Page 58 of Past the Broken Bridges

He’s protective. “No.”

A thoughtful noise comes from him before he takes the cup from me and steps back. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I suggest putting some ice on that. It’ll help. Trust me.”

I watch as he dips his chin once and grabs the door. “And, Banks?”

“Sir?”

“Try not to make it a habit to bring your misunderstandings around my daughter. She’s been through enough.”

He closes the door behind him, leaving me in the hallway wondering what exactly Sawyer has been through.

Heading back to my apartment, I grab my cup of coffee from the counter when Dawson startles awake and falls off the couch.

I look over to see him groaning as he rolls onto his back. He’s lucky he didn’t slam into the coffee table and make me drive him back to the hospital. Although he’d probably do more damage to the table than himself since it was a cheap piece of junk I found at a yard sale when I moved here.

“You good?” I ask, bringing him the cup I was about to drink.

I wait for him to get up and sit back down on the couch before passing him the steaming mug. I’ve been through this with him enough times to know he probably doesn’t remember shit from last night.

The second he sees my face, it cements my suspicion. “What the fuck happened to you?”

When I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror this morning, I cringed. The nurse was right. I have a shiner, and it makes me glad my split lip is healed, or else people are going to think I’m in some sort of underground fighting club.

I gesture. “You.”

For the first time since he woke up, his eyes drop to his hand. The six stitches in his palm are hidden behind the gauze that he flexes. “I don’t…” His brows pinch in confusion. “I don’t remember what happened.”

I’m not shocked. “You owe Sawyer an apology,” I tell him first and foremost. I couldn’t care less about what he did to me, but she didn’t deserve to be treated that way. “You crossed a line with her.”

He pales, rubbing his good hand along the side of his face. “What did I do?”

How much do I tell him? “You were tweaked on something,” I start with, eyes piercing him knowingly, which he avoids. “And drunk. Not a great combination to begin with.”

His eyes stay on the cup of coffee in his hand, hyper-focused on the steam billowing from the top. “It was a tough week.”

That’s all he has to say? “You could have died mixing shit, Dawson. We both know it. And I don’t want you to be angry at me for pushing this, but it needs to be done. You fought this addiction once; you can do it again.”

Before it’s too late.

His shoulders hunch. “What did I do to Sawyer?” I can hear the concern in his voice. He feels bad, which is good.

“Nothing you can’t fix,” I reply easily.

Neither one of us truly knows Sawyer that well, but I think she’s a forgiving person. She’s got a softness to her that could make or break someone, but it works in her favor.

Dawson sighs, setting the cup down. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I wonder if last night’s events are coming back to him or he’s apologizing for relapsing.

“I’m not the one who needs to hear that,” I tell him simply, clasping his shoulder. “I’m sure Dixie wouldn’t mind hearing it either though. Drink your coffee and then we’ll go grab something greasy. I think you could use it.”

The low groan coming from him is amusing. I hide my smirk behind my cup, walking into the kitchen.

After one heart-attack-stacked plate full of pancakes, eggs, and bacon later, it’s like nothing ever happened between Dawson and me. He’s shoving food into his mouth like usual, downing his orange juice, and talking about school. Not Marco. Not the drugs. Not Sawyer or Dixie.

I almost feel bad for calling his counselor and getting a meeting set up behind his back.

As he finishes his last bite, I lean back in my spot across from him. “Grab your things,” I tell him, setting a few billsonto the table for our food and sliding out of the booth. “We’re going to a meeting.”

His eyes bolt up to me. “I don’t—”

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