Chapter Forty Sawyer
Chapter Forty
Sawyer
If there’s one thing I hate more than walking into a room late, it’s being stared at when people know your secret. There’s always pity in their eyes. Empty sympathy. They know, but they can’t relate. Most people are only sad because they feel like they should be. There’s nothing personal about the emotion they feel, no reason for them to lose sleep the way I know my family has. The way Paxton and Dixie have. They feel obligated to, like they’d be bad people if they didn’t act like they cared.
Professor Grey is the only one who treats me normally when I come back on my father’s and Paxton’s recommendations to finish the last few weeks of school. There’s no special treatment, no after-class talks of encouragement like I get from my other professors. He’s smart enough to know there’s nothing that can be done except to move forward.
At the end of class, he hands me back my graded short story with his notes jotted into the margins. He pats my shoulder and in a low voice says, “That’s what I meant when I said to channel something personal. Good job.”
When he moves on, I read the comment he made on the last page.
A beautiful story that will forever haunt me. One day, you should consider publishing this.
One day…
I flatten the stapled papers down and sink into my seat. My parents would love his optimism, but all I can think is… how appropriate.
I can add another nickname to my arsenal.
Sawyer Hawkins.
Tom Sawyer.
Birdie.
Ghost .
Maybe that should go on my gravestone.
Here lies the haunted Sawyer Hawkins. Daughter. Sister. Ghost.
Paxton leans over. “That’s awesome. You got an A.” When I drag my eyes over to him, he pales. “Sawyer?”
A droplet of blood lands on the paper.
Then another.
My stomach drops as I run my hand under my nose and see the smear of bright red on my skin.
I stand abruptly, drawing attention from everybody in the room. Then I run out, barely able to grab my bag before I launch myself into the bathroom.
When I see my reflection in the mirror, I see sunken, sad eyes dulled to a stormy blue-gray. The sink quickly fills with blood, reminding me why I’m there. I grab as many paper towels as I can and tip my head back to stop the bleeding.
A few minutes later, I hear a hesitant “Sawyer?” at the cracked door.
“Go away, Paxton.”
The door opens farther, his head poking in. “Are you alone in here?”
“This is the girls’ bathroom,” I point out.
He sighs, pauses, and then walks in to where I’m standing by the sink. “I should have figured it out sooner.”
Feeling lightheaded, I sink to the floor, not caring what may be on it. Paxton watches me lean back against the wall before joining me.
“The nosebleeds, when you passed out, the bruises…” He lets his words fade.
How could he have guessed? “I didn’t want you to,” I murmur, pinching my nose harder. “I wanted you to like me.”
“I still like you.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him studying me. His jaw ticks before he looks away and mimics my body language, leaning his head against the wall and staring up at the ceiling.
In another lifetime.
“Fate is a cruel bitch,” I murmur.
Paxton is quiet for a second.
Then he starts laughing, and it sounds like it comes from deep inside him. The rumbling sound shakes his shoulders and his chest, and eventually, I can’t help but join him.
Only when he catches his breath does he say, “It really is.”
After I get the bleeding to stop, Paxton helps me dispose of the soaked paper towels and guides me up. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home. Unless your dad is coming to get you.”
I shake my head, watching as he puts my bag over his shoulder. “He went back to his apartment for a few days. I think he’s finally giving me some space now that he knows I’m not going to randomly drop dead.”
He swallows, the light mood from before quickly darkening. “That’s not funny.”
All I can do is shrug.
Putting his hand on my lower back, he holds open the bathroom door for me and ignores the skeptical expressions that we get from passersby. I don’t care what they think, and he obviously doesn’t either.
“Can we go to our bridge?”
He wets his lips. “I don’t know…”
He’s worried. I get it. “Please?”
His eyes close briefly before he loosens a sigh, his fingers moving away from my back for a moment before putting pressure there again. “I can’t say no to you when you say that.”
I wonder if he wishes he could.
An hour later, we’re sitting by the broken bridge that looks like it lost another plank. “It won’t last much longer.”
Paxton walks over and examines it, testing the posts and carefully balancing on a few pieces to get to the other side. He almost falls into the tiny stream below but catches himself on the railing, which creaks and groans under his body weight. “It has a chance. It’s strong.”
Is he talking about the bridge still?
I stand on the opposite end and watch him kneel to study the integrity of the structure. “Your sketch,” I start. “Was it inspired by this?”
Paxton looks up at me through his lashes, two little pink dots on his cheeks. “You noticed that, huh?”
“I should have realized sooner.”
He stands, leaning on the post. “How could you have? There was so much we couldn’t have known about each other months ago.”
I don’t say anything.
“My father designed this whole hideaway,” he explains, looking around. “He taught me everything I know about landscaping and architecture. He helped me win science fairs with bridge models we’d build together in his shop. He taught me how to draw. How to make my own designs to scale. I wouldn’t be here, not at the college or as far into my degree, without him. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that when…”
He stops himself from finishing. “When what?” I ask.
His eyes go to the sky, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “I saw Marco yesterday. I was this close ”—he moves his two fingers together—“to confronting him. To telling him off. To making him regret putting Dawson and God knows who else in the position he did. How many deaths is he responsible for? Overdoses? He’s walking around like he hasn’t impacted anybody. Like he’s innocent.”
“I thought you were going to let it go.” After the service, it seemed like he heard me. Like he understood that Marco would be caught. “What could you have done if you confronted him? What if he’s dangerous?”
Paxton doesn’t speak for a tense moment. “Dawson had a gun.” My eyes widen, but before I can say anything, he adds, “He was afraid of Marco and whoever else he was involved with. I don’t know what I would have done. But I would have risked it. I thought about risking it.”
“Why?”
“Because…” His eyes evade mine. “Because I don’t know what I have to lose anymore. My father will never change. We’ll never be okay. Dawson is gone. You’re…”
Once again, his words fade away, and the empty expression on his face makes my heart sink. “The future,” I tell him.
He finally looks up at me, those brown eyes distant through the lenses of his glasses.
“You have the future to lose. Trust me, Paxton. That’s everything.” I nod, almost to myself more than to him. “I don’t like what your father has done to you, but he’s set you up for a future that not all of us are going to get. And I’m sorry… I’m sorry that I lied. That I kept secrets. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but my intention was never to hurt more people than I already have. You’re a good person. The kind of person who doesn’t deserve what life has handed you. But it’s not too late. To change it. To take control of it. Sometimes a risk isn’t worth taking if it means giving up what you haven’t even discovered yet.”
His throat bobs as he watches me, his nostrils flaring open and closed before he turns away. I see him wet his lips, swallow, and take a deep breath. Then he asks, “And what about you and your risks? What about the things you haven’t been able to discover?”
I inhale slowly, exhaling as I make eye contact with him. “My biggest risk was coming here. Leaving my family behind. And you know what I discovered?”
He stares at me.
“You.”
His jaw ticks.
“Dixie.”
He swallows again.
“Dawson,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
“I discovered what it’s like to be part of something outside me,” I tell him, hugging my legs to my chest. “I learned what it’s like to have friends. To have…more.”
We fall to silence while he soaks that in.
Then, ever so quietly, I say, “In another lifetime, right?”
He opens his eyes to reveal a glassy gaze pointed in my direction.
I smile. It’s small. But it’s genuine. “You don’t have to stay here, you know.”
He watches me.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “You could go somewhere far, far away and never look back if you wanted to. Away from your father. Away from…all of this.”
The memories.
The pain.
“I do want that, but I don’t know how to get there. This is all I know,” he whispers.
My smile wavers. “Is it? Or it all you’ve allowed yourself to accept?”
Paxton is quiet, his eyes dropping to the ground.
“I read a book once and remember a quote in it about how we accept the love we think we deserve,” I murmur, my chin resting on my bent knees. “But you deserve more than what your father can offer you. More than what I could. Than what even Dawson could. This life”—I gesture around us—“that you’ve made yourself used to can be changed. You don’t need your father. He needs you. That’s the difference.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“You have the ability to do amazing things in life, Paxton,” I say softly, finally getting him to lift his head. “And I’ll be living vicariously through you from wherever I go after this.”
He blinks.
I blink.
Taking a deep breath, he looks up to the sky.
I give him the time he needs.
One minute.
Two.
After three, he meets my eyes. Then he holds out his hand. “Come here.”
Biting my lip, I look down at the planks.
“I won’t let you get hurt. I promise. I just need…”
You is the unspoken word I let myself believe he was going to say.
My steps are slow and careful as I try mimicking the moves he made to avoid the weak spots. The second I put my hand in his, a spark shoots up my arm as he pulls me into him as the board underneath my foot gives out.
We fall, me landing on top of him on the ground. Heart racing as I look down at his panicked face, he’s quickly examining me, frantically about to ask, “Are you—” when I stop him with my mouth.
The kiss drowns out his question as I position myself over him so my knees dig into the soft grass on either side of his waist.
His hands go to my hips, my shirt rising slightly until a sliver of discolored skin appears. He gently runs a finger over it, his brows furrowing. When he lifts the material, he sucks in a breath when he sees the other bruises along my abdomen.
They started showing up days ago. Each spot a horrible shade of purple and blue. There are other patches that are yellow. My ribs show in ways they haven’t in a long time, making me look ten times worse than I feel. If my mother had a say, she would be force-feeding me every two hours.
I can only imagine what being back home will be like once she sees me. It’ll kill her. All of those memories of her crying in the kitchen over me will become another reality.
But I don’t want to think about that.
I don’t want to think about anything.
I return his hands to my bare skin, trailing them up to my chest until I make him cup me above my bra. “Help me forget.”
“Sawyer—”
“I won’t break.”
Doubt clouds his eyes.
“I won’t,” I whisper in assurance.
I lean forward, kissing him once, twice, three times until he finally kisses me back. Gently, so gently, he explores my mouth and my body under my clothes. When it’s clear that he won’t take the lead, I do.
And he lets me.
Not turning me down.
Not rejecting me.
Giving me control.
Letting me set the pace.
To take what I need.
His hands explore every marred inch of me.
Every bruise.
Every scar.
Every piece of exposed skin that shows the state of my health that’s ripping us apart.
And in that moment, he’s mine, and I’m his, and we’re the only two people who matter.
What comes next doesn’t cross our minds.
Not until our shuddered breaths catch at the release we both find in each other.
And as we collect ourselves, bodies sated, eyes mirrored with sadness as we stare at the tattered bridge, I realize how full circle we’ve come to pass the broken bridge to be with each other again.
One last time.
“In another lifetime,” he finally repeats.