Page 81 of Past the Broken Bridges

I wait to hear what he has to say, seeing the old version of him—the laid-back, carefree one—peeking through. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Why does this sound like some sort of goodbye? “We’re friends,” I remind him. “Brothers. Brothers fight.”

His gaze remains on the floor. “She reminds me of you.”

My brows pinch. “Who?”

“Sawyer,” he says, tipping his head toward the door she disappeared through. “She doesn’t think she’s good for anyone. Sound familiar?”

Why would she think that?

“Just thought you should know,” he adds as the door opens and Sawyer walks out.

She threw her hair up so it’s out of her face and put something glossy on her lips that draws my attention directly to them. It isn’t like the red lipstick she wore at the party, but I notice it all the same.

Dawson gives her a once-over in appreciation of the tight jeans and long-sleeved shirt that leave little to the imagination. “You look good,” he tells her, voice more chipper than moments before. This version of Dawson is dangerous—the one who can flip a switch like he’s got another personality on standby.

Sawyer flattens her hands along her shirt. “Thanks,” she tells Dawson. After doing another quick scan of my best friend and me, she asks, “Are we ready?”

It’s Dawson who answers. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He turns to the door, walking out before anyone can say another word.

Sawyer’s lips drop into a frown, but when she looks at me as if she wants to ask what’s wrong, I simply shake my head.

Why don’t you think you’re good enough, Birdie?

As the three of us walk downstairs toward the front door of the apartment building, I notice Dawson darting swiftly into his apartment at the end of the hall before coming back with a backpack hanging from his shoulder.

Unease claws its way up my stomach. “Why do you need that?”

Sawyer watches Dawson with wary eyes that match my own. But all he says is “We’ll need something to put all the shit we catch in, right?”

It seems to appease the blond beside me, but I’m a different story. I watch him carefully as he saunters out to the truck. Something in my gut tells me to be cautious.

And my gut is never wrong.

* * *

The sea of green, yellow, and purple makes it easy to spot Sawyer in her red top. She must notice the same thing when she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to me. “You should have told me there was a color scheme. I could have probably found something in my closet that would fit in more.”

Dixie, who’s been arm in arm with Dawson since we got out of my truck, looks over her shoulder at us. She barely spoke to Sawyer on the drive, and I can tell there’s a reason why that I haven’t been clued in on.

Her distant eyes go to Sawyer. “You’ll be fine. Nobody is going to call you out for it. They’re too busy having fun.”

I bump Sawyer’s shoulder. “I like you in red anyway.”

I’ve never had a favorite color, but I think red might be it. Although the dark pink that likes to creep into her cheeks when I compliment her is a close second.

Dawson stares at me, then at Sawyer, and I wonder if he notices the inches I’ve put between us.See, Dawson? I’m doing this for you.

We walk farther down to where the crowd is gathered along either side of the streetcar rails. Police line the streets, blocking off the side roads and doing crowd control as the music from the parade gets closer and louder.

I can’t help but notice the death grip that Dawson has on his backpack, which stands out far more than Sawyer’s red shirt does. He placed it between his feet the entire ride here, protecting it from something. Me? I was going to suggest he leave it inside when we found parking half a mile from where the parade route ended, but he grabbed it as soon as we parked, getting out of the truck and using Dixie as a way to divert the conversation.

“What about right here?” Dixie suggests, pointing to an area that doesn’t have nearly as many people littering it. “We stand a better chance at catching a few things here than we do anywhere else.”

She’s not wrong. A lot of people get up early and arrive as soon as they can at the start of the parade route so they can get as many throwaways as possible. By the time parades end, there aren’t as many items being tossed.

I smack Dawson’s arm to get his attention, grinning when he turns his head. “Remember that time I finally agreed to come with you to one of these and you tried catching the Styrofoam football they were throwing off the float and you almost tackled that old woman?”

---