Page 9 of Past the Broken Bridges

I watch as an older man gets out of the front seat. A dad, probably. There’s a bush in the way of whoever climbs out of the passenger side, but I can see a pair of flip-flops and lean bare legs that probably don’t belong to a dude.

Peeling my gaze away from the new girl, I slide into my truck. “Try not harassing her too much and maybe you’ll actually get laid this year. You’ve been on a dry streak for a while.”

He throws up his middle finger. “Not all of us are tall, dark, and nerdy like you, Banks. Maybe if you left a few women for the rest of us, we’d have a chance.”

I snort, even if guilt nudges the pit of my stomach. It’s not exactly like I sleep around. Much. I focus on school and myself. If I’m bored or a little too drunk, sometimes I let loose. But that’s rare these days. And it isn’t like Dawson is unattractive. By society’s standards, he’s technically better looking than me. At six-six, the man towers over me by almost four whole inches and is built like a pro baller would be. You’d think as a Luke Kennard look-alike with nearly the height to match the NBA player, he’d be a catch with the ladies.

Maybe this year will be his year. I sure as hell don’t plan on getting in his way the way I stupidly did when it came to the last girl we were both interested in.

I slip the key into the ignition, eyes going back to the U-Haul. My neck tingles with a familiar feeling as a streak of blond appears past the bushes, a box in the girl’s hands. Clearing my throat, I shoot my friend a grin. “I’ll do my best to let you have a few this year, man.” Nodding my chin, I start the truck and pull out of my spot.

When I see Dawson walking toward the U-Haul, I roll my eyes. Hopefully he doesn’t bother whoever the poor girl is. I don’t have the energy to ensure that he doesn’t make a fool of himself because all of my energy will have to go toward surviving the heavy family dinner that I’ve been dreading since I woke up this morning.

* * *

Pushing open the wrought-iron gate leading to the yellow, two-story, raised center-hall cottage a few hours later, I stop as soon as the creaky door closes behind me to stare at the house I’ve called home for the past twenty-two years. The two-hundred-and-fifteen-year-old home is styled after French colonial plantations. It’s aged and beautiful and well kept compared to some of the others in the Garden District here in New Orleans.

My father’s love for architecture and landscaping is the reason I’m in my last two years at LSU’s architectural program. I don’t have a lot in common with the man who raised me, but my degree is the common ground we need. The intense five-year program has been brutal, but I don’t regret it for a second because it makes me appreciate everything I’ve had growing up.

Like this house, with its open porches along both levels that are supported by white columns and have a beautiful view of the surrounding double-gallery homes and American-style townhouses. Each house is stacked with brick, iron, ivy, and Spanish moss lining the gates, along with oaks and willows surrounding the properties.

My city doesn’t compare to any other. It’s the best, and I don’t feel guilty being biased about it.

When I finally walk through the front door, the strong scent of Cuban cigars hits me. Teeth grinding, I veer right until I’m greeted with a plume of smoke in the living room.

“I thought you were quitting after the doc told you that your lungs needed a break,” I grumble, opening a window.

Dad taps the end against his ash tray on the end table. “Why don’t you sit and have one with me instead of bitching? I got one of those Liga 5 ones you like.”

Once in a while, I entertain the old man and smoke a stogie with him, but I’ve never liked the nasty bastards. They were always his thing. I remember Mom complaining about the smoke and how expensive they were getting when he’d spend a good chunk of his paycheck on packages of them. It was one of the reasons she left him, leftus. Maybe that’s why I never developed a taste for the pricey tobacco.

Dropping into the armchair across from him, I drape a foot onto the edge of the coffee table and see the old Western he’s watching on TV. “I’ll pass this time. Is this John Wayne?”

“Clint Eastwood,” he corrects, grabbing the remote and turning the television off. My lips twitch at the only distraction I had. “How are you feeling about classes this semester? You’ve got DelveyandLaramie, don’t you?”

Here we go.“Yeah. I’ve got Laramie’s Architectural Design course and—”

“Honors?” he questions, cutting me off.

I blink, swiping my tongue along my dry lips, and use the time to take a deep breath. “Yes, it’s the honors class.”

My father dips his chin in praise. “Good.”

The leg still resting on the ground bounces when we fall to silence. I’ve always been a damn good student. Honor roll. Principal’s list. President’s list. Top three of my highschool class until senior year, when I managed to snatch the salutatorian spot. But Dad wasn’t as proud as I thought he’d be because the guy I stole the spot from lost it because of some marijuana scandal that got him expelled.

Point is, I’m smart. Always have been. In part thanks to the man smoking a few feet away. He taught me a lot of what I know and motivated me to learn the rest.

Too bad that’s not always good enough.

“What elective are you doing?” is his next question, pulling my attention up from the carpet, where an old cigar burn is left from one of his benders.

Rubbing the heel of my hand against my jean-clad thigh, I lean back in the chair, knowing he won’t like my answer. “Creative writing.”

His brows shoot up as expected, his tone thoroughly unimpressed. “A writing class?”

“I’ve exhausted a lot of my other options over the past couple of years,” I tell him.

Secretly, I’m tired of science, history, and math classes. I took a few art courses here and there that were decent, but not my favorite. I figured English was a good route to go. “It’ll be a nice breather from all my usual stuff. Shit, maybe it’ll inspire me.”

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