Page 59 of Past the Broken Bridges

“It’s not up for discussion. Let’s go.”

Betrayal sets into his eyes.

“You need help,” I tell him quietly.

He stays seated, staring at his empty plate.

“Can I at least go to the bathroom first?”

“Fine. I’ll wait by the truck.”

A few minutes go by.

No Dawson.

Another five.

After two more, I walk in and knock on the bathroom door.

It’s empty.

“Son of a bitch,” I growl under my breath.

I call Dawson.

He doesn’t pick up.

I text him.

He doesn’t answer.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I start my truck up and decide if I want to try finding him.

But how much more time can I give to someone who just wants to waste it?

Chapter Seventeen

Sawyer

The next few days go by seamlessly thanks to the mundane routine I’ve fallen into. Wake up at nine, drink an entire pot of coffee, go to classes, and avoid the two boys who live in my building.

It’s easy to do when I’ve learned from observation, and a little nosiness, that Banks gets up at the butt crack of dawn to go God knows where and only returns in the evening when I’ve gotten back from classes. He’s tried coming over a few times, but I never answer the door. The first time he tried, I was still in bed after a horrible night’s sleep, wearing nothing but an oversize shirt and a silk scarf on my head. Dad came in after he brought me breakfast, setting down a mug of steaming coffee onto my nightstand and saying,“Banks is a weird name for a kid.”

I stared at the coffee with a frown, wondering what Banks must have thought after I ran away like an inexperienced moron at the party. What college girl gets kissed by a guy and then bolts on the verge of tears? This one, apparently.

It wasn’t even that big of a deal. Sure, I hadn’t expected Dawson to kiss me, but he was drunk. I could look past that because I’d been there before. But considering Dixie had already been on the fence about coming, the last thing I wanted was to hurt her by having her see something like that. And Banks…

Well, if my lack of experience wasn’t obvious before, it’s blatant now. And I shouldn’t care what he thinks about something as silly as that, but I do.

I care more than I wish I did.

The second time Banks tried getting me to open the door, it was with the allure of beignets. A weakness I learned I had after he took me out to lunch at Commanders Palace the day he showed me around the Garden District. He’d gotten us three huge fried treats from a local bakery to split. I’d made a mess of myself from the powdered sugar I’d accidentally breathed on as I took a bite, but it was worth it. He promised to buy me some from the famous Café de Monde the next time we went into New Orleans, which is where the white paper bag was from—the one he left outside my door after I ignored his knocks again.

He has my number but never reaches out.

I’m sure if I’m grateful or not.

“You’re not listening at all,” Dixie accuses, shaking a giant cup of soda at me. The ice cubes rattle against the plastic until I finally take it from her. “I asked if I look okay.”

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