Page 158 of Past the Broken Bridges

“Fate is a cruel bitch,” I murmur.

Paxton is quiet for a second.

Then he starts laughing, and it sounds like it comes from deep inside him. The rumbling sound shakes his shoulders and his chest, and eventually, I can’t help but join him.

Only when he catches his breath does he say, “It really is.”

After I get the bleeding to stop, Paxton helps me dispose of the soaked paper towels and guides me up. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home. Unless your dad is coming to get you.”

I shake my head, watching as he puts my bag over his shoulder. “He went back to his apartment for a few days. I think he’s finally giving me some space now that he knows I’m not going to randomly drop dead.”

He swallows, the light mood from before quickly darkening. “That’s not funny.”

All I can do is shrug.

Putting his hand on my lower back, he holds open the bathroom door for me and ignores the skeptical expressions that we get from passersby. I don’t care what they think, and he obviously doesn’t either.

“Can we go to our bridge?”

He wets his lips. “I don’t know…”

He’s worried. I get it. “Please?”

His eyes close briefly before he loosens a sigh, his fingers moving away from my back for a moment before putting pressure there again. “I can’t say no to you when you say that.”

I wonder if he wishes he could.

An hour later, we’re sitting by the broken bridge that looks like it lost another plank. “It won’t last much longer.”

Paxton walks over and examines it, testing the posts and carefully balancing on a few pieces to get to the other side. He almost falls into the tiny stream below but catches himself on the railing, which creaks and groans under his body weight. “It has a chance. It’s strong.”

Is he talking about the bridge still?

I stand on the opposite end and watch him kneel to study the integrity of the structure. “Your sketch,” I start. “Was it inspired by this?”

Paxton looks up at me through his lashes, two little pink dots on his cheeks. “You noticed that, huh?”

“I should have realized sooner.”

He stands, leaning on the post. “How could you have? There was so much we couldn’t have known about each other months ago.”

I don’t say anything.

“My father designed this whole hideaway,” he explains, looking around. “He taught me everything I know about landscaping and architecture. He helped me win science fairs with bridge models we’d build together in his shop. He taught me how to draw. How to make my own designs to scale. I wouldn’t be here, not at the college or as far into my degree, without him. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that when…”

He stops himself from finishing. “When what?” I ask.

His eyes go to the sky, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “I saw Marco yesterday. I wasthis close”—he moves his two fingers together—“to confronting him. To telling him off. To making him regret putting Dawson and God knows who else in the position he did. How many deaths is he responsible for? Overdoses? He’s walking around like he hasn’t impacted anybody. Like he’s innocent.”

“I thought you were going to let it go.” After the service, it seemed like he heard me. Like he understood that Marco would be caught. “What could you have done if you confronted him? What if he’s dangerous?”

Paxton doesn’t speak for a tense moment. “Dawson had a gun.” My eyes widen, but before I can say anything, he adds, “He was afraid of Marco and whoever else he was involved with. I don’t know what I would have done. But I would have risked it. I thought about risking it.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His eyes evade mine. “Because I don’t knowwhat I have to lose anymore. My father will never change. We’ll never be okay. Dawson is gone. You’re…”

Once again, his words fade away, and the empty expression on his face makes my heart sink. “The future,” I tell him.

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