Page 61 of Past the Broken Bridges

She calls me a chicken.

I don’t deny it.

The pit of my stomach clenches as we descend the bleachers, and I can feel one particular set of eyes on me the entire time. I’m suddenly hyperaware that my face is naked of makeup, save for the cherry Chapstick that’s become a staple in my life. The pair of leggings I’m wearing has a mini hole in it from when Maggie’s claw dug into it trying to give me a hug once, and the yellow jersey with a tiger on it that Dixie lent me is big enough to be a dress. To hide my frizzy hair, I threw it into a bun that started coming undone halfway through the game, and I look like I haven’t slept in days.

Which isn’t totally untrue.

Anxiety bubbles under my skin when we approach Banks, whose eye looks like it still hurts from the fight that I feel partly responsible for.

It’s Dixie who squeezes my hand and says to him, “I bet Dawson will be happy you came.”

Banks’s eyes aren’t on her but me, and they’re stormy—like an angry surge that moved the muddy waters of the Mississippi River. The way he stared at me on the swamp tour reminded me of something. Maybe it was the river I loved seeing as a child when my father would take me on it in a rented fishing boat. But my gut said it was something else. Someone. “Yeah, I’m sureDawsonwill.”

If that’s a dig at me, it’s deserved. Heat blossoming on my cheek, I murmur, “Hi, Banks.”

His lips press together.

Dixie clears her throat, awkwardly patting my hand.“I’m going to wait for you guys out there so you can talk.” She looks between us, wincing. “Or just stare silently at each other. Whichever you prefer.”

She walks away, giving me no choice but to address the elephant in the room.

Banks doesn’t hesitate. “You gave me shit for avoiding you, but you’ve been doing the same thing to me the second it was convenient for you. What gives?”

Swallowing nervously, I rub my arm. “I…” Words get stuck in my throat. I wish he’d let that night go and never speak of it again.

He watches me, jaw ticking at my silence. “Sawyer…”

Sawyer.Not Birdie. The way he says my name has me shifting on my feet.

“I thought we were friends,” he says, adding onto the guilt already weighing on my shoulders.

My eyes dip to my feet. “We are.”

“Thentalkto me.”

Kicking my shoe against the floor, I close my eyes for a second and take a silent, deep breath before allowing myself to speak. “Is Dawson okay?”

He blinks slowly. “You’re really asking me about Dawson right now. Seriously?”

“He got hurt,” I reply.

“He crossed a line he shouldn’t have with you,” he points out matter-of-factly. “As far as I’m concerned, he deserved what happened.”

Aren’t they friends? I’d never say that about Dixie, even if she did something to hurt my feelings. “It went too far, and instead of sticking around to talk about it, I ran away. Even if he shouldn’t have done that, he didn’t deserve to get hurt. Neither did you. I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” he all but growls.

I quickly shut up.

Banks looks behind me, gently grabbing my arm and moving us aside to let people pass us. “Most girls would be ready to press charges for the shit he pulled, and you’re over here defending him,” he mumbles in astonishment.

“I’m not saying what he did was right,” I relent softly. “But I can’t waste my life being mad at people. Life is too short.”

Banks clearly doesn’t agree, but he chooses not to push it. “He’s doing fine, as you saw tonight,” he murmurs. “Although I wouldn’t be shocked if he messed up his stitches playing. He was supposed to be on the bench for the next few games while he recovered.”

“The tall redheaded guy got hurt, and the guy with the goatee got benched for picking a fight with the person who did it,” I explain, unsure of how much he actually saw. “Somebody in the crowd said they didn’t have a choice but to put Dawson in or they’d have to forfeit.”

His expression is pinched, like he’s not ready to let this go. “You looked scared that night.”

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