Page 13 of Past the Broken Bridges

Dawson hears me anyway, brows furrowing at the comment. “What number is your apartment again?”

I think back to that stranger-danger conversation I had with my parents as a kid, but my gut isn’t telling me to run. Self-preservation be damned, I say, “Four D.”

A twisted look weighs the corners of his lips down for the briefest moment. “Ah. Gotcha.”

His less-than-stellar reaction piques my interest. “Friend of yours?” I guess. After the last car passes, I start walking, Dawson following right next to me.

“Something like that.”

I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, so I don’t push. It’s none of my business, even if the guy is my neighbor. “Well, tell him he owes me a taco after he stole mine.”

Dawson gives me a funny look. “He stole your taco?”

“My delivery,” I correct, still peeved that I never got mycrunch wrap. I haven’t heard the door across the hall open or close since the incident. I’m pretty sure he’s alive, but I’ve heard drunk people can choke on their vomit if they’re passed out. When would I start smelling something to be alarmed over?

Realizing my train of thought is getting dark, I push it away. “Who just takes somebody’s food if they didn’t order it?”

Dawson shrugs. “Broke college kids?” he guesses, making a thoughtful face. “Pretty sure I stole a whole pizza at a party once. I was hammered. Don’t think it stayed in my stomach long once I downed half of it.”

I wince at the mental image. “Most guys wait to divulge those kinds of gross stories to keep a good image of themselves.”

“I am who I am, baby.”

I try holding back the face I make at the pet name.

“Where you headed?” he asks rather than continuing to flirt, looking at the schedule still gripped in my hands.

I show him, relieved he isn’t going to make this weird. “Allen Hall.”

“I’m headed that way,” he says, offering me a boyish smile that’s more friendly than charming. “I’ll show you.”

I don’t tell him that I already Googled it and memorized which route to take. It’s a two-minute walk. Easy. Instead of admitting what a dork I am, I say, “Thanks.”

What’s the harm in letting a cute boy be my tour guide? The senior who showed me around during my short orientation two days ago was moody and rude, so I’d take a smiling face any day.

Dawson grips the strap of his backpack as he looks around us, nodding at a few guys who pass by and fist-bumping one of them. “What’s your major? Pretty sure I saw you over atDoran, but that doesn’t make sense. You don’t seem like an ag kinda girl.”

What does an ag girl look like?What even is ag?I make a mental reminder to Google that later when I get home. “What kind of girl am I?”

“Hot,” he answers automatically.

I stop walking, taken aback by his bluntness.

His cheeks turn a light shade of pink, the same color as his bloodshot eyes, as he swipes one of those massive palms through his short blond hair, stopping beside me. “Er, sorry. Too much? My buddies say I can be.”

I’ve never been called hot before. The closest I got was being called pretty by a boy I used to go to school with. That was before the cancer and the chemo. Once I lost my hair…well, those kinds of compliments stopped. People saw past the wigs and fake smiles. I guess once they know you’re different, there’s no changing their perception of you.

I was the sick girl, which made me untouchable. Vulnerable. I’m determined to never be that girl again. Not here. Not ever.

Clearing my throat, I absentmindedly touch my hair again. “Maybe a little. But…” I lose my voice, shrugging instead of finishing my sentence. It’s nice to hear an attractive boy call me hot. It makes me feel normal for once.

We keep walking. I wonder if he realizes that he’s not guiding me anywhere. He clears his throat. “So what’s your major?”

“Communication,” I say after realizing I never answered the first time. “I haven’t focused in on a medium, but I was thinking journalism. I like to write.”

“What do you want to write about?”

I say the first thing that comes to mind without any hesitation. “Life.”

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