Page 28 of Past the Broken Bridges

I close my eyes, rinse out my mouth, and walk away without having to look at her again.

Chapter Ten

Banks

The long trek through Julian T. White Hall is one I’ve done countless times over the years—long before I was a student here. I can get to room 316 on the third floor four different ways with my eyes closed and know at least five different ways to get out quickly if needed.

Anxiety bubbles the closer I get to the cracked door, my eyes roaming over the brown nameplate on the wall beside it.

Terry Banks, PhD.

Rapping my knuckles against the wood, I push the door open wider to see my father standing by the bookcase near the window, which is full of books and guides on landscaping and architecture. A few textbooks from previous classes are thrown in, including some he’s made me read during the summer so I don’t “dry out” and “waste my time off rotting brain cells” like he always says video games do.

He turns, pulling his glasses off when he sees me standing at the doorjamb.

“Dad,” I greet, stepping in and closing the door behind me.

His eyes immediately go to my lip, his mouth curling downward before returning a book to the shelf. “Paxton. How’s your day been?”

Casual conversation. I can handle that. “It’s been good. Submitted my project for approval to Laramie.”

He walks over to his chair and sits, setting his glasses down beside his keyboard. “When are you going to hear back about it? He’s known to make his students do revisions. Some don’t get the approval until weeks before it’s due.”

I’ve heard as much, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me nervous. But I’m proud of the concept I came up with. More so because of the idea behind it, which I can share during presentation week. But every time I’ve tried telling Dad the inspiration, he’s always found a way to cut me off with topics he cares more about, so I gave up. “I’m confident he’ll like what I’ve got. We’re supposed to get feedback next week.”

My father hums, his eyes still focused on the fat lip that hurts like a bitch. “Did you ice it?” he asks.

Swallowing, I wrap my fingers along the edge of the armchair. Squeezing until there’s a bite of pain in my fingertips, I nod once. “I did.”

He keeps staring. I don’t know what’s on his mind because the man is stone-faced as ever. Then he says the last thing I expect. “I’m sorry. For…” He shakes his head, clearing his throat when his eyes dip to my lip again and then move away quickly to something on the wall.

“It was an accident,” I murmur.

And it was. This time. If I hadn’t startled him trying to wake him up when I found him drunk and slumped over in his armchair at the house, he wouldn’t have swung at me.He’s done a lot of intentional things in life, especially after Mom left us, but this was different. I can forgive him a lot easier for this.

“I just…” His words trail off, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to finish the thought. “I’ve changed.”

My body freezes, save for my fingers twitching along the arm of the chair. Instead of answering, I stare at his desk. It’s organized—each file, paper, and folder all in a specific place. I’ve always found that funny. His life here is nothing like the one at home, where the real mess is. Where it has been for most of my life.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, hovering over me where I’m lying on the floor. “It was an accident. I’ve changed. Tell your mother I changed.”

That’s all he cared about.

What she thinks.

Even after she left.

Pride is a bitch like that.

He looks at my notebook, clearly as ready to move on from this conversation as I am. “How’s that other class treating you? The one where you’re writing fairy tales or whatever it is they’re making you do. Ready to drop it for something more tantalizing?”

And here we go.At least I know he’s back to himself because hearing him apologize was a little too weird for me. “So far I like creative writing. It’s a new type of challenge. Works the brain in other ways.”

The huff coming from him is in obvious disbelief, but I choose to ignore it. “Hopefully you realize what a waste of time it is before the drop period is over.”

There’s a lot I could say to him, but I’ve learned to be smart over the years. The less I say, the better. The safer. “Ishould probably get going soon. I told Dawson I’d meet him at the library before my shift at the store this afternoon.”

My father turns to the computer, waking it up and signing in. “Speaking of, I highly suggest you tell him to start showing up if he expects to pass. There’s no reason for him to be missing my noon course.”

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