Page 80 of Past the Broken Bridges

Her tongue starts out, dragging slowly along her bottom lip. “Should I be worried? He passed by me yesterday out front but didn’t say anything when I said hello. It was like I wasn’t even there. He used to be so much livelier than that.”

Does she miss the days he would flirt with her the secondhe saw her? I certainly don’t. But I get her point. That version of him is a hell of a lot better than the one walking around like he’s auditioning for a role onThe Walking Dead.

I wish I could reassure her that he’s fine, but she’d see right through the lie. I give her the safest answer I can. “It’s nothing you have to worry about.”

After taking a sip of coffee, she slowly lowers it to her lap. “I’m not asking for me.”

She’s asking for Dixie. We both want to be good friends, but we’re in two entirely different situations. I can’t lie and say Dawson is fine or even tell her that he’s on his way to getting better. He’s not. But hopefully we can change that.

“I already told Dixie to be careful,” I admit.

Sawyer only looks at me, saying nothing.

“He went through a lot of shit over a year ago. I had to learn the hard way that in order to help him, he needs to be willing to accept the help.”

For a while, my neighbor says nothing as she stares down at the drink that she’s barely touched. “I’ve been around a lot of sick people in my life, but it doesn’t seem like it’s the same kind of sickness.”

Addiction is a disease in itself, but I don’t tell her that. “I don’t know who you’ve been around, Birdie, but there are a lot of different illnesses in this world. Dawson is just fighting one of them.”

“And he’s won before?”

I look away, unsure of how much to divulge. This isn’t my story to tell, but she’s part of the narrative now. “He has, and it wasn’t easy. He needs to get there again.”

I can’t explain the look on Sawyer’s face as she sets the coffee cup down on the table. Her voice is barely audible when she says, “I understand better than most.”

I want to ask how, but Dawson yells up from downstairs asking where we’re at.

“Speak of the devil,” I remark, pushing up from the couch. I cup my hands over my mouth and yell back, “We’re in Sawyer’s apartment.”

Sawyer peels herself off the couch before Dawson comes in. “Let me change. Give me five minutes.”

She disappears behind her bedroom door as the front one opens and Dawson saunters in. He looks a hell of a lot better than he did yesterday, the bags under his eyes lighter and the redness gone.

“She not ready yet?” he asks, studying the place. He goes over to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator, pawing through the inside.

“Dude,” I scold, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him away. “Quit it. You can grab something to eat when we get to the city.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sawyer wouldn’t mind.”

But I do.“Doesn’t matter.”

His sigh is long and dramatic. “If you’re going to be a buzzkill all day, I don’t know if I want to go.”

“You love Mardi Gras.” He’s been asking me to go to parades with him and his buddies for the past few years, but I always find a reason to turn him down. Last year was the easiest because he was in the middle of his program and without a license.

He gestures toward the bedroom where Sawyer is getting ready, a blank expression on his usually playful face. “And you don’t. Guess it only takes a leggy blond to change your mind, huh?”

It probably isn’t a dickish thing to say if it’s the truth, but I thought we were past this. “She and I are friends,” Iexplain to him. “This is a group offriendsgoing to see a parade together. She hasn’t been to one yet. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

For a moment, Dawson stares at me with his arms crossed over his chest. Except his eyes, which are usually gleaming with mischief, are narrowed in silent accusation. “I may not be the smartest dude around, but I’m also not an idiot. You can’t pretend like there’s nothing going on between you and Sawyer.”

My eyes go to the closed door where the girl in question is.

When I don’t say anything, Dawson murmurs, “My point exactly.”

When I look back at my best friend, I can’t help but shake my head. “Not today.”

He watches me for a long time, leaning against the countertop. “I know I haven’t been the easiest person to deal with,” he says, not looking me in the eyes. “I hold onto grudges. I make dumb choices. I get jealous. But I…”

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