Page 148 of Past the Broken Bridges

If she’d gotten her way, maybe I wouldn’t have. But there’s a tug in my chest that always leads me to her whether I want it to or not.

When I see somebody walking toward the car I’m borrowing from my father, I take a deep breath and say, “Just remember that, okay?”

She opens her eyes with confusion twisting her features before knuckles rap on her side of the window.

As soon as she sees her father standing on the other side of the glass, she locks up.

“They love you as much as if not more than you love them,” I tell her, hoping she’ll forgive me. “More than I…I could have loved you. Don’t you think they deserve to be part of your life no matter how hard it gets?”

Her jaw quivers. “You called him?”

I turn off the engine. “My father and I may never see eye to eye, but you still tried for me. This is me trying for you. Be with your family, Sawyer.”

Be with your family.

Forget about me.

“Close the chapter.”

Her breath catches as she stares at me.

I squeeze her hand once before letting go.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sawyer

My father took a leave of absence from work, which is the last thing I wanted him to do. But between him and the daily calls from my mother since Banks—Paxton—contacted him, I stopped fighting them on anything.

I haven’t been to school in almost two weeks, and Dad gave up encouraging me to after the first one came and went. It was clear I’d made up my mind. It took everything he had to convince my mother to stay in New York with Bentley, and I could hear how tired he was from their conversations at night, which usually led to intense fights.

All because of me.

Always because of me.

On Thursday, my father knocks on my bedroom door and cracks it open. “Can I come in, baby girl?”

He will anyway, so I simply nod.

My eyes follow his shoes as they near me before he turns and sits on the edge of the bed. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t stay in here forever.”

His hand comes down on top of my head, playing with my hair the way he and my mother used to do when I was little. It doesn’t feel as good as it did then—doesn’t comfort me the way I wish it could.

“I’m tired” is my only response.

I’ve been tired for days. Weeks. Months. But the kind of fatigue plaguing my body now feels so heavy, it’s like somebody tied two anchors to my ankles and expected me to walk. My limbs ache and drag and hurt. Despite barely eating, I’m bloated and uncomfortable. And based on the way my rib cage stuck out when my father forced me to shower yesterday, I’m losing weight.

I want to chalk it up to sadness.

To the non-breakup that still did something funny to my heart.

But I know what it really is.

I stare at his watch, watching the hands move.

Tick tock, tick tock.

“If you got up and ate something, it’d help,” he suggests, though it’s pointless. I’ve entertained the meals he’s given me because I know it’ll make him feel better, but I’ve gotten sick the last three nights in a row. Even toast doesn’t stay down long enough to matter.

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