Page 161 of Past the Broken Bridges

And in that moment, he’s mine, and I’m his, and we’re the only two people who matter.

What comes next doesn’t cross our minds.

Not until our shuddered breaths catch at the release we both find in each other.

And as we collect ourselves, bodies sated, eyes mirrored with sadness as we stare at the tattered bridge, I realize how full circle we’ve come to pass the broken bridge to be with each other again.

One last time.

“In another lifetime,” he finally repeats.

Chapter Forty-One

Sawyer

Staring at my naked body in the mirror, I frown at the way my rib cage tapers in. I trace my fingers along each bone that sticks out under the skin and then move my attention down to the yellow, purple, and blue discoloration lining my torso.

Moving my hands up, I press them under my jaw and feel the bumps hidden beneath the surface. The swelling has gotten worse. Every time I swallow, I can feel it. Every time I breathe, I struggle. I didn’t need the doctors to tell me that the cancer has spread. I can sense it in the way I move, the way I sleep, the way I live.

Blinking, I drop my hands to my sides and study the patchy hair on my head that’s slightly thicker than it was when I moved here. But it’s still short. Still ugly. I can’t style it. Don’t want to shave it. Wearing a wig is starting to hurt, like my skin is far too sensitive to hide under it. I’ve given up caring what people think.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

Once upon a time, I considered myself pretty.

I had the potential to get back to that place.

But I know the odds. Fifty-seven percent is a generous survival rate for my type of cancer. There is nothing I can do that would make it any better at this point.

Rubbing my yellowing eyes, I grab a towel and wrap it around my tiny body. I’m done seeing what’s been done to me.

Done feeling sorry for myself.

I don’t remember dressing.

Don’t remember leaving the building.

I know Paxton is at work. He dropped Pop-Tarts and coffee at my door before he left. I had no appetite, so they’re still sitting on the counter.

My body goes on autopilot as I walk through the city, my feet hurting, my lungs aching when I go up even the slightest incline.

I have no real destination in mind.

The bridge is too far, and I don’t want to cloud the last memory I have of it, of being there with Paxton. I’m okay with walking away from it.

Just one more time.

That was all I wanted.

To see it one more time.

And I got so much more.

As I near the edge of campus, I see a group of guys huddled around somebody smaller than them by a solid foot, and I can tell they aren’t playing around the way friends do. I stop halfway down the sidewalk, debating what to do. I could cross the street and pay them no mind. That’s what my parents would tell me to do. What Ishoulddo.

But I know what it feels like to be beaten down by life. I know what Paxton must have felt getting treated poorlyby somebody who should have never laid a hand on him. Maybe that’s why I walk over with feigned confidence.

“Leave him alone,” I call out.

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