Page 119 of Past the Broken Bridges

Life is never easy, no matter who you are.

Banks proved that I’m not the only one with problems that are hard. We’ve both been dealt a shitty hand in life. But his could be fixed.

Nerves bubble under my skin as I approach the open door at the end of the hall, glancing at the piece of paper I wrote his information down on this morning.

Before I knock, I take in the middle-aged man who looks harmless. Graying hair with speckles of the same dark brown Banks has. Clean-shaven. Glasses sitting on a fair-skinned face as he reads over something on the computer. When I make my presence known, I’m struck by the familiarity in his facial features when he looks up at me.

Banks looks just like him.

Their eyes are the same color brown, yet this man’s seem deeper, darker. Like there is a case of secrets hidden beneath the surface. A madness masked by false professionalism. An abyss that seems so…cold.

“Are you Professor Banks?” I ask, refraining from fidgeting as badly as I want to at his doorway. If I show my discomfort, he’ll feed off it. People like him always do.

He leans back. “I am. Can I help you with something?”

His voice is lower than Banks’s is, aged with experience and something that scrapes against my soul like nails on a chalkboard.

Swallowing, I force a smile. “I’m friends with your son. We’re neighbors, actually.”

Banks’s father sits silently behind his desk, a stoic expression making it hard to get a read on him. “Is there a point to this visit, Miss…?”

“Sawyer. Sawyer Hawkins.”

If my name has come up before, it doesn’t register on his face. He leans forward, “Well, Miss Hawkins, this time of day is reserved for office hours with my students should they need me. Unless you plan on signing up for one of my future classes, I ask that you make this visit brief.”

Maybe if he was even the slightest bit nice, I’d consider being cordial. But screw that. Banks is my friend. More than that, if I’m truly being honest with myself, if I could let him be.

If his father is willing to talk to a stranger like this, God only knows what his son has had to endure.

“Your son is one of the kindest people I know,” I start, walking into his office. “Which I’m assuming must come from his mother because I’d hardly say his manners are from your influence.”

Professor Banks sits straighter in his chair, his lips pressing into a firm line at the blatant insult that I throw at him unabashedly.

I ignore the way his eyes narrow as he peels his glasses off. I continue, “Nobody should have to endure the horriblethings I’ve seen him go through, least of all from the people who are supposed to protect him.”

The second realization dawns on him, Banks’s father sets his glasses down onto the desk and tries condescending his way out of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms. Hawkins, nor do I like the tone you’re taking with me.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, I don’t like having to clean your son’s wounds when you’re done with him, so I suppose we’re both going to be leaving here unsatisfied.”

For the first time since I walked in, the man in front of me pales.

“Nothing to say now?” I press, nostrils flaring with disgust as he stares at me. “I don’t know what could possibly make you think hurting another person is okay, much less your son. My father would go to the ends of the earth for me. He would rather hurt himself a million times over than cause my brother or me any type of suffering. And if you knew what I’ve put him and my mother through, you’d know what wanting to take my place would entail. But he’d do it. If it were a choice, he would. And Banks…” My voice cracks from anger. From sadness. “Banks is miserable because he puts everybody first. Including you. And this is how you repay him?”

“Ms. Hawkins—”

“He could barely walk,” I cut him off. I only saw what Banks wanted me to, but I could tell by how he was moving that he was hurt far worse than the eye could see. Standing straight was impossible. Every little movement caused him to flinch. Whatever was done to him went deeper than one angry strike. “Since I’ve known him, he’s been covered in injuries that he refuses to talk about. But he still puts you first, even after everything.”

The aging professor grips the edge of the desk, hisjaw ticking. “I would be very,verycareful about what you say next, girl. These kinds of accusations are how people’s reputations get ruined.”

That’s what he’s worried about? Hisreputation? My heart hurts for the boy who cooks me dinner and cuddles me to sleep. Who is willing to give me casual and put up with the brick wall I built between us to prevent us from being more. How could somebody who receives so little love be capable of offering so much of it?

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I whisper, shaking my head slowly. “We all get one chance at life, and you’ve decided to be a miserable, abusive asshole. And you don’t even care an ounce about what it’s doing to your son.”

Slowly, he stands, remaining behind his desk with his palms flat against the top. “I highly suggest you stop while you’re ahead. There’s a lot to lose for you as well. One day, that mouth is going to get you into trouble.”

Suddenly, and maybe surprisingly, I start laughing in disbelief. It’s maniacal, causing the man to look even angrier than before. But I can’t stop. Can’t help myself.

Swiping at a tear, I give him an empty, distant smile. “That’s the thing, professor. I have nothing left to lose because life has already taken so much from me. Your son… He still has the world at his fingertips. It’s not too late for him. Not like it is for me. If speaking up gets me into trouble, at least it’ll have been worth it.”

---