Page 45 of Past the Broken Bridges

Wishful thinking,I decide.

“What about your mom?” I ask, letting the curiosity go.

Her tongue dips out as she turns to look at the trees lining the swamps again. “She’s a stay-at-home mother.”

It seems like there’s more to the story, but she doesn’t elaborate. “You miss her,” I note, seeing the way her lips waver downward.

When she looks at me again, she lets her shoulders drop a fraction. There’s a shine in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Yeah. Is that silly?”

“Doesn’t matter how old we get, we’re always going to miss our parents. Just means we love them no matter the circumstances.” I’d know better than anybody. “What’s silly about that?” I finish.

Her knee bumps into mine again in appreciation, but it stays there this time. The warmth from her leg is making it very hard to pay attention to whatever Captain Pat is saying about the swamp.

I should move my leg.

For Dawson and whatever feelings he may have for the girl next to me.

But I don’t.

I put my hand on her knee.

The next time she looks my way, her gaze roams over my face. “Your eyes,” she says quietly, watching me watch her. “They remind me of the muddy river.”

Her head tilts thoughtfully, slowly shaking as if thinking of something that she doesn’t share.

Then she glances down at my hand still on her knee, bites her lip, and turns back to the water.

* * *

Giggling as she hops out of my truck, Sawyer rounds the front where I’m waiting for her. “You’re really trying to tell me that modern country is better than the classic kind?”

If only my dad were with us to hear somebody finally agree with him. He loves everything circa Alabama, Merle Haggard, and George Jones. His version of “modern country” is Reba McEntire, George Straight, and Garth Brooks. The man has been stuck in the nineties for as long as I can remember.

He doesn’t like many people, but even a man as miserable as him wouldn’t be able to fight Sawyer’s easygoing wit.

“There’s variety nowadays,” I reply, after we spent the last twenty minutes arguing over what to listen to as we found somewhere to eat.

Unlike her Taco Bell excursion, I plan on feeding her true Louisiana cuisine—and not the kind we get served at school. So I pulled up to a new creole seafood joint that opened right outside New Orleans and ignored her rant on how modern country is more crossover than anything when I turned the radio to a preprogrammed station.

“It’s not the same old dry shit you always hear. Old country is depressing.” She makes a noise of disgruntlement at my statement. “Those artists followed a formula to the point where every song was the same.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” she tells me, her eyes scanning the big chalkboard menu placed outside the ordering counter before turning to me. “Look at Garth Brooks. His music made waves when he came onto the scene, and he got a lot of shit for how different it was, but now he’s respected for bringing his flare to country music, and it’s inspired a lot of contemporary artists. Same as Shania Twain. Even the legendary Dolly Parton shifted her music tone after a while.All of those people are who grew the kind of music you like today. They made it okay. So can you really put a formula on creative expression?”

I can’t say I’ve ever thought too deeply on any music genre. I’ve only ever used it as background noise to drown out life. “I think there’s a formula on what sells,” I counter easily. “Music labels see what works in a market and produce similar products. I won’t argue and say those artists didn’t make an impact. All I’m saying is that I prefer today’s music.”

She shakes her head, blowing out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, I’ll let it go even though I think it’s a disservice that you could disrespect such legendary people who helped form your favorite music.”

I snort at her dramatics. “Speaking of music, how’s Dixie, the prodigy?”

Sawyer’s smile falters for the briefest second, her eyes going back to the menu as we get closer to the front of the line. “She’s fine. I’m sure she would have enjoyed herself today since we barely saw any gators.”

Does she wish her friend was here instead of me? Because I can’t relate. “She missed out,” I reply, stepping forward when the line moves.

“She likes Dawson,” Sawyer admits, as if I couldn’t tell from the few hours we spent at the bar together. “He invited us to some party tomorrow, and she got all weird about being a third wheel.”

I shouldn’t butt into business that isn’t mine, but I’m interested in how she gauges the situation. For Dawson, of course. “Wouldshe be a third wheel?”

Sawyer frowns. “No. Why?”

---