Page 114 of Past the Broken Bridges

I stand there silently, one hand gripping the edge of my truck door as he studies the bruises covering half of my face and disappearing into my clothing.

His eyes widen. “What hap—”

“Gable,” the man behind the wheel calls out impatiently. “We don’t have all day.”

Dawson’s eye twitches.

I don’t say anything as I take him in.

Every bone is hollowed out, covered in skin that looks so frail and thin. His eyelid tremors. He’s fidgety.

He rubs his nose. “I gotta go” is all he says, walking around me and into the store.

He doesn’t bother asking if I’m okay.

I make eye contact with the man behind the wheel of the piece-of-shit SUV parked a few feet away.

He asks, “You got a fucking problem?”

Yeah.“I’ve got a lot of them,” I say honestly.

He blows out a plume of smoke, grinning. “I can see that by the look on your face. Keep staring and I’ll add another bruise to it.”

My fingers clench the Pop-Tart tighter.

I could go inside and talk to Dawson.

But I know what he’d say.

I don’t need your help.

“Run along now,” his new friend encourages.

I look over my shoulder at the gas station before sighing. There’s no point wasting my energy when I can barely function as is.

Climbing into my truck, I suck in a breath, my ribs getting pinched as I position myself behind the steering wheel.

Dawson made his choice.

This is me making mine.

Ten minutes later, I’m hobbling up to the door across the hall from mine. Right before I knock, I hear a fit of giggles coming from the other side. Caution stirs in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with the injuries I sustained.

When I finally rap my knuckles against the wood, I wince and step back, holding my breath as the lock turns.

Two soft faces greet me, both quickly shadowing with shock.

“Oh my God,” Sawyer whispers, eyes raking down the front of me. From my swollen face to my hunched posture, she takes me in while Dixie stands behind her looking just as horrified.

Quickly, my neighbor takes the things from my hand and puts them on the counter. “Get in here. Do you need ice? Hold on.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to talk before I’m being tugged inside, flinching at the jerky movements as I’m led to the couch and sat down. Dixie closes the door while my neighbor-turned-nurse gets a washcloth from the kitchen and an ice pack from the freezer.

Dixie stands by the door, still gaping at my face.

I offer her a half-assed smile even though it hurts. “I’m okay,” I tell her.

Neither of the girls believe that, not that I blame them. I could barely look at myself in the mirror the day after the misunderstanding. The bruises have gotten darker, the cut on my cheek looking worse as it’s started healing. God forbid they see the discoloration on my side. They’d have nightmares.

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