Page 10 of Past the Broken Bridges

Dad used to say that you could draw inspiration from everyday life and incorporate it into your sketches. When I was a kid, he’d take me to his favorite parks and sketch the landscaping in the pad that he eventually gave to me when I officially enrolled at LSU. His original pictures are still in there—every bush, tree, and flower drawn to perfection in pencil or charcoal. He always told me that life itself was an experience that you could build your craft on, so I don’t see how literature and the fictional world are any different.

“Don’t you think your focus is better spent on things that’ll advance your career?” he asks.

“It still counts toward my degree, Dad. I’m not wasting my time by taking this. There’s a reason why schools make electives part of their requirements. They don’t want to burn us out. Plus, it fits into my schedule better. It’s only once a week on Wednesdays. I can work more hours at the store and focus on my homework.”

The thoughtful noise coming from him doesn’t bode well for the outcome of this conversation. It’s the same story, different day. Just when I think I’ve done something to impress the tenured professor, he makes it seem like a wanting effort.

By the grace of whatever God exists out there, he drops it. “Have you heard from your mother recently?”

It’s moments like these when I wish Dad and I had more than architecture in common. Like sports. Then I could distract him with the latest NCAA March Madness predictions or talk about who we think could make it to this year’s Super Bowl. Because there’s one other topic outside school I dread talking about with him—Mom.

Yanking on the collar of my shirt as I absently stare at the blank TV screen, I say, “She called the other day wishing me good luck at school this semester.”

We only talk a few times a year, so I don’t know why he bothers asking. She’ll call before school starts, on my birthday, and on Christmas to let me know when to expect my present. She lives two hours away, but I haven’t seen her in years. Maybe because she knows nothing will change with us.

I’ve accepted her absence as much as she has mine. I guess she assumes we’re both better off.

She couldn’t be more fucking wrong.

When Dad is silent, I look in his direction. He’s taking another puff of his cigar, letting the smoke out slowly in front of him. I focus on that instead of the pinched expression across his face. “She still with the plumber?”

Jaw ticking at the same question he’s asked me for the past ten years, I answer, “Yeah. She’s still with Joe.”

“Joe,” he grumbles, shaking his head.

That’s all he says, but I can see the way his eyes darken with a swarm of emotions that I know aren’t good. It’s all in his brown eyes that shift to a hazy black.

People used to say we looked just like each other when I was a kid. But that stopped a long time ago. Now, the man barely looks like himself.

I get up, not wanting to be on the other end of his bad mood. “Want a beer?” I ask, heading into the kitchen for the only thing I can hope will help him not explode.

Before he can answer, I’m pushing one of the canned IPAs into his hand and sitting back down with my own. I crack mine first, figuring I’ll have one with him. Although, knowing him, one will turn into six. All I can hope for is that he winds up being a happy drunk today, or else I’m going to really regret turning down Dawson’s offer to join him on his pub crawl. I’d rather be getting shit-faced there than dealing with the borderline alcoholic sitting next to me.

To keep the peace, I bring up the one thing I know my father can talk for hours about without getting angry. “I think I know what I want my senior design to be for my capstone.”

“Don’t think I’m letting go of your ridiculous decision to take a writing class, Paxton. I’d like to think I’m not contributing to your education only to see you waste both our time.”

Paxton.I fucking hate that name.

Because he only uses it when he’s pissed.

But I let it go and tell him about my project design, hoping it’s good enough to appease him.

Hoping, for once, thatI’mgood enough.

And when he finishes one beer, I get him another because it’s the only way to keep him busy enough to stay seated.

He never says a word as he empties can after can.

In the back of my head, a voice hisses,You will always be an enabler.

Chapter Four

Sawyer

I’d forgotten how much I missed Dad’s hugs until his arms are squeezing me against him in goodbye eight hours after helping me move in. He’d done the same thing at the airport when he picked me up, except he lifted me off the ground and spun us around as if I were five instead of twenty-one. But I didn’t mind. I laughed and hugged him back, not caring about the people who watched us and probably judged.

“I’m so damn proud of the woman you’ve become,” Dad tells me again, making it hard to fight the fresh glaze of tears that come with his compliment. My whole life, I’ve always wanted to make him proud because he’s the best person I know. He’s strong and brave and selfless. Who wouldn’t want to be just like him? He was even recognized in a newspaper article for the lives he saved after Katrina, which Mom has framed in the living room at their house in New York.

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