Page 168 of Past the Broken Bridges

Banks

It took three years after graduating from LSU to raise enough money and gather the building materials for the reconstruction based on my senior project. After the model was approved by the city, a process that stretched far longer than my patience could tolerate, it took another six months to bring to life.

But staring at the red ribbon tied to the freshly planted oak on one side and a wooden post on the other, I can breathe easier knowing all that wait was worth it.

A small hand grazes my bicep, pulling my attention away from where the cameras are setting up by the memorial. “Hey, you,” I greet, draping an arm around the person who’s made the last four years tolerable.

Not easier, but…better.

Dixie smiles up at me. “It’s almost time.”

“Are they here?” I glance at my watch, a new stainless-steel Citizen that she bought me for Christmas two years ago when my grandfather’s stopped working for thefinal time.

She nods, softness in her eyes. “They just pulled up.”

If it hadn’t been for her suggestion to put on a string of charity shows across the East Coast, I’m not sure we would have been able to make today possible. Her music raised the money we needed and then some, giving us the opportunity to immortalize the person we both mutually respected.

Not to mention she was the voice of reason when the city council kept holding back the approval because of the ridiculous bullshit they needed to do per policy.

Fuck the policy.

Dixie went to every single meeting—every planning board and every public hearing—to make sure I didn’t jump over the dumbass tables and punch the council members in their uptight faces.

It was a memorial for a sick girl.

For a girl who sacrificed herself for others.

And they couldn’t make one simple request happen?

“Let’s go get them,” I say, turning us with my arm still around her shoulder.

A space between the magnolia bushes is open now after we removed and relocated one of the flourishing shrubs in order to create a pathway into the quiet alcove that’s no longer a secret to the public.

First I see Bentley Hawkins, who towers over his mother by a good foot and a half. He shot up since the last time he was in Louisiana. Gone is the boyish fat on the seventeen-year-old’s face, where instead there are mature teenage features.

When his father turns to me, I’m struck by the same emotions I was when he showed up to my apartment the day Sawyer died. He holds out a hand for me to shake, which Ido as soon as Dixie and I stop in front of him.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” I say.

Dixie hugs Sawyer’s mom. They’ve become fast friends over the years, talking a few times a month to see how the other is. There’s never going to be a replacement for what Sawyer meant to her family, but I think Dixie offers them comfort with every step she takes in life.

They watch her live because they couldn’t see their daughter prosper. It’s not what they wanted, but I think it’s as close as they can get. So Dixie indulges them the way she indulges me.

“Follow me,” I tell them, leading the small group into the revamped garden.

When they see the new bridge where the old one stood, they stop short.

Sawyer’s mother lets out a shaky breath.

I walk over and grab the framed piece that I preserved from the original structure. “This is for you,” I say, handing them the wood with our initials in it. “We made those when we were kids. I didn’t want it to get lost or taken if we left it hanging here, so I thought the safest place would be with you.”

Bentley is the one who takes it when his mother gets stuck frozen in place, staring at the gift that I hope isn’t too much.

I selfishly thought about keeping it for myself, but I know where it belongs. Which is why hidden under my shirt, right above my heart, is an identical tattoo that I had an artist trace and ink on me permanently.

A personal memorial of my own.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Hawkins whispers, eyes glistening as she stares at her daughter’s initials.

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