Page 150 of Past the Broken Bridges

I clench my eyes closed, burying my face into his chest and breathing in his signature scent that has always calmed me—laundry detergent and Irish Spring soap.

Running his hands over my back, he presses a kiss on top of my head. “What do you say?”

I force myself to sit up, letting the blankets pool at my waist. “Why?”

“Why what?”

Shame coats my heart. “Why aren’t you yelling at me? Why aren’t you mad? I keep messing up, Dad. And now somebody isdead. Somebody who had a whole life ahead ofthem. There’s another hospital bill for thousands of dollars in my name. I’ve hurt people, even though I tried so hard not to get too close. I…” I can’t finish, my voice becoming too weak from the mistakes weighing on my vocal cords.

The weight on my chest is crushing.

Pulling me under.

Squeezing out what little air I have left in me.

For a moment, he’s quiet as he soothes me by rubbing my arm. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

When I manage to take a long, deep breath, he pats my hand gently once.

“There’s a lot I wish you had been honest about,” he admits, disappointment in his eyes. “But you never meant for any of this to happen. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. And none of that is important right now. Today is about grieving. It’s about saying goodbye. We’ll figure out the other stuff later. Together. Okay?”

Saying goodbye.To Dawson.

To Banks.

To Louisiana?

He stands. “Why don’t you take a shower and find something to wear. We’ll get something light to eat before the service. I’ll drive us.”

Sometimes, I wish he’d tell me how disappointed he is in me. That he’s upset at how I’ve acted. They gave me freedom, and this is what I’ve done with it.

He loves me too much to let any of that change his perception of me.

Before he leaves, I say, “I love you.”

His smile brightens his eyes when he smiles at me, but there’s still a dullness to them that I know I’ve caused. “I love you too, baby girl.”

* * *

The service is somber, the funeral home only half-full of people I mostly don’t recognize. Dad and I walked in fifteen minutes before it started and took a seat toward the back. Being next to the casket…

I couldn’t do it.

For somebody who has been surrounded by terminal illness, I’ve gone twenty-one years without attending a funeral. I never thought the first one would be under these circumstances.

Dixie showed up five minutes before it started, looked at the casket, and walked out. I wanted to follow her, but Banks…Paxton beat me to it. Neither of them saw me hidden next to my dad in the back pew. I asked Dixie if she was going, and she never replied.

She was upset with me, and I understood.

I lied time and time again.

I didn’t tell her about the biggest part of me.

That would hurt anyone.

I spend the first thirty minutes staring at Paxton, who’s sitting beside a crying woman in the front row after coming back without Dixie. When she gets up to speak to the crowd, I see how much Dawson looked like the older woman. His mother. A man walks up beside her. Tall. Maybe as tall as Dawson was, if not taller. His father.

I wonder if he’s looking down on this moment to see how his parents have come together for him. And I can’t help but wonder how my family will act the day of mine. Will they share embarrassing stories about me? Talk about their favorite memories? I wouldn’t be happy to see them torn up. I’d want them to be happy to know I was okay.

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