Page 146 of Past the Broken Bridges

“Come on,” I urge, tugging on her arm until she’s stepping past the bushes and into the cozy environment that I’ve managed to keep up despite the damage inflicted all those years ago.

I let go of Sawyer, letting her spin as she takes in what’s left of the oak that used to shade the area. It was so damaged by the storm that a majority of the branches had to be cut down before they became a hazard. Most of the shrubs were crushed by the thick branches that had fallen during Katrina, and one of the original crape myrtles snapped and fell too, damaging the other bushes that surrounded it.

Then she stops, her lips parting as she stares at the wooden footbridge. Or what’s left of it.

It’s still standing despite the rotting and missing wood.

Broken but beautiful.

“The bridge,” she whispers.

I walk over to it, kneeling down and setting the basket beside me. “I always thought you felt familiar,” I tell her, looking over my shoulder at where her feet are glued to the ground. “I couldn’t figure out why until your mom said you were named after Tom Sawyer.”

“Like the book,” we say simultaneously.

The smile comes easily. “I tried picturing you with red hair but couldn’t. You said you never dyed it before.”

Her hands go to her head, her face turning a similar shade to the strands she touches. “I…I haven’t.”

“I know that now.”

She never had to dye it.

She lost it and hid what came back.

Wetting my lips, I run my fingers over the inner post, where two sets of initials in messy handwriting are carved.

Finally, Sawyer walks over and stares at the initials she put into the wood. She told me she used a butter knife and then brought the same one a few weeks after we met so I could do the same.

“I didn’t think…” Her head shakes back and forth as she lowers herself to the ground. “I had no idea if it’d still be here.”

“It almost didn’t survive.”

The broken structure is made of thick pieces of wood that probably shouldn’t still be here after the abuse they were put through, but the bridge fought its own battles to remain standing.

I look to Sawyer, whose hair looks exactly as I remember it in the sunshine. Right here, standing beside the bridge, she looks so similar to how she did back then. Just older. Frailer.

“You told me back then that this was your happy place,” I comment, sitting down and patting the grass beside me. “When I realized who you were, I understood what the last item on your list was.”

She joins me, pulling her knees up to her chest and staring at our initials still. “I couldn’t remember where it was. The chemo…” Her throat bobs. “Chemo brain makes it hard to recall details. I wanted to come back and try finding it because I wanted to feel how I did back then. Normal. Just…just one more time.”

Her eyes are wet when they turn to me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, resting her chin on top of her bent knees. “Youwere right. I never thought I’d ever see you again. I was only thinking about me when I chose to come here. I was thinking about closing a chapter I didn’t get to thirteen years ago, and I wanted to do it my way. I wanted to say I was a college kid. Reckless. Dumb. I wanted everything to be…”

“Easy,” I finish for her.

That’s what she wanted from me. Easy.

“Paxton,” she says again, but it’s clear she’s not trying to talk to me. Not this version of me, anyway. Her eyes close, and a small smile tilts the corners of her lips. “You were my favorite memory.”

Wetting my lips, I reach over and take her hand. “You were mine too, Birdie. Always.”

When her eyes open, they glisten with a fondness that I haven’t seen in a long time.

“There were days when things at home were bad,” I tell her, fingers tightening around her. “I’d come here to get fresh air. I used to come with my dad, but when things started getting rough with my mom, he stopped coming out. It’s like he forgot it existed. But I was glad.”

It meant more for me.

More time alone.

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