Page 57 of Past the Broken Bridges

She looks down at the linoleum, absorbing my answer.After a few quiet seconds, she responds, “He could be worth it.”

My chin dips, doubt curling my mouth. “He could be,” I agree, knowing what she does with this information is solely up to her.

“Sawyer feels bad,” she tells me, wiggling her phone. “She told me what happened.”

I stare dubiously at her. How could she blame herself for something she had no control over? “It wasn’t her fault. And I hope you don’t get upset with her over Dawson’s idiocy. I provoked him.”

“I’m not mad. At her, at least.” Dixie looks down again, rubbing her arm. “She wanted to go to a party so she could cross it off her list. If we hadn’t gone, maybe you guys wouldn’t have fought. He wouldn’t have…kissed her.” She cringes. “We wouldn’t be here.”

Chances are we would have gotten into it one way or another. In our friendship, I’m the voice of reason. Which is fucking scary.

“Dawson can be hard to be around sometimes,” I admit. “That’s why he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one of them, especially if he’s not going to respect you how you deserve.”

“Speaking as a friend,” she repeats.

“And as someone who knows Dawson.”

She frowns, not saying anything. It’s her decision at the end of the day. I’ll still be his friend, even if I’m tempted to punch him in the face sometimes. I just hope she doesn’t feel as obligated.

“So. A list, huh?” I remark, choosing to change topics in hopes of lightening the mood. “Tell me about it.”

* * *

I don’t bother being quiet in the morning despite the six-foot-six idiot passed out on my couch. It was a long night at the ER, and they wouldn’t let him out until he sobered up. It was almost four when I dropped Dixie off at the dorms and brought Dawson back to my place to keep an eye on him.

Shaking my head when I see the way his long legs hang off the end of the couch, I make myself a pot of coffee with the intent of drinking the whole thing. But as soon as it finishes brewing and I see the way Dawson is still knocked out, I pour a second cup and walk across the hall.

It’s almost noon, so I don’t feel bad knocking on the door, especially when I have caffeinated reinforcements. But when a few minutes go by and nobody answers, I try again.

Nothing.

I wait for good measure, hoping to check in to see if she’s okay, but when the door opens, it’s not her who answers.

“Can I help you?” the older man asks, his eyes piercing down at me. He’s not much taller than me, but he stands like he is.

I lift the coffee at the man I can only assume is her father. “I was just bringing Sawyer over something to drink.”

He looks at the cup and then at my face. His gaze narrows. “And you are?”

“Her neighbor,” I answer, adding, “sir.”

He studies me with his dark eyes, making me wonder if Sawyer got her blue ones and blond hair from her mother. “She’s already got coffee.”

I find myself staring down at the steaming cup in my hands and nodding.

“That’s a hell of a bruise, son. What happened to your face?” he asks, studying the black-and-blue coloring on my cheek suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

He chuckles. “I work with a lot of young men with pent-up emotions. That’s not nothing.”

Sawyer said her father was in the Navy, so I’m sure he deals with a lot of people ready to fight from their long stints away from home. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Half his lips kick up in the corners. “Ah. I was young once too” is all he says. Then I see his hand extend out. “Christopher. Sawyer’s father.”

I shake his hand, meeting his firm grip with my own. “Banks.”

One of his eyebrows pops up, his hand tightening briefly before letting go. His eyes cast over me and then to the door across the hall. “Do you make a habit of bringing my daughter coffee every day?”

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