Page 133 of Past the Broken Bridges

There were so many people at the scene, but the pain made it hard to focus on what was going on. I couldn’t figure out what the first responders were saying. Somebody came and talked to me there. I think. I don’t know what I said. I don’t know if I said anything.

The nurse clears her throat. “I don’t have any information on your friend. The best thing we can do is work on you and go from there. Since you’re a new patient here, maybe you can help us get some of your medical history sorted. It could help clear up the markers we found in the initial blood panel.”

I close my eyes, knowing what the bloodwork shows has little to do with the accident.

“Dawson,” I repeat, voice frail as I lean back onto the pillow somebody placed behind me to keep my body propped up. “I need to know what happened to him.”

She sighs. I know she knows something. I’m too familiar with how hospitals work. Everybody gossips. If one trauma patient comes in, there are bound to be questions about where the others are—ifthere are others. “Honey, what’s important right now is you. Your labs—”

“Show that I have cancer,” I cut her off, voice distant as I stare at the door. I can feel her eyes on the profile of my face, but I don’t need to look to know there’s sympathy, and maybe shock, in them. “Advanced non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Stage four. I know what the labs show.”

For once, she doesn’t say anything.

What can she say?

That she’s sorry?

I’ve been told that too many times to count.

I came all this way because I was done being sorry, done being sick. I was here to live.

Live.

That word rocks me to the core as I think about hanging upside down in that truck.

It should have been me.

That’s what I told Banks.

Because it’s true.

I was damned if I was going to believe whatever God is out there would let me survive and take somebody else when I was on borrowed time already.

It should have been me.

When I finally look at her, there’s a fresh glaze of angry tears in my eyes that blurs the deep frown settled into her face.

I don’t want pain medicine.

I want answers.

“Now tell me where Dawson is.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Banks

When I see my father follow the officer back to where I’m being held in the small cell, the fear that cemented into my chest intensifies because I have no idea what he’s going to do. He won’t cause a scene. Not here. After is a different question.

When the door is unlocked and my father steps in, I don’t expect the crushing hug he pulls me into before either of us can say a word. Even though my ribs still hurt like a bitch, it’s a pain I don’t mind in the moment.

Because I needed it more than I knew after being stuck here for the past fourteen hours.

And when he pulls back, I definitely don’t expect the tears in his bloodshot eyes. “They said…” He chokes, throat bobbing as he runs his hands over my face to make sure I’m real. “I heard that your truck was involved in a fatal accident. They said the driver died. I thought…”

He stops himself again, pulling me back in and hugging me harder than he ever has before. I almost forget the physical pain because of all the emotional pain that envelops me.

“God, Paxton. If I lost you…” His voice is hoarse, cutting off and forcing him to clear his throat.

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