, Birdie. Please.”
Her throat bobs as she studies me, her fingers reaching up to touch where my lip was split months ago. Her fingertip stills there, causing a shiver to creep up my spine. Then it moves to the eye that was discolored from my best friend and is now colored again from somebody different. Swollen. Red. Sore.
When she lets go, it’s to tug the collar of her shirt down to reveal the scar under her collarbone that I asked about before. “The skeletons I have in my closet have to do with this. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t anything I could control. But that doesn’t mean I deserved it. I’ve held onto the burden of this for a long time, Banks. That weighs on a person. Drowns them. I’m here because I’m tired of swimming. I’m tired of fighting for life. I simply want to live it.”
I stare at the bump silently, taken aback that she would share that with me. She’s been close-lipped about a lot in her life. Some questions go unanswered, avoided, and evaded like a politician. Trained. Like she’s used to doing it.
We’re alike in that way—always pushing people from the truth when they get too close to it. Scared of what they’ll do when they find out.
“We fight sometimes,” I tell her, not meeting her eyes. I focus on some random object in the kitchen. “It’s worse when he drinks. He’s gotten…bad over the years. This is the worst it’s—” I cringe when I move, sucking in a deep breath at the pain coursing through me. “This is the worst it’s gotten.”
She watches me; I can tell by the burning sensation on the side of my face that doesn’t go away. It only grows. Becomes more intense as she soaks that in. Never naming. Never fully saying what’s between us.
Gently, so gently, her palm cups my jawline, her thumb stroking my bottom lip. “You got into an argument with your father on the phone once. About Dawson. He seemed…mad.”
All I can do is blink, hoping she doesn’t connect the dots. But my Birdie is too smart for her own good.
“You don’t talk about him. Ever.” There’s pain in her voice, asking the silent question that she can’t seem to verbalize. “You get a faraway look on your face whenever he’s brought up.”
I try to answer, to put into words anything that could justify what’s been done. But how can I? She’d never understand. I barely do.
The only thing I can think to say is “He’s sick.” Her crestfallen expression is hard to absorb, so I put my hand on top of the one she still has on my face. “I’ve been surrounded by sick people my whole life, always trying to help them. Cure them. Never able to make a difference no matter how hard I try. My father. Dawson…”
Sawyer’s eyes dim, her hand twitching underneath mine. Still, no words come.
“I’m the enabler. Letting them get away with whatever they want, and it destroys them. Destroys me. But with you, it’s different. You’re different. You’re the peace that I need. A semblance of normalcy I didn’t know I could have.”
Glassiness fills her blue eyes as she shudders out a sharp breath, like she’s struggling to breathe. I can imagine what I’m saying is a lot to process. I never want to burden her, or anybody, with the past I’ve endured.
I lean into her touch, my grip on her tightening to ground me. “I’ll forever be grateful for you, Sawyer.”
“Banks…” she whispers, voice broken.
“I know, Birdie,” I murmur, moving her hand to my mouth and pressing a kiss against the center of her palm.
“I need to tell you…” She shakes her head, lips parting but not saying another word. I wish I could read her mind, but I don’t think I need to.
All I can do is make a promise to the girl who I feel like I’ve known my whole life. I could ask her, try fitting the pieces together and see if they’re one of the same.
But I don’t want to.
Because I need this Sawyer more than the one I held onto in the past.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her. A single tear trails down her cheek, and I swipe it away with my thumb. “Don’t be sad for me. That’s the last thing I want.”
“What do you want then?” she finally asks, voice cracking from the emotion I put there.
Nobody has ever asked me that.
Neither of my parents.
Not Dawson.
What do you want?
I swallow, trying to push past the pain still thrumming through my body.
As much as I want to help my father, I know there’s nothing I can do for him.
I want to escape.
Him. This place.
I want to get my degree and find a job that can appreciate my designs the way my father never could.
Maybe I want what Sawyer wants.
I want to live .
But that takes time.
Day by day.
Choice by choice.
“This,” I finally say, pulling her close and biting back the pain that comes from another person’s weight against my side. “This is what I want.”
Her eyes peek up at me once, studying me, her lips tilting downward at what she sees, before she nods.
We spend the rest of the night curled into each other on the couch, silence blanketing us. I endure the pain as she falls asleep, the air thick with the truth that I can tell she hasn’t swallowed fully yet.
Putting an arm around her, I settle in as best as I can until sleep finds me too.
It’s dreamless.
When I wake up on the couch, she’s not there.