Page 90 of Past the Broken Bridges

It’s probably a good thing we’re spending some time apart. The more involved we are, the likelier Dawson would use it as an excuse to spiral. He’s already at his breaking point. He’s been sporadic and unpredictable, not sleeping, and moody. The old version of him never used to be so angry or paranoid. Now, I watch him look over his shoulder like he’s waiting for somebody to pop out of the bushes at any second.

If he knew how badly the temptation to be with Sawyer fully is, would he jump off the deep end?

I’m not going to be the reason he falls off the edge. I won’t let Sawyer be either. Nobody should feel responsible for somebody else’s downfall the way I’ve felt for Dawson’s and my father’s.

Enabler.

The only time my father speaks to me during dinner is to say, “Pass the ketchup.”

We don’t talk about school or classes or Mom.

The unfortunate thing is that it leaves me to my own devices, which include thinking about my friend’s drug problem and my neighbor’s sexy moans.

I knew I was fucked the second I saw her in the hallway the night she moved in, and the feeling was only cemented when she called me out in class for being a dick.

Dawson could never handle a girl like Sawyer.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean I can.

Even though I’d love to try.

After an awkward, thick silence that only the news on the television breaks, I grab my things to leave.

Only then does my father look at me. “Make yourself useful for once and grab me a beer on the way out.”

My eye twitches.

For once.

I could point out all the times I’ve been useful in the past, but where would that leave us? In another fight.

So I get him the last beer in his fridge.

He doesn’t thank me.

I don’t want him to.

Neither of us says goodbye.

* * *

It’s late, well after the sun goes down, when I see Dixie walking through downtown Baton Rouge by herself. I slow down a few houses ahead of her, pulling over to the curb and rolling the window down.

“You okay?” I call out, watching her body lock until she lifts her head.

Christ. Her eyes are glassy, and her face is damp. She’s been crying. I’ve never done well with people who cry, especially women. I blame my mother for not sticking around to set an example because my father sure as shit didn’t show me what comfort should be like.

Dixie uses the back of her hand to wipe at her cheek, hesitating only for a moment before she drags her feet over to my parked truck. “What are you doing out?”

I frown at her raspy tone and wonder if the dipshit I call a best friend is responsible for it. “I could ask you the same thing. It’s not safe to be walking out here on your own at night.”

Limply, her shoulders lift as her damp eyes move to the ground. “I needed some air.”

Checking my watch, I debate my options. Draping my arm on the open window, I lean back in my seat and use my free hand to grip the back of my neck. “Did you talk to Sawyer about whatever is going on?”

She sniffles. “She’s with her family. I didn’t want to disturb her. And we’ve been a little…off lately.”

I’m tempted to ask why, but I decide not to pry.

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