Page 107 of Past the Broken Bridges

Only then does Dawson slip back into my mind, and by the time I text him back when guilt crests for what I said, I hear nothing at all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sawyer

The hallway floor creaks under the weight of my bare feet as I creep toward the kitchen. I can hear her crying again—Mom. Aunt Taylor’s voice is quiet, trying to soothe her.

“You’ll wake the kids up,” my mom’s sister says, pouring white wine into my mother’s empty glass. “You’ve got to be strong for them. For Sawyer. It’s the only way you’ll all get through this, Michelle.”

Even from here, I can see how red Mom’s face is as she wipes it with a tissue. How long has she been crying for this time?

I frown, wanting to make my appearance known, but my feet stick to the floor like they’re weighed down.

“I should have seen the signs,” Mom tells her sister, voice raw as she grabs the glass and plays with the stem. “There were so many.”

“You couldn’t have known it would be this,” Aunt Taylor counters, putting her hand on my mother’s free one.

The doctors said the same thing. Kids get sick all the time. Nobody would have assumed it was cancer. No number of bruises or amount of fatigue could have led to someone thinking I had morethan a stubborn cold and love for adventure. I told her that. Dad did too.

Mom stares at her drink. She loves wine, but she’s barely touched it. Maybe she’s sick too. “I have a horrible feeling in my stomach.”

My ears start ringing.

Mom turns her head, looking directly at me.

Wait. I don’t remember this part.

She says, “I have a horrible feeling.”

Is she talking to me?

I try speaking, but it feels like there’s something on my mouth preventing me from saying a word. Tape. Glue. A restraint.

I try saying her name, but nothing comes out.

She starts crying again, a suffocating feeling crushing my chest as I watch her. “I have a horrible feeling,” she repeats, her piercing focus cutting holes into me.

I attempt to walk into the room and tell her I’ll be okay, but I can’t move. I’m frozen, forced to watch her break down. I try to move my arms, my mouth, anything.

Mom straightens while looking straight at me—through me, knocking into the wineglass.

It falls, shattering on the ground into pieces.

I jerk up, nearly toppling off the couch that I must have fallen asleep on.

A piece of paper is stuck to my face with drool pooling from the nap I accidentally took. Peeling the paper off, I use the back of my hand to wipe my face off and take a deep breath, only to see a smear of red.

“Not again,” I whisper, rushing to the sink in time for droplets to fall into the basin.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Grabbing paper towels, I tilt my head back and trystopping it before it gets out of hand, my mind still on the dream that my heart aches from.

I have a horrible feeling.

“It was a dream,” I tell myself, eyes flicking to the broken water glass on the floor. I must have knocked it down trying to get to the dream version of my mother.

But it wasn’t just a dream.

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