Chapter Thirty-Eight Sawyer
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sawyer
My father took a leave of absence from work, which is the last thing I wanted him to do. But between him and the daily calls from my mother since Banks— Paxton —contacted him, I stopped fighting them on anything.
I haven’t been to school in almost two weeks, and Dad gave up encouraging me to after the first one came and went. It was clear I’d made up my mind. It took everything he had to convince my mother to stay in New York with Bentley, and I could hear how tired he was from their conversations at night, which usually led to intense fights.
All because of me.
Always because of me.
On Thursday, my father knocks on my bedroom door and cracks it open. “Can I come in, baby girl?”
He will anyway, so I simply nod.
My eyes follow his shoes as they near me before he turns and sits on the edge of the bed. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t stay in here forever.”
His hand comes down on top of my head, playing with my hair the way he and my mother used to do when I was little. It doesn’t feel as good as it did then—doesn’t comfort me the way I wish it could.
“I’m tired” is my only response.
I’ve been tired for days. Weeks. Months. But the kind of fatigue plaguing my body now feels so heavy, it’s like somebody tied two anchors to my ankles and expected me to walk. My limbs ache and drag and hurt. Despite barely eating, I’m bloated and uncomfortable. And based on the way my rib cage stuck out when my father forced me to shower yesterday, I’m losing weight.
I want to chalk it up to sadness.
To the non-breakup that still did something funny to my heart.
But I know what it really is.
I stare at his watch, watching the hands move.
Tick tock, tick tock.
“If you got up and ate something, it’d help,” he suggests, though it’s pointless. I’ve entertained the meals he’s given me because I know it’ll make him feel better, but I’ve gotten sick the last three nights in a row. Even toast doesn’t stay down long enough to matter.
I shake my head, closing my eyes again.
Dad sighs, his hand stilling. “I know this might not mean much, but if it makes you feel any better, I like him.”
Him. Paxton. Banks. Whoever he is.
“He went behind my back.”
“He cares about you.” His voice is thick. “I don’t know any other reason he would have called me when he could have let things go and had time with you to himself. Kept your secret. Not a lot of people would sacrifice what he did, but he did it for you. That says something, kiddo.”
It’s better he pawned me off. We couldn’t stay in a fantasy world forever. What would happen when the lymph nodes became so swollen they collapsed a lung? Or made it impossible to eat? What would he do when I was in my apartment hunched over a toilet while he was supposed to be in class? I didn’t need a caregiver, nor did I want one. If I did, I would have stayed home.
I needed a friend. A companion. A distraction.
Somebody I could have feigned happiness with for a little while longer.
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
I’m certain there are no more tears left to cry because despite the prickle of emotion rising up my throat, my eyes don’t water. “If he cared, then where is he?”
He hasn’t come to my apartment.
Hasn’t dropped off any Pop-Tarts or coffee.
There have been no texts. No calls. Nothing.
You were my favorite memory.
Maybe that’s the only thing he will ever be.
“Tonight is the service,” he tells me quietly.
I crack an eye open. “How did you—”
“I went to the school. Don’t make that face, Sawyer.” My father gives me the look that has me swallowing my reply. “They needed to know what was happening. Your adviser told me where Dawson Gable’s service was in case you were able to attend.”
I can’t believe he would go to campus. I should have known he wasn’t just going to let me stay here. He’s too logical.
“Banks will be there,” he adds.
Finally, I meet his eyes.
“They were friends, right?” he asks, brows drawn up. “There’s no doubt that he’ll be there to say goodbye. I wish I was there for you when the accident happened, and I wish I was there when you were in the hospital, but I can be here for you through this.”
“Dad, I don’t know if—”
“Was Dawson your friend?”
He already knows that answer. “Yes.”
“You tried to save him,” he points out. “You cared enough to get into that truck to try to make sure he was safe. I’ll be honest with you, sweetie. I’m not a fan of his, and I hate speaking ill of the dead. He put you at risk, and I’ll never be okay with that. But it says a lot more about your character than it does his. I know you, Sawyer. You’ll regret not going. You’ll regret not being able to gain some closure from this.”
Closure.
Isn’t that what this whole journey has been about?
My bottom lip quivers. “I didn’t save him, Dad. I failed him. And I lied to a lot of people.”
He pulls me into him for a hug. “You did what you could. That’s what matters.”
I clench my eyes closed, burying my face into his chest and breathing in his signature scent that has always calmed me—laundry detergent and Irish Spring soap.
Running his hands over my back, he presses a kiss on top of my head. “What do you say?”
I force myself to sit up, letting the blankets pool at my waist. “Why?”
“Why what?”
Shame coats my heart. “Why aren’t you yelling at me? Why aren’t you mad? I keep messing up, Dad. And now somebody is dead . Somebody who had a whole life ahead of them. There’s another hospital bill for thousands of dollars in my name. I’ve hurt people, even though I tried so hard not to get too close. I…” I can’t finish, my voice becoming too weak from the mistakes weighing on my vocal cords.
The weight on my chest is crushing.
Pulling me under.
Squeezing out what little air I have left in me.
For a moment, he’s quiet as he soothes me by rubbing my arm. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
When I manage to take a long, deep breath, he pats my hand gently once.
“There’s a lot I wish you had been honest about,” he admits, disappointment in his eyes. “But you never meant for any of this to happen. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. And none of that is important right now. Today is about grieving. It’s about saying goodbye. We’ll figure out the other stuff later. Together. Okay?”
Saying goodbye. To Dawson.
To Banks.
To Louisiana?
He stands. “Why don’t you take a shower and find something to wear. We’ll get something light to eat before the service. I’ll drive us.”
Sometimes, I wish he’d tell me how disappointed he is in me. That he’s upset at how I’ve acted. They gave me freedom, and this is what I’ve done with it.
He loves me too much to let any of that change his perception of me.
Before he leaves, I say, “I love you.”
His smile brightens his eyes when he smiles at me, but there’s still a dullness to them that I know I’ve caused. “I love you too, baby girl.”
* * *
The service is somber, the funeral home only half-full of people I mostly don’t recognize. Dad and I walked in fifteen minutes before it started and took a seat toward the back. Being next to the casket…
I couldn’t do it.
For somebody who has been surrounded by terminal illness, I’ve gone twenty-one years without attending a funeral. I never thought the first one would be under these circumstances.
Dixie showed up five minutes before it started, looked at the casket, and walked out. I wanted to follow her, but Banks…Paxton beat me to it. Neither of them saw me hidden next to my dad in the back pew. I asked Dixie if she was going, and she never replied.
She was upset with me, and I understood.
I lied time and time again.
I didn’t tell her about the biggest part of me.
That would hurt anyone.
I spend the first thirty minutes staring at Paxton, who’s sitting beside a crying woman in the front row after coming back without Dixie. When she gets up to speak to the crowd, I see how much Dawson looked like the older woman. His mother. A man walks up beside her. Tall. Maybe as tall as Dawson was, if not taller. His father.
I wonder if he’s looking down on this moment to see how his parents have come together for him. And I can’t help but wonder how my family will act the day of mine. Will they share embarrassing stories about me? Talk about their favorite memories? I wouldn’t be happy to see them torn up. I’d want them to be happy to know I was okay.
Finally okay.
Done fighting and finally at peace.
An hour in, Paxton turns to study the crowd, and I wonder who he’s looking for. His eyes find their way to me and then to my father, who tips his head in acknowledgment the way he does when he’s greeting other men.
It’s simple. Respectful.
My father does like him.
If things were different, would my father choose him for me the way I would choose him in another lifetime?
The spell of thoughts is broken when Paxton shifts his focus to somebody else, sitting straighter in his seat. From here, the only way to describe his expression is shock.
Leaning forward subtly, I try finding who’s captured his attention. There are a few people lining the seats three rows ahead of me, but his eyes look like they’re locked on a tan brunette whom I’ve never seen before.
My father gently clears his throat at me.
Blushing, I sit back and turn my focus back to what the officiant says as he wraps up the service. Nobody shared their stories of Dawson the way I expected. Did somebody ask them not to in fear of what they’d say? I find it hard to believe that the people here weren’t touched by him at some point. He had his troubles, but he was kind. Funny. Charming, even.
When the night ends, my father waits by the car to give me space to talk to whom I need to. He nods in encouragement when I look to him, so I stand taller and remind myself that I’ve been through worse than a conversation.
Walking over to where Paxton is standing by the mysterious brunette, I can’t help but listen in while his back is to me.
“Desiree, don’t you think it’s a little pathetic to attend the funeral of somebody whom you treated like shit? This isn’t a church. I’d hardly consider it the place to confess your sins.”
“I apologized to him and to you for what I did,” she hisses, looking offended. “Just because things didn’t end well doesn’t mean I didn’t care. And you guys made up, even after you were a willing participant in us getting together. So why are you being an asshole to me?”
Paxton snorts. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have gone after both of us knowing we were friends.”
The girl, Desiree, sees me standing behind Paxton and turns red. She looks back to our mutual friend and says, “I came here for Dawson, not to prove anything to you. It’s nice to know you haven’t changed, Paxton.”
She called him Paxton. Not Banks.
A crack forms in my heart.
I thought his father was the only one who called him that—and me, a long, long time ago.
Paxton turns. “Sawyer.”
“Banks,” I say, unsure of what to call him. “I—” Wetting my lips, I look between him and Desiree. She watches me curiously before scoffing and leaving us alone, disappearing to God only knows where. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.”
I’m not sure I believe him.
He clearly sees that. His tone softens. “I mean it. Talking to her is the last thing I want to do tonight. Ever, if I’m being honest.”
I wet my lips. “Not me?”
His brows furrow. “You?”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been giving you space .”
Space. Is it really that simple? “What if I don’t want space?”
His eyes roam over my face before a frown settles onto his. “But what about what you need ?”
This time, I don’t answer him.
Paxton glances in the direction of my father before looking at the ground. “How are things with your family?”
That’s what he wants to talk about? “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
His gaze lifts. “Yes.”
“At one point, it seemed like we were more,” I press, swallowing down the embarrassment of the non-question. “And I know I messed that up, and I know you know why I had to. But you can be honest with me.”
If I have to ask, isn’t that answer enough?
Paxton closes his eyes. “Sawyer…”
“She called you Paxton.”
He closes his eyes and pushes his glasses up with a long exhale. “Desiree has always done whatever she’s wanted. She knows what buttons to push to get a reaction. But she doesn’t matter. She hasn’t mattered in a long time. I don’t think she ever did, if I’m being real with you.”
All I can do is nod, feeling embarrassed that I’m jealous when I have no right to be.
“You chose this,” he reminds me.
“I know.” I swallow. “Friends. Friends is good. Friends is what I…I need.”
Friends is all it should be.
I start backing up.
“Birdie,” he says, trying to stop me. “Thank you for being here. It would have meant a lot to Dawson.”
His eyes are pleading like he wants to say so much more, but he refrains.
So he settles with “It means a lot to me. Dixie…she wanted to stay. But she couldn’t handle it. You should check on her.”
“She hasn’t been talking to me,” I admit.
“She’s upset about a lot of things,” he tells me quietly. “But regardless of that, she needs a friend. You can push me away all you want, but don’t push her away. Even if she lets you.”
I stare down at the ground. He cares about her. That’s…good, I decide. Really good.
I told Dixie he’d need her someday.
“I’ll try,” I say.
“Good.”
I peek up at him. “Good.”
As I start walking away, I see his face pale at somebody lingering off to the side.
“Banks?” I ask.
His nostrils flare, and I swear I see his jaw grind the way it did when he got into an argument with his father on the phone the first night we ever slept together.
Selfish.
That’s what he was upset about.
But he’s the least selfish person I know.
“Banks?” I repeat, putting my hand on his arm to snap him away from whoever has his attention.
“I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up here,” he says, so low that it sounds like a cold growl and feels like ice over my skin.
I turn. “Who?”
“Don’t.” He pulls my attention away from the person I’m trying to see. “Marco. The person responsible for Dawson’s habit. And more than likely his relapse.”
Marco is here ? I turn again despite Banks’s warning, scoping out the lawn until I see somebody staring in our direction. He’s by himself, half hidden by the shadows of the side of the building with his arms crossed. But I can see one arm covered in a sleeve of tattoos, just like the guy who approached Dawson on campus. And he’s…smiling?
“I’ve seen him before,” I tell him. “At school.”
Banks’s eyes snap to me. “He’s not allowed on campus.”
Well, that didn’t stop him. “He went up to Dawson and gave him something. Dawson looked a little scared.”
Banks steps forward. “That son of a—”
“Don’t,” I plead, grabbing ahold of his arm to stop him from approaching Marco. “That’s what he wants. A reaction. Don’t give it to him. It won’t change what happened.”
His eyes stay on Marco. “He doesn’t deserve to be here. Somebody needs to do something about him before he ruins more lives. To stand up to him.”
“Somebody will,” I promise him. “But it doesn’t have to be you. He’s already gotten into trouble once. He’ll get into it again, especially if they find out he was associated with the drugs that caused Dawson to…” I can’t say the word.
Overdose.
Nobody talks about it.
Nobody acknowledges it.
It’s the elephant in the room.
Before he crashed, he started overdosing on whatever he’d been given. My guess is he took what he got from the guys at the party, but he took too much. I’m not sure what would have happened if he didn’t get behind the wheel. Would be still be alive? Or would the drugs have taken him on the side of the road? In an Uber?
I don’t like thinking about it.
Because he’s gone.
What-ifs don’t matter.
Eventually, Banks stands down, his eyes dipping to where I hold on to his arm. When they lift to meet mine, I say, “Let it be somebody else’s problem.”
It takes him a few deep breaths before he nods, only once, with his lips pressed into a reluctant straight line.
When I know he’s not going to approach Marco, I let go of him. “Thank you.”
He wets his lips. “Paxton.”
My brows pinch.
His throat bobs. “You’re the only one who I want to call me that. You were the only one I ever liked calling me that. Not my father. Not Desiree. You.”
You were my favorite memory.
Heart swelling in my chest, I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats.
We stare at one another for what feels like an eternity before I realize my father is still waiting.
“I should go.”
“Okay,” he says again.
“Bye.” I pause. “Paxton.”
He parts his lips and then closes them.
He doesn’t want to say goodbye.
So I don’t let him.
I walk away and let my father help me into the car without looking back. I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I do.
“Your mother called again,” he tells me as soon as we’re driving. “You should know that we talked about it, and I’ve chosen to take an early retirement. Your mother and I feel it’s for the best to spend as much time together as a family since…”
I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool window, saying nothing at all.
Since my cancer progressed.
Since we’re on borrowed time.
Tick tock, tick tock.
That night, I ask Dad to drop me off at the dorms after stopping by the closest gas station. I knock on Dixie’s door and hold up a plastic bag. “I know ice cream is you and Banks’s thing, but I think we both could use it.”
She stares at the bag and then at me.
Tears form in her eyes.
I hug her. She hugs me back.
We cry until we fall asleep in her twin bed.
The ice cream melts.