Page 6 of Past the Broken Bridges

A few days later, Mom surprised me with my first wig. Red. Not quite like our natural color, but close. The highlights were prettier than the copper ones we had, and it helped us pretend that things were okay. At least for a little while.

Dad told me I was beautiful either way when we video-chatted from his naval base in Louisiana, where he’d stayed after Katrina, but it took me a long time to feel that way and believe it.

Touching the fuzzy hair slowly growing in haphazardly, I fight a frown at the prickles that tickle my fingertips. “I look like a chia pet,” I mumble to myself under my breath.

My fingers graze down the sides of my face, tracing thesunken cheekbones that have given my normally round face a chiseled look that I don’t love or hate. A pair of rough, chapped lips meet the pad of my thumb, reminding me that I need to buy more lip balm before I go anywhere. Then my fingers go downward, the smooth skin of my neck allowing for a sullen breath to escape, until my fingertips touch the raised skin of the old port in my chest where all of my medications used to go.

Goose bumps cover my arms when I drag my finger pads over the sensitive lump, where a long, pink scar remains. As much as I hate looking at it, it’s a reminder of what I faced. I’m stronger because of the tribulations that came with the sickness. Each time it came back, I fought harder.

Knew what to expect.

Handled it.

For me and my future.

For Mom.

For Dad.

For Bentley.

I’d like to think I’m better for it now because I’m not nearly as scared as I used to be about where life could take me. Now it’s about taking it by the horns and choosing where to go from here.

Standing taller, I give my lean frame, hidden mostly by the bulky towel, one last look before walking into my attached bedroom, where it looks like a tornado tore through. I’ve never liked packing, so I always wait until the last minute to do it.

Because no matter how excited I am to go back to a place where seafood, pastries, and jazz music greet you on every corner, I know this time will be different.

And as I look around the robin’s-egg-blue room I pickedout when we moved into the house, I’m hit with nostalgia. Because I don’t know when the next time I’ll see it will be.

Three hours later, in my cotton pajamas covered in ninja ducks that Aunt Taylor bought me for Christmas, I click the last two locks into place on my suitcase and study the empty closet behind me.

Mom walks in and wraps her arm around my waist, her hold gentle but firm at the same time. “Are you positive about this?”

Stay, she’s asking.

I look at her and nod. “I’m sure.”

I can’tis what I really tell her.

Her hand reaches out and caresses the side of my face, her eyes lifting to my patchy scalp. I see her throat bob and her eyes glaze before she takes a deep breath.

She knows I need to do this.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m finally going tolive.

Chapter Two

Sawyer

Bentley tries escaping the noogie I’m giving him in front of the passenger drop-off section at the airport, but the thirteen-year-old is even weaker than I am, so he can’t fight me off. “Admit it, dork. You’re going to miss me.”

He eventually wiggles his way out, darting under my arm with a laugh. Unlike Mom and me, he’s got Dad’s brown hair. Dark, like the Hershey chocolate he constantly steals from my room. I put an unopened bag in my desk drawer for him that I’m sure won’t take him long to find.

As he tries flattening his hair back down, he rolls the blue eyes that we share. “How could I miss your bad music blasting through your door and your mood swings when it’s that time of…?” His face blossoms with heat as he stops himself from finishing the sentence.

“When it’s what?” I pry, knowing the teen can’t say it.

He loses his courage. “You know.When you, uh…”

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