Page 64 of Past the Broken Bridges

Wetting my lips, I peek in Dixie’s direction again. She’s still occupied with the girls, laughing at something one of them says. I smile a little at how carefree she looks making friends with other people.

Good,a voice says inside my head.That means she won’t be alone.

“Look, I think you’re a good guy,” I start, seeing him wince at the choice of words. “And I think Dixie is a good girl—good for you.”

His eyes go to the floor and stay there. “And you’re not?”

I answer honestly. “No.” Smiling sadly when he meets my eyes, I admit, “I don’t think I’m good for anybody.”

His brows furrow. “That’s not true.”

It is though. And he’ll never know why.

“I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”

He tugs on the T-shirt he changed into after the game, clearing his throat. “Is there a reason?”

Involuntarily, my eyes go to where Banks disappeared, and Dawson’s gaze follows them to the double doors his friend walked out of.

I say, “No.”

But his eyes stay on the door, his hands clenching and unclenching before he gives me a tense nod.

When I look over at Dixie, she’s watching Dawson and me. I offer her a small smile and wave, which she returns.

I turn back to Dawson. “Sorry about the loss,” I tell him of the game.

His eyes are distant when they meet mine. It takes him a second to reply. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Chapter Eighteen

Banks

With only two weeks until a much-needed spring break, I was balls-to-the-wall busy with midterm assignments. Including my capstones project that got one round of edits already from Professor Laramie and had a second one in the works thanks to a few structural integrities he questioned during the initial project proposal. I’d been dreading having the conversation with my father about it because he kept pressing me on the feedback I was given each time I saw him. I could only use so many excuses before I had to tell him that it’s still not approved.

The drive from my apartment to my childhood home should have been the first indication that tonight wasn’t going to go well. Because the projected sunshine on the forecast turned into a pitch-gray sky and showers that made visibility shit as I pulled my truck up to the curb.

“Paxton,” my father greets from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table with three empty beer bottles to his right and a fresh one in his hand.

It’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, but I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere. “Dad.”

“Glad you actually showed up this time,” he states, voice gruff with disapproval as he studies my rain-soaked clothes. “You should change. You’re getting water everywhere.”

The first time I ditched our lunch plans was when I found Sawyer wandering the neighborhood aimlessly. I could have left her alone. Hell, I probably should have. Because it led to a blowout fight on the phone with the man currently across from me about how I didn’t know how to be a “respectable man who honored plans.” It didn’t matter that I was making sure nothing happened to somebody who didn’t know their way around; I couldn’t get a word in edgewise to explain. He used some colorful choice language that people down the street could hear from my cell phone, while I sat in my apartment hoping that nobody was in the building to listen to me getting reamed out for being a decent human being.

I go to the fridge for a bottle of water and frown when I see how empty it is. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping?”

“I eat,” he grumbles, the glass bottle sliding from the table before he downs half of it.

I can see that based on the garbage full of take-out containers. Some of them have flies circling them, and there’s a horrible smell coming from the bin. When was the last time he took it out? Growing up, we used to eat a lot of home-cooked meals. It wasn’t only Mom who spent time in the kitchen—Dad was a good cook too. He had the best scallops and could make a mean steak, which he usually paired for a surf-and-turf night every Saturday.

I don’t remember the last time I had a home-cookedmeal with this man. I’m not even sure he could tell me the last time we sat down and ate something that wasn’t delivered.

Going to the cupboard and grabbing a glass to fill with tap water, I take the seat across from him. The seconds go by, and nothing is said. He sips his beer; I trace the design on my cup.

I can hear thetick, tick, tickfrom the grandfather clock in the living room. He knows what he’s doing. I’ve always hated sitting in silence. When I was a kid, they did this to me as punishment until I broke.

Sighing, I take a sip of my water and set the glass down. “I told you I was sorry.”

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