Page 99 of Past the Broken Bridges

LSU’s Botanic Gardens have become the peace my mind needs when life becomes too much. I always find myself under one of the trees or shaded by the gazebo working on whatever latest sketch I’m trying to perfect. I people watch. Listen to nature—the wind rustling the tree limbs, the birds landing in the ponds, the distant laughter of kids in the gardens.

Sometimes I envy the happiness that surrounds me, as if everybody else has it so much easier. I know better than that, but it still eats at me when bitterness bubbles under my skin as couples walk hand in hand or kids run around laughing without a single care in the world.

Once upon a time, I was like that.

That seems like a lifetime ago though.

Hours pass, and the sketch in my lap barely grows fromits last conception. I realize reluctantly that my father may have been right about needing a lot more time to get a scaled model created, which isn’t something I plan on admitting to him anytime soon.

Sometime later, a shadow casts over the book in my lap. “Thought I’d find you here,” Dawson says, dropping into the spot on the bench beside me and stretching his long legs out.

“Surprised to see you here,” I admit, abandoning the work I’ve been struggling with all day to focus on the gaunt boy beside me. “Where haveyoubeen?”

Dawson’s leg bounces anxiously. “Around.”

Around.

Scraping a hand down my face, I set my sketchbook down on the ground. “Look, I’m not in the mood for any more bullshit today. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here when you’ve gone out of your way to avoid me?”

His eyebrows arch as he looks at me, seemingly stunned by my withdrawn demeanor. I try to be reasonable, but my patience is limited, and my mind is already full of things beyond what my best friend is getting himself into when I’m not around.

“I tried your apartment,” he answers, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Sawyer said she heard you leave. Figured there weren’t many places to look.”

Sawyer was paying enough attention to hear me go. Interesting. “Was her family still there?”

He nods, slumping back. “Her dad answered. Pretty sure he wasn’t happy I was standing there.”

I don’t know her father well, but I know a lot of military men. They’re protective and observant. It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to see that there’s something wrong with Dawson.

The bags under his eyes are back, and he’s fidgety. Not to mention his skin tone is off. Not quite pale, but off-white. Yellow. Sickly. I’ve known him long enough to see the weight he’s lost, but Sawyer’s dad probably doesn’t know the difference. All telltale signs of drug use if you know what to look for, and I have a feeling the naval officer does.

Instead of indulging him on Sawyer, I say, “My dad said you dropped his class.”

I’m met with silence.

When I turn to him, I shake my head. “I heard you broke things off with Dixie too. Don’t get me started on your teammates, who told me you don’t go to practice anymore. Who are you, dude? You were doing so well in the fall. You had things to look forward to. What happened that made you fall off the ladder so fucking hard?”

Dawson straightens. “I didn’t—”

“All you wanted was to do was play ball when you enrolled here,” I cut him off, not willing to hear more lies. “That’s what you worked for. Now, you don’t show up to class, you don’t put in a fraction of effort to keep your grades up, and you disappear for hours on end doing God only knows what. Whatdoyou have left here? Because it seems like you pushed away everybody and everything that matters to you for something I don’t understand.”

He starts to answer before he presses his lips together and looks down. Evasion is a sure sign of guilt, which tells me what I need to know.

I stand, collecting my sketchbook and backpack. “I don’t know what to say to you anymore. We’ve been down this road before, but I sure as hell hope that it doesn’t take you as long to get the help you need since you won’t accept it from me. Not everybody gets a second chance at life. Why waste it?”

Dawson’s expression becomes pleading. “Don’t be like that.” He stands. “I just…” Stopping himself, he kicks the ground with the top of his sneaker.

“You what?” I press impatiently.

“Dixie deserved better,” he says to the ground. “Everybody knew that. I couldn’t be the person she needed.”

He won’t find me arguing, but I respect that he finally acknowledged it.

His hand reaches behind him, grasping his neck and squeezing. “I do need help.”

The admission has me standing a little taller, hope scratching the surface. “Then let’s go. I’ll take you wherever you need to go. Back to the clinic. To see your counselor—”

“No. Not…” His hands twitch. “I need to borrow some money.”

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