Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Thirty-Three Banks

Chapter Thirty-Three

Banks

When I see my father follow the officer back to where I’m being held in the small cell, the fear that cemented into my chest intensifies because I have no idea what he’s going to do. He won’t cause a scene. Not here. After is a different question.

When the door is unlocked and my father steps in, I don’t expect the crushing hug he pulls me into before either of us can say a word. Even though my ribs still hurt like a bitch, it’s a pain I don’t mind in the moment.

Because I needed it more than I knew after being stuck here for the past fourteen hours.

And when he pulls back, I definitely don’t expect the tears in his bloodshot eyes. “They said…” He chokes, throat bobbing as he runs his hands over my face to make sure I’m real. “I heard that your truck was involved in a fatal accident. They said the driver died. I thought…”

He stops himself again, pulling me back in and hugging me harder than he ever has before. I almost forget the physical pain because of all the emotional pain that envelops me.

“God, Paxton. If I lost you…” His voice is hoarse, cutting off and forcing him to clear his throat.

Don’t leave me like her.

“I don’t know what I would do,” he admits. “I thought you were gone. Just like your—”

He stops himself short of saying my mother, the look in his eyes full of the dread that my soul understands all too well.

Except Mom isn’t dead.

She’s alive and well and living a happy life away from us and all of the bullshit that comes with being stuck here.

This time, it’s me who pulls back.

My jaw trembles.

I didn’t cry when they brought me in.

I didn’t even shed a tear when I heard the radio scanner talk about the two people who were taken by the coroner from the accident, knowing one of them was my best friend.

Physically, I couldn’t let it out, even though I felt the desperation and sadness boiling over.

But here, in front of the father I’ve never let see me cry once in my lifetime, no matter the arguments or the beatings or anything in between, I break down and say the words I haven’t been able to aloud. “Dawson is dead.”

He doesn’t respond.

His throat bobs.

His hand comes out.

I flinch.

Then he pats my arm, as if he already gave me all the comfort he possibly could have.