Page 89 of Past the Broken Bridges

I’m almost surprised he agrees with Laramie since he hasn’t exactly verbalized a lot of praise in my life.

Before I can feel good about it, he ruins the moment. “As far as I’m concerned, anybody iscapableof potential. It’s raw talent that gets you places in life.”

Teeth grinding, I force myself to nod. I don’t bother asking him if he thinks I have the raw talent to make it. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“That’s the only way to.” He takes another puff of the stogie in his hand. “Life is far too easy without a little criticism given out. That’s what makes Laramie a good professor.”

I want to ask if that’s what makes him a good father, but I smarten up and bite my tongue instead. Why start another fight on the brink of our last one? I don’t have the energy for it today after spring cleaning and closing down the campus store for the next week. Most of the students who normally work there are gone, save for me, Lucy, and our manager. It makes for a lot more work and a lot less time on other things.

Namely, the girl across the hall.

Which is probably a good thing.

Because I can still feel her clenching around me, still hear the ghostly echoes of her moans as she comes apart. It took everything in me not to come in my pants or take up her offer to get me off the way I desperately needed to.

I feel a little less guilty now that Dawson seems resigned to the interest I have in Sawyer, but I don’t know if that’s enough to make me want to take things further with her. He’s too vulnerable to test the waters I’m tempted to with my neighbor.

The problem is, how much do I want Sawyer to know? There always comes a time when the people in my life get too close to the truth. Dawson was always too focused on his own little world to think about what was going on in mine, and while I sometimes resented his aloofness, it made things easier.

Sawyer is smarter than that.

The closer she gets to me, the more she’ll uncover. Namely, about the man smoking another cancer stick mere feet away.

I sip the water to quench my parched throat, staring at the liquid as it ripples in the glass.

Sawyer wanted to feel good.

That was all.

She never said anything about love.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Clearing my throat, I roll my shoulders back. “After break, I’m going to start the test model. We have until the end of April to get it done and submitted for our final project.”

“Don’t you think you should start it sooner?”

“It’s break,” I reiterate. I’ve been swamped all semester.The only class that hasn’t completely drained me is creative writing, but I choose to keep that to myself since I know my father’s feelings on it. “If I’m going to submit my best work, don’t you think I should be able to rest up when the school gives us the opportunity to?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Lifting his wrist, he looks at the time on his watch. “Dinner should be arriving any second. I ordered from Rocky’s tonight. Make sure you give him a tip when he answers the door.”

Dismissed. I’m okay with that as long as it doesn’t lead to an argument. Truth is, I hate avoiding my dad. As unpredictable as he can be, I like coming around and checking in on him. I never know if I’m going to walk into something bad after the long stretches when I don’t hear from them. One of the few upsides to him working at the school is that I hear people talking about him enough to know when he shows up and when he doesn’t.

“Got it,” I reply, about to turn toward the door and wait. I stop myself when I see an old photo of Dawson and me as awkward teens. We’re grinning at the camera, covered in mud. My mother took that. Gripping the archway that separates the foyer from the open living room, I force my eyes away from the image collecting dust on the wall. “I know you can’t tell me any details, but has Dawson been doing okay in class?”

My father’s eyebrows rise at the same time his cigar does to his mouth. “That boy dropped my class weeks ago. I’m surprised he hasn’t said so.” Blowing out the plume of smoke, he settles into his chair. “You want to talk about failed potential, he’s the poster child.”

Son of a bitch.I’ve stopped by his apartment a few times, but he either is never home or refuses to answer.

Wasted potential.My father’s words echo in my head, lingering there when the doorbell rings and the delivery man passes me our dinner. I absentmindedly hand him a few bills that I had stuffed in my pocket before closing the door.

Dinner is quiet, and I hate it.

It’s nothing like Sunday nights with Sawyer. We could sit in a room of silence and I’d feel the same as if we were having a conversation or joking, but it’s not like that here.

It never has been.

And it makes me want to ditch my father and knock on her door, ignoring the fact that her family arrived today from New York to see her for break.

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