Page 75 of Past the Broken Bridges

I tell him the truth. At least part of it. “I’ve never dyed my hair a day in my life.”

His eyes stay on my hair for a moment longer before dropping back down to my gaze. “Huh.” That’s all he says before, “It suits you.”

If I wasn’t already overheated, I’d probably be blushing. “You’re going to get sick,” I tell him. I don’t buy the iron immune system bit, and I’d feel awful if he got sick right before spring break.

“I’ll be fine,” he says casually.

It hurts to talk, but I ask, “What are you doing here anyway?” It’s not one of the normal days he brings over goodies or cooks for me. Not that he has to use those excuses to come over. I like being able to see him outside class.

“Nobody knew where you were,” he explains, gently brushing the cloth over my face. “I texted you. So did Dixie.”

“I think my phone died,” I admit quietly. I don’t remember plugging it in after getting off the phone with my mom this morning. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Banks shrugs. “I know where you live. Dixie offered to come check on you, but it was out of her way.”

I’ll have to remember to text her once my phone is charged. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

I wet my dry lips. “You should be in class.”

Maybe I should be embarrassed for knowing that, but I’m not.

But then he says, “So should you.”

Swallowing past the pain in my throat, I nod. It’s nice to know he keeps tabs too. “I didn’t feel well.”

His eyes wander around my face. God knows what he sees. Paleness. Glassy eyes. Chapped lips. I don’t need a mirror to know I look horrible, but I’m too tired to care.

“I can see that, Birdie.” He sets the washcloth down on the table and passes me the cold glass of water. “Drink,” he directs.

I take it. “Bossy,” I croak, wincing at the sound of my voice. Taking a long sip of water to relieve the ache, I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. “You don’t have to stay here. I’m fine.”

Banks is quick to reply. “Usually when women say they’re fine, they’re not.”

I manage to look at him. “Speaking from personal experience?” I guess, jealousy nudging my stomach.

He hums. “My mother.”

Oh. I cross my feet under me on the couch, watching as Banks pulls the throw blanket over my lap as if he’s going to tuck me in. “Tell me about her,” I say, knowing he’s not going anywhere.

He’s as stubborn as I am.

Banks stands, bringing the washcloth over to the sink and draping it over the middle of the basin. “Not much to tell. She and my stepdad live a couple hours away. I don’t see them often, but I talk to her once in a while when we have time.”

“Do you like him?”

“Joe? Yeah, he’s a good dude. Good for her.”

Was his father not? “Is your father remarried? You said he lives in the Garden District, right?”

He pauses with his back to me, shoulders tense. After what sounds like a long, drawn-out exhale, he says, “That miserable bastard will probably die single. I’m all he has.”

My eyes widen at the cool tone of his voice, but I don’t question it. I don’t know his dad beyond what he does, but it makes me sad that Banks feels that way. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Eventually, Banks turns and leans his back against the edge of the counter. “You can ask me anything.”

So I do. “Why do you call me Birdie instead of my name?”

---