Page 153 of Past the Broken Bridges

“Banks?” I repeat, putting my hand on his arm to snap him away from whoever has his attention.

“I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up here,” he says, so low that it sounds like a cold growl and feels like ice over my skin.

I turn. “Who?”

“Don’t.” He pulls my attention away from the person I’m trying to see. “Marco. The person responsible for Dawson’s habit. And more than likely his relapse.”

Marco ishere? I turn again despite Banks’s warning, scoping out the lawn until I see somebody staring in our direction. He’s by himself, half hidden by the shadows of the side of the building with his arms crossed. But I can see one arm covered in a sleeve of tattoos, just like the guy who approached Dawson on campus. And he’s…smiling?

“I’ve seen him before,” I tell him. “At school.”

Banks’s eyes snap to me. “He’s not allowed on campus.”

Well, that didn’t stop him. “He went up to Dawson and gave him something. Dawson looked a little scared.”

Banks steps forward. “That son of a—”

“Don’t,” I plead, grabbing ahold of his arm to stop him from approaching Marco. “That’s what he wants. A reaction. Don’t give it to him. It won’t change what happened.”

His eyes stay on Marco. “He doesn’t deserve to be here. Somebody needs to do something about him before he ruins more lives. To stand up to him.”

“Somebody will,” I promise him. “But it doesn’t have to be you. He’s already gotten into trouble once. He’ll get into it again, especially if they find out he was associated with the drugs that caused Dawson to…” I can’t say the word.

Overdose.

Nobody talks about it.

Nobody acknowledges it.

It’s the elephant in the room.

Before he crashed, he started overdosing on whatever he’d been given. My guess is he took what he got from the guys at the party, but he took too much. I’m not sure what would have happened if he didn’t get behind the wheel. Would be still be alive? Or would the drugs have taken him on the side of the road? In an Uber?

I don’t like thinking about it.

Because he’s gone.

What-ifs don’t matter.

Eventually, Banks stands down, his eyes dipping to where I hold on to his arm. When they lift to meet mine, I say, “Let it be somebody else’s problem.”

It takes him a few deep breaths before he nods, only once, with his lips pressed into a reluctant straight line.

When I know he’s not going to approach Marco, I let go of him. “Thank you.”

He wets his lips. “Paxton.”

My brows pinch.

His throat bobs. “You’re the only one who I want to call me that. You were the only one I ever liked calling me that. Not my father. Not Desiree. You.”

You were my favorite memory.

Heart swelling in my chest, I nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

We stare at one another for what feels like an eternity before I realize my father is still waiting.

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