Page 62 of Past the Broken Bridges

Closing my eyes, I internally groan. I can count the number of boys I’ve kissed on one hand.Lessthan one full hand. It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of and definitely nothing I want to admit to him.

His voice lowers. “Did something happen that made you react that way?”

What is he talking—oh my God.He thinks something bad happened to me. “No.No. Dawson startled me, that’s all. I wasn’t… I didn’t expect it.”

There’s something shadowing his face as he stands there with stick-straight posture. The way he looks at me is as ifhe’s attempting to see through a lie. “Nobody should ever feel the need to put their hands, or anything else, on you.”

This again. “Banks, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He was clearly drunk. I puked all over my high school crush once because I had too many tequila shots.”

I prefer not thinking about that, like I prefer never thinking about my one and only college party experience. I’m starting to think parties just aren’t for me.

He shakes his head. “It was enough to make you leave. If I didn’t have to bring him to the hospital, I would have tried going after you.”

I got home within ten minutes and didn’t think twice about walking alone. I’m sure my parents would scold me for it, but there were a lot of people out and about party hopping. Some girls by themselves, some in groups of friends. I was fine.

“I want to know why,” he presses.

“Why what?”

“Don’t play.”

“I’m not!” I counter in exasperation. I mimic his posture, trying to show him that I’m being serious. “Look, I don’t like talking about this stuff. Shouldn’t all that matters be that I’m okay?”

His jaw grinds. I’m not trying to make him upset. Frankly, I don’t know why he’s getting worked up. I stand by what I said—people do stupid things when they’ve had too much to drink. It wasn’t cool, but it also wasn’t the end of the world. Considering I was more worried about what Banks thought of me and my exit or what Dixie would assume, I’d say things are okay. Especially since Banks is here, at a game that he apparently doesn’t normally go to, and so is Dixie.

“Why are you so angry?” I ask, hoping to dispel thetension clearly coursing through his body. I appreciate that he cares, but I don’t understand it.

Banks shakes his head, teeth clenching once, before he grumbles something so quietly under his breath that I can’t hear it. There’s no way to describe the intensity behind his stare when those eyes meet mine, but I feel it deep in my chest. It’s penetrating.

His next words have my gaze going back to the bruising on his face. “Because I know what it’s like to have people cross lines they shouldn’t. I’m used to it, but I don’t want you to be.”

My heart reacts to those words as I scan the deep-colored injury before dropping to his lips where a scab used to be. What has he gone through that he’s not telling me? “Nobody should be used to that, Banks. Whether they deserved it or not.”

He knows I’m not referring to Dawson. “You’re right, but sometimes those are the hands we’re dealt in life.”

I know that all too well, don’t I?

If I ask about his past, I doubt he’d tell me. It’s hypocritical, but if anybody understands the reasoning behind a secret, it’s me.

“I’m not mad at Dawson,” I tell him honestly.

“You’re a better person than I am.”

“You’re the one who took care of him after he punched you in the face,” I remind him. He doesn’t give himself enough credit if he thinks that isn’t being a good person.

Banks hums. “I suppose.”

“Why’d you take the hit?” I question. It may have happened fast, but he could have at least blocked him. Dawson could barely stand straight. If Banks wanted to stop him, he wouldn’t have had to try hard.

“Because I deserved it too.”

The answer has me gaping at him.

“He likes you,” he adds, lifting a shoulder.

Yeah, and because I didn’t turn him down, it led to the utter chaos we’re talking about now.

“Man has good taste,” my neighbor adds, more as an afterthought to himself than something he meant to say aloud.

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