Page 18 of Past the Broken Bridges

That night, I do what my mother always hated. I eat my Pop-Tarts in bed, uncaring of the crumbs they leave behind, until I drift off to a dreamless slumber.

* * *

The tray of food comes out of nowhere, painting the front of my camo cargo pants with warm, thick liquid. Gaping, I stare down at the mess. Is that…? I sniff. Jambalaya?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the short-haired brunette says, one of her hands cupping her mouth as she stares at my outfit. Her free hand is still holding onto the now-empty tray. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Frowning, I move away from the scattered food, shaking a piece of sausage off my white sneakers. They’re new but should be easy to wash since they’re fake leather. Mom used to put Bentley’s and my shoes in the washer whenever we’d get them caked with mud when we’d go outside on adventures. Or, more like, when I dragged my little brother outside. He preferred video games to exploring.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, grateful it wasn’t scalding coffee that got dumped on me. “I guess this was a sign that today’s outfit wasn’t it.”

I felt cute in a tomboyish kind of way. The long-sleeved black shirt is keeping me warm with the temperature drop and hugs my narrow torso and the slight curve of my chest. My B-cups are nothing to look at, but they’re about the only curves I have thanks to chemo. I lost a lot of weight that I was never able to gain back over the years. I’m pretty sure one of the only reasons Mom was okay with me coming here was because she thought I’d get fattened up by good Southern food.

“I’m so sorry,” the brunette says again, dropping the tray onto the table beside her and quickly using one of her napkins to try cleaning off my pants.

I laugh, ignoring the people watching us in the dining hall. It’s crowded because lunch hours are almost over, so I’m not surprised we have a large audience. “Seriously, it’s okay. The stain sort of blends with the pattern anyway. See? You may want to go get something else before they start closing down the grill.”

She looks up from where she’s squatting in front of me, pausing with her cleanup. “You’re really not mad?”

I shrug. “Unless you’re about to tell me you did it on purpose, then no. It was an accident. And clothes wash, so I’m not worried about it.” I could tell her about the hundreds of times Bentley spilled stuff on me, and some of those weredefinitelynot accidents, even if he told Mom they were. I never got mad at him. Much.

The girl finally stands, and I realize how short she is compared to my five-five. She barely comes eye level to my boobs. Her face is hot when she notices the attention we’ve garnered, and she winces and hides behind the pieces of dark hair framing her face. “I feel bad. I tripped on my shoelace.”

I glance down at her untied shoe, which she sighs and kneels to fix. “They’re cute,” I compliment her red Chucks because apparently complimenting women’s shoes is the only method I have for making friends.

She points at mine. “Yours are too. Even with sauce on them.”

I snort, examining them. “They’ll wash.” I offer her a hand, which she takes to stand. “I’m Sawyer, by the way.”

“Dixie.” She drops her hand and blushes deeper when a janitor comes over with a mop bucket and starts cleaningup. “My parents were obsessed with the country band Dixie Chicks when they had me.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve listened to their music. My mom wasn’t a big music person, and Bentley prefers indie rock or screamo that’s barely tolerable to my ears. “That sucks since they changed their name.”

“Yeah, they weren’t happy.”

I gesture toward the line of kids still waiting for their lunches. “Come on. We should probably get something. I saw their grab-and-go section today, and it was lacking, unless you want a soggy BLT wrap.”

Dixie’s mossy-green eyes drop back down to my ruined pants. “You’re going to stay?”

My stomach rumbles. “I’m hungry. I’ve learned the hard way I get cranky when I don’t eat. Nobody wants to deal with me when I go She-Hulk on their asses.”

She laughs in surprise. “Well, it’s on me since mine is on you,” she offers, following me to one of the lines.

All the food here smells delicious, so Mom will probably get her wish. Instead of the freshman fifteen, I’ll gain the junior twenty. And I’m sure my parents would think I looked better for it.

After we gather our things and Dixie pays, we head to an empty table in the corner. “You really didn’t have to pay for my stuff,” I tell her again, even though I appreciate it. Everything here is cheaper than what I’m used to in New York, but I’m all for saving money when I can because it’s my parents’ money that they transfer into an account for me, as if they haven’t almost gone bankrupt to care for me in the past.

She waves it off. “It’s the least I can do.”

Before I can answer, an arm drops around my shoulders,tugging me into a muscled chest and startling me. “I thought that was you,” a familiar voice says.

Dixie squeaks, her eyes wide when she sees Dawson draped over me.

I nudge him with my shoulder playfully. If he moves just right, he’ll probably feel where my port used to be just under my collarbone. I’ve managed to hide it well so far, which hasn’t been hard. It’ll be more difficult when the weather gets hotter and my summer wardrobe comes out.

“Hi, Dawson,” I greet, offering a small smile and noticing how red his eyes look today. Mom used to have bad allergies and take medicine for it when the seasons changed. But hers never looked this bad.

Dixie looks between us, awe in her gaping lips. Does she know him? It seems like there’s familiarity carved into her arched brows.

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