Epilogue Banks
Epilogue
Banks
It took three years after graduating from LSU to raise enough money and gather the building materials for the reconstruction based on my senior project. After the model was approved by the city, a process that stretched far longer than my patience could tolerate, it took another six months to bring to life.
But staring at the red ribbon tied to the freshly planted oak on one side and a wooden post on the other, I can breathe easier knowing all that wait was worth it.
A small hand grazes my bicep, pulling my attention away from where the cameras are setting up by the memorial. “Hey, you,” I greet, draping an arm around the person who’s made the last four years tolerable.
Not easier, but…better.
Dixie smiles up at me. “It’s almost time.”
“Are they here?” I glance at my watch, a new stainless-steel Citizen that she bought me for Christmas two years ago when my grandfather’s stopped working for the final time.
She nods, softness in her eyes. “They just pulled up.”
If it hadn’t been for her suggestion to put on a string of charity shows across the East Coast, I’m not sure we would have been able to make today possible. Her music raised the money we needed and then some, giving us the opportunity to immortalize the person we both mutually respected.
Not to mention she was the voice of reason when the city council kept holding back the approval because of the ridiculous bullshit they needed to do per policy.
Fuck the policy.
Dixie went to every single meeting—every planning board and every public hearing—to make sure I didn’t jump over the dumbass tables and punch the council members in their uptight faces.
It was a memorial for a sick girl.
For a girl who sacrificed herself for others.
And they couldn’t make one simple request happen?
“Let’s go get them,” I say, turning us with my arm still around her shoulder.
A space between the magnolia bushes is open now after we removed and relocated one of the flourishing shrubs in order to create a pathway into the quiet alcove that’s no longer a secret to the public.
First I see Bentley Hawkins, who towers over his mother by a good foot and a half. He shot up since the last time he was in Louisiana. Gone is the boyish fat on the seventeen-year-old’s face, where instead there are mature teenage features.
When his father turns to me, I’m struck by the same emotions I was when he showed up to my apartment the day Sawyer died. He holds out a hand for me to shake, which I do as soon as Dixie and I stop in front of him.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” I say.
Dixie hugs Sawyer’s mom. They’ve become fast friends over the years, talking a few times a month to see how the other is. There’s never going to be a replacement for what Sawyer meant to her family, but I think Dixie offers them comfort with every step she takes in life.
They watch her live because they couldn’t see their daughter prosper. It’s not what they wanted, but I think it’s as close as they can get. So Dixie indulges them the way she indulges me.
“Follow me,” I tell them, leading the small group into the revamped garden.
When they see the new bridge where the old one stood, they stop short.
Sawyer’s mother lets out a shaky breath.
I walk over and grab the framed piece that I preserved from the original structure. “This is for you,” I say, handing them the wood with our initials in it. “We made those when we were kids. I didn’t want it to get lost or taken if we left it hanging here, so I thought the safest place would be with you.”
Bentley is the one who takes it when his mother gets stuck frozen in place, staring at the gift that I hope isn’t too much.
I selfishly thought about keeping it for myself, but I know where it belongs. Which is why hidden under my shirt, right above my heart, is an identical tattoo that I had an artist trace and ink on me permanently.
A personal memorial of my own.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hawkins whispers, eyes glistening as she stares at her daughter’s initials.
Her husband turns to the ribbon. “I know she would have loved this. The days she ran away to meet you were some of her favorites.”
You were my favorite memory.
Dixie rubs my back in silent comfort.
I clear my throat. “They were mine too.”
The photographer from the paper comes over and interrupts. “We’re ready for you.”
Nodding, I turn to Sawyer’s family. “I was wondering if you’d like to do the honors at the ribbon cutting. They’re going to do an article on the memorial. You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to, but it’ll highlight Sawyer’s time here and why this is important.”
The three of them share a look before Mr. Hawkins finally answers. “We’d be honored to do anything to share the love Sawyer had.”
Bentley, who’s been standing silently the entire time, tucks the frame under his arm. “If it’s all right, I think I’ll sit out on the ribbon cutting.”
His mother looks heartbroken. “Bentley…”
He shakes his head. “I can’t,” he whispers.
I grasp his shoulders. “That’s fine.”
Ten minutes later, the photographer takes the photo of Sawyer’s parents cutting the ribbon for the official Sawyer Hawkins memorial and starts the interview.
Hours later, after everybody leaves for their hotels for the night, I’m standing by the end of the bridge when I notice something silver reflecting off the streetlight overhead.
Kneeling down, I graze my fingers over the package of chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts resting by the tree, along with the flowers, stuffed animals, and other mementos left behind.
Bentley.
“I apologized to her,” a voice says from behind me, causing me to dart up and spin to see the seventeen-year-old standing there with his hands in his pockets. He’s looking at his sister’s favorite treat, a permanent frown settled on his face.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
In that moment, I recognize so much of Sawyer in him. I gesture toward the bench Dixie helped me build and sit, waiting for him to join me before saying, “It doesn’t get easier right away, but it will. Eventually.”
He toys with his fingers, keeping his eyes on his lap. “Is it easier for you?”
If I lie, how will that help him? “I’m getting there. It doesn’t happen overnight.”
We fall to silence, save for the passing vehicles and insects in the background.
“I apologized to her for what I said,” he tells me quietly, voice barely more than a murmur. “It doesn’t feel like that matters though.”
I knock his knee with mine until he looks at me. “Sawyer loved you and knew you didn’t mean what you said. She was willing to come back to New York because of that love. That’s what you should focus on.”
“She wasn’t mad?”
I lean back and stretch my legs out. “No. Sawyer had a lot of things to be mad about, but she never let them consume her. If she wasn’t mad about those things, there was no way she was going to stay angry with you.”
I don’t know if that helps or if it even can. It was hard enough losing a friend, a neighbor, a woman who could have possibly been the person for me. But a sister? That break is deeper—harder to heal. I’d know. Dawson was like a brother to me, and his absence is still one I feel wedged into my soul.
“Did you love her?” Bentley asks.
“Sawyer?”
He nods.
Wetting my lips, I stare into the night. It’s not a conversation I’ve had with anybody and definitely not one I planned on having with her little brother. “I loved who she was as a person. I loved a lot of things about her. I could have…” I clear my throat. “If things were different, I could have.”
“And do you love who Dixie is as a person?”
The question raises my brows.
“I like her,” he says, shrugging.
Me too. “Dixie…” Dixie got me through a tough time. We mourned together. Grieved together. Slowly tried healing together. She became one of my closest allies, and for that I’ll forever be grateful. “Dixie has been a good friend to me.”
She grounded me when I needed it most, no matter how much I fought her. Helped me make this memorial come to life. I’ll be grateful for her for life.
“Nobody can compare to Sawyer,” I tell him, if that’s why he’s asking. “I think we love people in different ways based on how they fit into our lives. As friends. As family. Sometimes as more.”
Contemplation has him nodding along slowly. “I guess so.”
One day, I think he’ll understand.
Hell, maybe one day I will.
I think about Dixie, who was going to meet up with a group of friends she met at the music store she works at part-time when she’s here in the summers. Between her travel schedule for the mini tour she’s been doing at concert halls with her family and the help she’s given me to make today possible, she’s busier than normal.
And I…I miss her. Watching TV is boring without her commentary. Music doesn’t interest me the same way when she’s not here giving me her explanation of the beat changes and what she thinks the lyrics mean. Her friendship fills the hole in my heart that’s been there since Sawyer passed.
I knew being apart was bound to happen eventually, especially since I accepted a job in New York working for an architectural firm. I start in two weeks, move into my small, overpriced studio apartment next week, and bring Louisiana to a close once and for all.
You could leave here, Sawyer told me.
I knew I couldn’t until I finished this.
But now that it’s done…
It’s time for me to start a new chapter instead of rereading the last one.
Bentley sighs. “Today meant a lot to my parents. They needed this. Thank you for making it happen.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
He lifts his shoulders and stands. “It made them happy to be part of something that involved her again. I miss them being that way.”
I watch him quietly as his eyes move over the bridge, then to the tree covered in memorial gifts, and then back down to the Pop-Tarts.
Before we can say anything else, a bright-red bird lands on the tree branch directly in front of Bentley and squawks once. Its head tilts as it studies the teenager before making another noise.
“I called her Birdie,” I note, staring at the bird watching him just as intently as he is watching it.
The bird turns to me, squawking again.
A case of déjà vu hits me. “That’s a cardinal.”
Bentley doesn’t look away from it.
The bird flies over, landing on his shoulder and squawking once more, as if trying to talk to him. Then it flies over to me, and I swear it rubs its head against my jaw once.
“Birdie,” I whisper.
It spreads its wings and does a loop around us before landing on the railing of the bridge.
“You don’t really think…?” Bentley’s voice fades, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I think anything is possible at this point.”
The bird watches us for a little while longer before taking off, its fleeting squawks fading into the distance as it soars up, up, up until we can’t see it at all.
But its lasting effect remains.
“Paxton?” Bentley says, turning to me.
I look at him.
“She’d want you to be happy.”
All I can do is stare at him.
“Dixie seems nice.”
I’m silent.
He gestures to where the bird was watching us. “I think that’s probably as good of a sign as you’ll ever get to move on. She clearly has. Maybe we should too.”
That’s all he says before tucking his hands into his pockets and walking away.
Later that night, I find myself at the apartment Dixie rents on a month-to-month basis. When she answers the door, I say, “I’m moving to New York.”
She blinks at the news, which she’s asked me about since I admitted to submitting a few applications up north. “You got the job.”
“I got the job.”
She smiles, stepping into me for a hug. “I’m happy for you, Paxton.”
Paxton.
I’m still not used to hearing that name.
When she steps back, I lift my car keys. “Ice cream to celebrate?”
She smiles, grabbing a jacket and following me out. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She gets mint chocolate chip.
I get cookies and cream.
And another little piece of the hole in my chest closes, stitched up by the hope of someday.
Whatever someday brings.