Page 8 of Past the Broken Bridges

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Under my breath, I whisper, “Here I come.”

Chapter Three

Banks

“Yo, Banks!” someone yells, nearly pelting me in the head with a basketball.

I catch it at the last second, glaring at my dipshit best friend as he jogs over to me. “What the hell, dude? You could have broken my glasses. Again.”

Dawson Gable takes the ball back with a slick grin, tucking it under his arm. “It’s a good thing your dad has good vision insurance, huh?”

I’m not sure my father would say the same. At least, that’s not what he said the last time I came home with broken lenses that needed to be replaced thanks to my friend of ten years.

“Speaking of your old man,” he remarks, matching my pace as we walk to where my four-door pickup truck is parked in the back lot of our apartment building. “He almost failed me last semester. You believe that shit? Man acts like he didn’t feed me over the past decade. You’d think that’d earn me a little something in class.”

That’s Dawson’s problem. He expects the upper hand from everybody. What he doesn’t see is the side of my dad that I do. He only thinks my father is a typical hard-ass—he doesn’t realize how far that goes. “You know he’s not like that,” I tell him, opening the creaky door and tossing my bag onto the bench seat. “It doesn’t matter if you’re my friend, he’s going to treat you like any other student.”

“What about as star of the basketball team?”

I deadpan, wondering if he’s serious or if he’s playing. “You sit on the bench ninety percent of the time, dude.”

His hand flies to his chest as he stumbles back dramatically. “Shots fired.” When he stabilizes himself, he leans against the hood of my father’s old Ford. Dad had been in a good mood when he’d agreed to let me drive it after getting my license. I’d been more than surprised when he passed me the keys, given his mood is typically unpredictable.

“I thought we were friends, but I guess I was wrong,” Dawson continues. “If there’s one thing I learned from watchingThe Mighty Ducks,it’s that there’s always a chance.”

We used to play the hell out of that movie. I’m pretty sure one of our moms had to buy us a new VHS when the other one shit the bed. That is, before both our mothers left us with our fathers. At least his dad is decent. I don’t know why he always wanted to spend time at my house when I could have used an escape too.

“Too bad you didn’t sign up for hockey then,” I say. “Maybe you’d see play time.”

“Brutal,” Dawson says, rubbing under his nose and sniffling. I eye the movement, trying not to think too much into it. “You need a Snickers or something. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

I finally stop examining him and chuckle.

“Where are you going, anyway?” he asks.

Where else? There are only two places I tend to go willingly besides my apartment, and I’m not scheduled to work at the campus store today, which is a small miracle. “The Botanic Gardens.”

My best friend shakes his head, probably thinking I’m as pathetic as I feel sometimes. “I should have known. I don’t suppose I can change your mind? The guys were going into the city to celebrate our last day of freedom before classes start.”

“Let me guess. Bourbon Street?”

His eyebrows wiggle. “As if there’s any other choice,” he remarks knowingly.

I check my watch, frowning when I realize the old Citizen my grandpa gave me stopped working at some point. “I think I’ll rain check. I told my pops I’d stop by for dinner tonight.”

“Damn. No invite for me?”

I raise my brows. “Would you rather be spending the night with my dad and me or your friends at the bars?”

As nervous as I get when Dawson goes out these days, I know I have to trust him to handle himself. That was part of his program.

He snaps his fingers and points at me with his index one. “Fair point, my friend. You have fun with that. Tell your dad I’ll see him in class. I’m sure he misses me.”

My dad has nothing bad to say about Dawson as a person. But as a student… “Sure will, bud. I’ll talk to you later.”

He shifts as a small U-Haul turns into the lot, parking near the front doors. “Fresh meat,” he says to me with mischievous eyes. “Maybe it’s a hot chick. Haven’t had oneof those here in a while. We’re starting to get outnumbered by all the jockstraps and computer nerds.”

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