Page 143 of Past the Broken Bridges

“I saidIcan’t,” I repeat, clenching the top of the blanket when I see his brows furrow. “Not thattheycan’t.”

He shakes his head, giving it time to soak in. I see the moment it clicks for him because his eyes bug before he sits straighter. “Are you really saying what I think you’re saying? You’re only twenty-one, Sawyer. You can’t justgive up.”

Is that what he thinks I’m doing?

“Almost six years,” I tell him, pulling the blanket up to my chin. “That’s how long I’ve been fighting this endless battle, Banks.”

He gets out of bed, gripping the back of his neck. “So you’re just not going to fight it anymore?”

I force myself to sit up, my ribs aching the way I’m sure he can relate to, and I lean my back against the headboard. “Do you know how bad the treatments made me feel? I spent years hoping the remission would stick, and it never did. So they’d pump me with more toxic chemicals and radiation, hoping that would finally do the job. And just when you start to feel a little human again, after days of vomiting, sleeping, and barely being able to function from the last dose, you have to go back in for another round. It’s a cycle of torture that puts your body through so much. It’s not meant to be a long-term treatment. It physically can’t be. At some point, it has to end.”

His fingers rake through his unruly hair as he begins pacing. His silence is deafening. Not that I can blame him. Only the people who go through it can understand the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with the grueling routine of treatments and follow-up appointments.

When he finally speaks, his voice is thick and raw. “Why did you come here?”

Swallowing, I wet my lips. “Thirteen years ago, I fell in love with this place. I figured, what better way to live my life with the time I have left than to come back and explore it as an adult? You can’t experience life if you’re afraid to live it. I don’t want there to be any regrets when my time comes.”

I don’t want you to regret me.

But I see his eyes.

I can tell.

He already does.

Isn’t that what I wanted though?

I should have chosen Dawson.

His eyes roam my face, moving toward my patchy red hair, which I’ve found pointless to hide, and then back down until he meets my gaze. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

Drawing my legs up, I hug them to my chest as tightly as I can for comfort. “There’s a lot we didn’t tell each other.”

His nostrils flare in irritation. “I’d hardly say our secrets are comparable. You have fuckingcancer, Sawyer. Not telling you about my father doesn’t even come close to what you’ve been keeping from all of us. Me. Dixie. Daw—” He stops himself, swallowing the name.

I answer with the only truth I have left. “Our skeletons have never been a competition. But maybe they’re the reason why we were drawn to each other in the first place. We’re both a little broken inside but still trying to make something of our lives.”

Banks’s jaw grinds. “Yet all that effort you put into yours is for nothing.”

I don’t believe that for a second.

Secretly, I don’t think he does either.

“Did you think of anybody but yourself when you chose to come here?” he asks, anger shooting from his eyes.

The icy words pierce my skin, and I realize it’s a valid question.

So I answer it honestly. “No. I didn’t.”

All he does is nod, dropping his hands to his sides, where they turn into fists.

Clenching. Unclenching. Clenching.

Then he turns on his heel and walks out of my apartment.

The door slamming echoes, making me cringe.

I deserve it.

---