Page 137 of Past the Broken Bridges

He should have never gotten behind the wheel or looked away from the road. Maybe if I wasn’t there…wasn’t arguing with him…

Swallowing, I squeeze my eyes closed.

I know it wasn’t my fault, but I can’t help but feel the gripping weight of guilt on my conscience anyway. How could I not? It was bad enough Dawson was de—

The word gets stuck, causing the nausea to come back. I was suspended upside down by my seat belt while Dawson lay somewhere half in the vehicle and half out of it, through the windshield because he hadn’t had his seat belt on.

I don’t know how I got out, but I did.

All I can hope is that it was quick for him.

That he didn’t suffer.

Sniffling back tears, I clear my throat.

I’ve had three days to think about what it must have been like for him while I slipped in and out of consciousness before the firefighters finished pulling me out of the vehicle.

I have no idea who the second person was, the one driving the other vehicle—couldn’t gather the courage to ask for a name. It was another student from LSU from what I heard. I wonder if the school will have a vigil and if it’ll be for only her or for both of them.

Not wanting to think about it anymore, I swallow down the emotions crammed into my throat and take a deep breath.

Despite not wanting to tell my parents what happened, I wish they were here—wish Mom could run her fingers through my stubbly hair and tell me everything will be okay. I’m sure she’d say she’s glad that I’m still here.

Maybe that’s what I want to avoid.

I don’t need to hear that.

It should have been me.

I’m stirred awake sometime later by the nurse knocking and letting me know that my sister is here to see me. I don’t have the energy to point out that I don’t have one or to bother with my appearance, knowing I look as bad as I feel.

Dixie walks in, stopping short when she sees me. The real me, not the version I’ve been hiding for almost three months. Nobody knows what happened to my wig, and I haven’t cared enough to worry about how much money is gone with its disappearance.

Her lower lip wiggles, but she doesn’t cry. If her red, puffy eyes are any indication, she’s been doing that enough as it is.

She has to have heard about Dawson by now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers once the nurse leaves us. She stays by the door, fiddling with her hands. “I should have stayed. I should have driven you two h-home. I could have. If I’d stopped thinking about my feelings, if I had thought rationally…”

I’m not mad.

Dawson isn’t her responsibility.

Neither am I.

Her eyes go to my head, walking in hesitantly to take a better look. “Your hair…” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t look bad. You didn’t have to wear a wig if you were uncomfortable with it.”

I wish vanity was the only illness that plagued me. Living life would have been a hell of a lot easier if that’s all I had to worry about.

Still feeling numb, I curl into the blankets.

How much money is this going to cost? Another hospital bill stacked up and weighing on my conscience. Will Mom and Dad have to pay for this one too?

“Sawyer,” Dixie pleads. “Talk to me.”

I blink, my eyes finally meeting hers. She looks so far away even from beside my bed, somehow seeming so much more fragile than I do. She knows how this accident impacted people, unlike me, who’s locked far away from the people I started integrating with regularly.

Dixie looks at me with glassy eyes, waiting for me to say something. Anything. Then she looks around, seeing the notes on the patient board hanging on the wall.

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