Page 11 of Past the Broken Bridges

I playfully push his shoulder. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Mom already did that.”

His low chuckle brightens his brown eyes, making himlook a lot younger than fifty. The speckles of silver in his dark hair are the only reminder that my father is getting older. Not that it stops him. As a senior chief petty officer in the Navy, the man keeps in shape. He says he needs to if he’s going to match the new recruits’ energy. “You know this is hard for your mother. She worries about you. We both do.”

There’s a lot left unsaid about why they’re so worried, but the concern melded into his expression is hard to misinterpret.

I nod in understanding. “I get that, but I’ll be fine. And look—” I gesture toward the one-bedroom apartment he helped me set up today. “I live in a great place. The area is safe, you said so yourself. I know Mom did research almost every night when I told you I didn’t want to live on campus.”

My father eyes me, and I know what the look is for. He’s not concerned about the apartment or the crime rate. At least, that’s not his main concern. He sees past the pretty blond wig and light makeup coverage that hide the truth. “You have been through so much, baby girl. It’s hard to not worry with this next step.”

Swallowing down the emotion from his thick response, I take a deep breath. “Isn’t this next step better than the alternative?”

For once, he’s quiet.

Somber.

I don’t mean to hurt him or Mom or Bentley. The only goal I have in life is to finally live it, and that’s what I’m doing. It’s why I didn’t want to waste time living in a dorm room, sharing a bathroom with strangers and wondering if I’d get along with my roommate. Mom liked the idea of me being near the campus health clinic, where I could be monitored more quickly, but I had to remind her that therewere certain things campus staff probably weren’t trained for. They only agreed to this apartment because of how close it was to the hospital and Dad’s base where his housing unit is.

I try reasoning with him the best I can. “If I need something, you won’t be that far away. Plus, I promised I’d call Mom all the time.”

They both understand that things can change. Haven’t the past five years proven that there’s no guarantee in life? That’s why I’m here, so I can be a normal twenty-something-year-old. Maybe I’ll go to a party. Maybe I’ll drink. The possibilities are endless.

My parents aren’t stupid. They’re just my parents. Neither of them wants to see me go through any more than I already have. But I’d rather have the normal experiences than the ones that have aged me.

Dad lets go of a soft breath. “I really am proud of you, kiddo.”

I blush, looking down at the hardwood floor.Myhardwood floor. Even though I never liked my feet being cold, I’m excited to step on it in the mornings when I drag myself from the queen bed in the back bedroom into the kitchen in the front for a survivalist drink. Aka caffeine.

He checks his watch and stands taller. “I’ve got to get going. Thank you for entertaining your old man for the day. Make sure to eat those leftovers in the fridge before they go bad. Seafood shouldn’t be left for long, even if it’s cooked.”

Rolling my eyes at the information that certainly isn’t new, I say, “I know, Dad. Just because we’re in the Big Easy doesn’t mean I haven’t had shrimp before.”

His smile matches my own—Mom has said so herself.That smile reminds me so much of your daddy,she’d tell me on the days we both missed him. “All right, all right. I’ll getout of your hair.” He cringes at the term, caressing said hair, before pressing a kiss to the top of my head and reminding me, for the third time, to lock the door behind him.

Which I do.

And then I turn around and study the small space with a big smile. There isn’t much on the walls, save for the photo Mom took over the summer of me and our elderly golden retriever Maggie, who’s way more gray than yellow in the face anymore, and one of my favorite pictures of my parents from their twentieth-anniversary dinner that I swiped from their mantle. They were laughing because Bentley and I were making dumb faces to get Dad to smile since he’s spent too long being told not to for his military photos. The couch is a Salvation Army special that my father only paid fifty dollars for, the coffee table was an old one from his apartment, and the rug underneath it is a cheap clearance find from when Mom and I went shopping a few weeks ago.

Nothing matches, yet I love all the mismatched woods and colors and patterns. The unique look is utterly chaotic, just like me.

Sitting down on the edge of the brown couch, I cross my legs under me. “Big things are coming,” I tell myself. Wiggling into the firm cushions, I settle in and stare up at the ceiling.

A tickle forms in my throat. “Big things,” I repeat, coughing into the crook of my arm and ignoring the tug in my chest.

* * *

It’s half past eleven when I finally hear footsteps coming down the hall. Stomach growling and irritated by how latemy food is, I whip the door open and step out to give the delivery person a piece of my mind.

Maybe if I wasn’t hangry, I’d find the tall, dark-haired boy wearing thick black glasses attractive. Hot, even. Katherine would say he’s the H-A-W-T kind of hot that she used to call the new oncologist whenever he’d walk in. Her face would get all pink, and she’d stammer her words at the silver fox.

Except the lanky person in a dark sweatshirt and jeans is eatingmycheesy gordita crunch wrap from Taco Bell—literally eating it right in front of me! And since anyone who knows me knows that I don’t tolerate my food being stolen without some level of She-Hulk anger that could scare a bear, I can’t in good faith consider him even the slightest bit cute.

“You’re the worst delivery person ever,” I tell him in awed disgruntlement. I mean, seriously? You’d think if he was going to eat a customer’s order, he wouldn’t carry the bag all the way inside. “I tipped you and everything.”

The boy stumbles when he hears me, his shoulder bumping into the wall and bouncing off it. Is he drunk? Who lets these people DoorDash? You’d think there’d be some sort of screening process.

Half of my gordita crunch falls from his hand, splattering in a ground-beef-and-cheese mess on the hallway floor. May it rest in peace. “You’re not from around here,” he slurs, using the wall for balance.

I blink. That’s all he has to say? “Who says?”

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