Page 101 of Past the Broken Bridges

I ignore it.

A few minutes later, it goes off again.

Dawson.

I ditch it in the living room, hearing it go off once more before shutting myself in my bedroom to ignore whatever else he wants from me.

The last time he needed me, I put my life on hold for him and he promised he’d never go to that place again. I was dumb enough to believe him then, but I’m smarter now.

Still, the nagging pit in my stomach remains.

* * *

It’s after dark when a timid knock comes at my door, making me pause from searching the refrigerator for something to eat.

I have a feeling I know who it is before I even open the door, so I’m not surprised when I see my five-foot-three neighbor standing there with her arms full.

“What’s all this?” I ask in confusion.

She passes me a cup first. “Caffeine helps when I get headaches,” she tells me, shifting on her bare feet covered only in knee-high socks.

I’m assuming her family left because she’s changed into a pair of leggings and a T-shirt that has some cartoon character I’ve never seen before on it. “You brought me coffee?”

Sawyer nods. “And dinner if you haven’t eaten. It’s not much, but I googled some easy recipes using the ingredients my parents bought me.”

I stand aside, gesturing for her to come in. I watch as she dumps the food onto the kitchen counter and looks around. She’s never spent time here before because I always find my way across the hall.

“You didn’t have to bring me anything,” I say.

She shrugs, moving a strand of hair behind her ear. “You cooked for me when I was sick” is her simple reply.

I watch everything she does as she searches each cupboard and cabinet until she finds what she needs. Eventually I walk over and lean down until my elbows are resting on the edge of the counter farthest away from her.

Her hair looks different today. Brighter. Softer maybe. I try picturing her with red hair like her mother’s, but the image is foggy at best. When she catches me staring, her cheeks tint the same color as her shirt.

“What?” she asks, splitting the chicken and rice she prepared onto two plates.

Wetting my lips, I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Ask her,the voice inside me prods.

Her focus goes back down to the dinner in front of her. “I’m sorry if my mom made you uncomfortable earlier. She gets excited about me making…friends.”

I find it hard to believe she didn’t have any before. “You weren’t popular in school?”

Rubbing her lips together as she forks a pile of green beans onto the plate, she clears her throat. “No,” she murmurs. “I had a lot going on that people couldn’t exactly relate to.”

“I’m sorry.” I know how that feels. My father made it difficult to bring people over. Dawson was the exception, but he was also clueless. Anybody else would have asked questions. “Is your family still here?”

Sawyer puts the first plate into the microwave and heats it up. “They went back to the hotel for the night. Mom and Bentley are leaving in the afternoon.”

We’re quiet.

She looks around, noticing the picture hanging on the wall above the small table I picked up at a thrift shop. Walking over to it, she runs her hands along the edge of the cheap frame.

“That’s at the Botanic Gardens,” I tell her of the photograph. It’s a landscape picture I took with my phone right as the sun began to set. The lowering rays somehow illuminated the blooming myrtles I’d taken the image between.

Sawyer leans closer and points to something in the background. “Is that a little waterfall and footbridge?”

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