Page 29 of Past the Broken Bridges

He hasn’t been showing up? He told me the other day he actually liked the material this semester when I asked him how it was going. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’ll let him know.”

Dawson has been acting strange lately, but it’s not unusual for him. I figured it had something to do with Sawyer or Dixie. I swear, every time I see him on campus, he’s all over one of them, and whenever we’re hanging out, he likes to bring Sawyer up in some form. It digs at me, and I wonder if he knows it.

I like Dawson, and I want him to be happy. But I also want to get to know the firecracker who confronts people head-on even if it’s uncomfortable. Like yesterday. The last thing I wanted was to talk to her, or anybody for that matter, but she didn’t give me another choice.

I respect it. Maybe it’s exactly what Dawson needs in his life—somebody who won’t kiss his ass but tell him how it is.

Swiping at my jaw, I stand. “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

It was his idea to meet, not mine. I figured it was better here when I could use class or something else on campus as an out rather than agreeing to come home later. Dawson has been AWOL for a couple days, so the chances of actually seeing him are unlikely. If he doesn’t answer my texts again later, I’ll have to go to his apartment and make sure we don’t have a repeat of last year when I found him unconscious on the bathroom floor.

I’ve changed,Dad said.

I want to believe it. Like I want to believe Dawson has. But the last time Dad told me that, he got blackout drunk and started yelling so loudly the neighbors called the cops to make sure everything was okay. He didn’t lay a hand on me, but if the officers didn’t knock that night, I have a feeling he would have done more than leave me with a split lip.

Dad’s gaze moves from his computer screen to me, eyes darting to my lip and then back up again. “That was all. I wanted to make sure that we were okay.”

Not that I was okay. Thatwewere okay. God forbid he thought I would badmouth him to the wrong people on campus.

At the end of the day, he’s still my father. I love him. No matter the battles we go through. And even if it’s hard for me to believe, he has gotten better in a lot of ways. I’m not sure I’d stick around if he hadn’t. Even if it meant giving up my free tuition.

“We’re good,” I reassure, grabbing my notebook because I have nothing more to say.

Enabler.

His shoulders ease from their stiff, squared position. “Good.” There’s a pause where he looks at what I’m holding. “And reconsider your little writing class. Your time is here valuable. There are other electives that could use more of your brain cells than what you’re being taught there.”

Replying would be pointless, so I salute him sarcastically and leave before he can comment on it. Halfway down the hall, I remind myself that he means well.

Most of the time.

Nothing he could say would make me drop the class. If I’m being honest with myself, a large part of that is becauseit’s the one time a week I get to know Sawyer a little better without feeling guilty about it. Sure, I don’t exactly play Mr. Nice Guy and converse with her unless she starts it, but being the wallflower gets results too. You learn a lot about people when you observe them.

Like how she touches her hair when she’s nervous or overthinking. Or how she’s friendly with everybody, always complimenting somebody for something she finds in their stories or the prompts Professor Grey gives us. And she indulges people with the smallest details of her life to relate to those she owes nothing to. Like when she brought up the golden retriever she misses back home. Or her little brother, whom she pretends she doesn’t miss as much but must based on all the stories she shares with a smile on her face.

I pick up the smallest mannerisms, which only tugs at the interest already anchored in my gut. She uses her hair to hide on the days it’s down, fidgets with her hands when someone is reading her work as if she’s not confident in it, and is always watching her surroundings the same way I am. I know because she’s caught me almost as much as I’ve caught her glancing in my direction.

I don’t feel guilty about knowing any of that. After all, I’m not seeking her out if we share a class together, which means I’m not imposing on Dawson’s dibs.

At least, that’s what I tell myself to feel better about my decision to stay.

* * *

After the start of semester hustle slows down, the campus store is always painfully boring. Kids already have their books and supplies and rarely need to come in for anything else.

“Three people,” Lucy groans, banging her head on the counter until her bright-blue-dyed hair falls out of its bun. “We’ve had three people all day. Why do they do this to us?”

“Better be careful what you say,” I remark, still working on the inventory list our manager gave me to do before he left. “They always cut back on hours after the first month or two.”

Lucy sits up and spins on the stool, her hair whipping around her. “Good, let them. I don’t know how you do it.”

Simple. I like having the peace that I don’t get elsewhere. “It gives me time to work on assignments without much interruption.”

“You live by yourself,” she points out. A fact she knows because she’s been to my apartment on a few occasions long before she got a boyfriend.

I’m grateful we can still be friends. If that’s what you want to call it. Otherwise, work would be awkward. The punk-rock chick was fun when we spent time together off campus, but I think we both knew it wasn’t a long-term situation. That probably helped salvage civility. “Dawson spends more time at my place than he does his.”

Lucy leans her elbows against the edge of the counter, one of her eyebrow rings catching the light as she arches the brow in inquisition. “I’m surprised he got over the Desiree thing so quickly. He swore up and down he wasn’t going to forgive you for that.”

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