Page 109 of Past the Broken Bridges

She shrugs limply. “I feel pathetic. I basically got broken up with by somebody I wasn’t even really dating. And I…I liked him. Or theideaof him, anyway. I thought I could fix him. Or, at the very least, help him. I know Banks told me that people could only change if they wanted to, but it seemed like he was trying.”

As much as I hate that she went through that, I know it’s easier this way. “You’re better off without him and his issues. In fact, I don’t think he and Banks are talking right now either. Whoever those guys are, they’re probably people you don’t want to be around.”

It’s true, but I can tell she still hurts. Nothing I can say right now will make that go away. Only time can.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”I’m a terrible friend.“You should have called me when it happened. We could have gone somewhere. Gotten drunk and then posted bad things about him anonymously online.”

She shrugs defeatedly, my sense of humor doing little to lighten the mood. “You were busy with your family, and it wasn’t like we were exactly talking.”

That’s no excuse. Friends should be there for each other no matter the circumstances. I told her that.

Dixie rubs her arm. “Banks was there for me after it happened.”

What?

“He found me wandering around town crying,” she enlightens when she sees my face. Her cheeks turn red. “Not one of my finer moments, but I didn’t want to be cooped up in my dorm room listening to everybody else have fun. He took me out for ice cream at his favorite spot. The one on the edge of town.”

Banks was there, and I wasn’t.

I’m grateful.

“That’s nice of him,” I offer, rubbing my arm. I didn’t even know Banks liked ice cream, but I was glad he could help her when she obviously needed it.

“Don’t be like me,” she says. Brows pinching, I shake my head in confusion. She doesn’t make me ask. “Don’t hold back when you like someone because you’re afraid. And don’t hold on if you’re too scared to let go.”

Truth is, I’m terrified. But not for the reasons she probably assumes. Starting something isn’t nearly as scary as when it ends, knowing you’ve hurt people along the way.

“It’s not like that anyway,” I tell her softly.

“Something happened,” she accuses, eyes narrowing into suspicious slits.

The blush heats my cheeks before I can stop it, giving me away. When I woke up the morning after we slept together, I felt…good. Sore, but good. He made us breakfast, kissed me, and then pointed out the bruises on my arms from where he’d held me on the couch.

“I bruise easily,” I admit, breaking off a piece of the Pop-Tart he gave me.

Since then, things have been…fine. Not complicated or awkward, but stagnant thanks to me and the funny feeling in my chest that tells me to be careful. It’s not my gut waving the checkered flag but my heart.

Because I like him. As a friend. As a neighbor. As a cute girl likes a cute boy. Our first time wasn’t exactly how I imagined it would be because I could tell he was in his head, but he still took care of me when it mattered. I know better than most that we all have demons, so I would never judge him for it.

It doesn’t change how I feel. Howhemakes me feel. I like how he kisses me, how he touches me, how he pays special attention to the noises I make when he brings me to release with his fingers, and that one time with his mouth. I especially like what he does to me when our clothes are off and he takes control of the situation.

But Banks is the type of boy girls fall for.

And I can’t afford that.

So I do my best to avoid it instead—that funny, tingly feeling.

When he tries coming over, I insist on going to his place so he doesn’t see the mess of things that are hidden in my apartment. When he wants me to stay over, I worry my wig won’t stay on and he’ll see my real hair in all its horror in the middle of the night when restlessness from bad dreams becomes too much.

He pushes, I pull, and I can’t even tell him why—can’t explain that it isn’t him.

Dixie is still waiting for an answer when I come back to reality. “Let’s say I crossed a few other things off my list,” I tell her sheepishly, nibbling on the inside of my cheek.

She smacks her palms on the table. “Oh my God, yousleptwith him!”

The group of girls sitting at a nearby table starts giggling.

I hide my face, sure that one of them is in the journalism class that I’m brutally failing. “Yes, but keep it down. It’s not that big of a deal.”

---