Page 66 of Past the Broken Bridges

My eyes are still on her nails. “What?”

Her feet move again. “The assignment.”

I finally look at her, unashamed to be caught staring. “No.”

“It’s due in three days,” she says dubiously.

I grin. “Good. Then I have three days to do it. Can I come in?”

Her eyes go behind her, nibbling her lip. “It’s a little messy.”

What part of my life isn’t? “I’m okay with messy.”

It takes her a few moments before she steps aside and lets me in. I take note of the way she plays with her hair, which she’s done before when she was nervous. She walks into the back bedroom and comes out a few seconds later, putting a sweatshirt on.

I point toward the take-out containers littering her kitchen counters. Lips twitching, I pick one of them up and examine the rice inside. “There’s enough food here to feed an army.”

Setting down one container and picking up another, I sniff whatever sweet-and-sour mixture is inside. Chicken, maybe?

“More like the Navy,” she corrects, resting her hip against the counter.

“Your father was here?”

She nods, coming over and starting to get rid of some of the boxes. “He wanted to check in on me since I haven’t been keeping up with my mom’s calls lately. I’m trying to convince my mom to spend my spring break here—that way, the family can be together again—but she’s not sure because our spring break doesn’t match the week that Bentley’s is.”

I notice how empty her fridge is when she opens it to put the leftovers away. It reminds me too much of the house I just left. “You don’t cook, do you?”

Sawyer pauses, her top two teeth digging into her bottom lip when she looks over her shoulder at me. “Not really. We’re college kids. Isn’t that normal? I doubt you cook every meal from scratch.”

On the contrary. “I’m a good cook.”

She closes the refrigerator with an eyebrow up. “You don’t get any delivery?” The doubt in her voice is understandable.

I’ve eaten my fair share of takeout, and I bring her beignets and coffee once a week on my way back from the Botanic Gardens where I work on my sketches for school. I don’t have to, but I like the look on her face when she opens the door and sees the weekly deliveries waiting for her. It’s almost as rewarding as when I put a Pop-Tart on her desk every Wednesday before class starts.

She tries sharing it with me, but I never accept. Instead, I doodle in my notebook while she watches me and eats the snack.

I do a quick scan inside her kitchen cabinets and fridge to see what I’m working with before closing everything. “I’ll be back in five,” I call out, walking to the door.

“Where are you—”

“Trust me, Birdie. You’ll like this.”

Eight minutes later, I’m standing in the kitchen with a cast-iron skillet, store-made pizza dough, sauce, and various toppings.

Sawyer stares at me while I get comfortable in her kitchen. “Are you making pizza?”

Smirking as I butter the bottom of the pan before putting the dough in, I point toward the onion. “Want to chop that for me?”

Her eyes widen. “With, like, a knife?”

I snort. “I doubt a spoon will do it.”

She looks comically worried. Has she never helped her parents in the kitchen before? I gave my mom a hand until the day she packed her bags.

Walking over to the onion, she stares at it before asking, “Why are you here, Banks?”

After I’m done pressing the dough into the pan, I grab the sauce. “I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be.”

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