Page 113 of Past the Broken Bridges

“I don’t need one.”

I stand, feeling so much smaller next to him even though I’ve got a few inches on his five-feet-eleven height.

“Son…” He won’t meet my eyes, but he stares at the garbage hanging from his hand.

I wait silently.

He clears his throat. “Your mother called this morning. She said she hasn’t heard back from you about if you’re visiting her this summer. You should call her. Let her know you’re okay.”

Let her know you’re okay.

Am I though?

Rubbing my lips together, I nod. No words. No promise that I’ll do exactly that.

He goes to the door to take the garbage out to the bin, stopping halfway out. “And don’t…don’t worry about the money you owe me for your friend. I’m not worried about it right now.”

Closing the door behind him, all I can do is stare at the wood.

He’s not worried about the money he thinks I owe him for Dawson? He thinks Iowehim?

I stand in the middle of the room.

And I laugh.

Coldly.

Bitterly.

With exhaustion.

It fucking hurts. With each breath I try to draw, my ribs ache. Yet I can’t stop myself. I laugh until tears form in their ducts.

He beat me.

Literally kicked me while I was down.

And he thinks I owe him.

I’m glad he doesn’t come back to see me in the middle of an obvious breakdown because God only knows what he’d do. Would the nice streak end? Would he raise his hand? I don’t know.

And I don’t care.

God, I don’t care at all.

I grab my truck keys and head to the door, walking, or more like limping, right past him to where I’m parked by the curb.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

I don’t answer him as I pull open the door and climb in, flinching at the way my ribs bend on the way up. Dad starts walking toward me, but I start the engine and drive away before he can say another word.

* * *

My mother used to tell me to never come to a woman’s house empty-handed, so I stop by two different gas stations until I find Sawyer’s favorite flavor of Pop-Tarts.

As I’m leaving the store, I see Dawson get out of the passenger seat of a beat-up vehicle that some guy smoking a blunt is driving.

He stops when he sees me, his eyes bloodshot and his body reeking of pot.

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