Page 32 of Past the Broken Bridges

When Wednesday rolls around, there’s a notable absence in class that has me staring at the empty seat Sawyer usually occupies. When ten minutes pass by after the professor starts his lecture on proper grammar, I realize the girl who’s usually more punctual than me isn’t coming.

I check the time on my phone every few minutes, my eyes going to the door in between the doodles I draw in my notebook. I shouldn’t care.I don’t, I tell myself. But…a nagging feeling nips at my stomach.

The first hour of class goes by quickly, learning about shit we should have known since elementary school pertaining to sentence structure and punctuation. But the way people seem to be taking notes on it all makes me question America’s education system.

When we get our twenty-minute break before the last hour of class, which focuses on workshopping our four-page short stories, I pull out my phone and debate shootingDawson a text to see if he’s with her. I’m not sure how I’d feel if he was.It’s none of your business,I remind myself.

So why the hell does it feel like someone punched me in the stomach when I keep glancing over at the empty spot?

Tapping my pen against my open notebook as my classmates start pouring back into the room, I glance at the clock on the wall.

A minute goes by as I contemplate my next move. Another thirty seconds crawls. Then another.

It’s none of your business,I tell myself again, hoping it’ll stick.

It doesn’t.

Before Professor Grey can come back, I slide out of my seat and grab my things. Nobody looks twice when I leave the room, not that I’m shocked. I haven’t exactly become buddy-buddy with anybody since the semester started, so very few people pay me any mind.

Except for the girl whose apartment door I’m knocking on twenty minutes later.

I hear distant rustling coming from inside, but nobody comes to the door. Brows furrowing, I wait a few minutes before knocking again. I’m not sure why I’m here. People skip class all the time. But Sawyer doesn’t seem like the type.

Tucking my hands into my front pockets, I step back and listen to the little noises inside.This is stupid. You don’t care,the voice tries to convince me.

I’m about to listen to it and walk away when the deadbolt clicks and the knob turns before I see Sawyer in the cracked opening. My eyes narrow when I see the bright-red tissue she’s holding to her nose.

Without thinking, I push the door open, forcing herback. Eyes narrowing, I stand to full height and ask, “Who did that to you?”

Her eyes widen at my tone. “What? Nobody.”

I close the door behind me using my boot, not caring that I’m being rude and inviting myself in. She told me she was good at cleaning up wounds, which sat the wrong way with me since the day she said it. “If somebody did this—”

“Nobody did this to me, Banks,” she promises, voice muffled from the way she’s holding her nose.

I guide her over to the couch and sit her down, tilting her chin up. “Keep your head back,” I direct. Her apartment is set up the same way mine is, with the exception of the rooms being on the opposite sides, so it’s easy to navigate.

Going over to the kitchen, I search the cabinets for a washcloth, wet one with warm water, and then grab fresh tissues from the box on the counter.

She accepts the Kleenex and watches as I sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.

Has she always been this pale? The only color on her is the blood smeared between her nose and lip. “How long has this been going on?”

Sawyer blows out a raspberry, leaning back on the couch. “It started right before class. I thought it was finished after a few minutes, but it came back. It’s been off and on since.”

Christ.She’s been bleeding for the past hour?

“Is this normal?”

When she doesn’t answer right away, I can’t help but examine her exposed skin for anything else. Cuts. Bruises. I’m well versed in what to look for when somebody lays a hand on a person.

Besides a tiny bruise on her arm that can’t be fromanything like a hand, she’s clean. Only then am I able to relax my shoulders.

“Sometimes it is,” she answers, sighing. “It’s been a while since this has happened. I used to get them a lot during the winter because of the air. The house my mom bought had a wood stove, so it was hot and dry. A humidifier helped.”

“You got one of those here?”

She shakes her head. “Like I said, it’s been a while since this has happened.”

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