Page 94 of Past the Broken Bridges

Dad studies me but chooses not to press the way Mom would, although it looks like he wants to. “Your mother and Bentley should be back any second. Then we can eat.”

My stomach rumbles when I see the assortment of chopped lettuce and tomato on the counter. “Are you making sandwiches?”

It’s odd how something as simple as a BLT can create so much excitement, but there’s something about him making them that reminds me of my childhood when we all used to live together. Mom might have spent most of the time in the kitchen, but Dad would help whenever he could. And nothing compared to his homemade mac and cheese or his BBQ chicken that he’d grill in the summertime.

Dad glances at his watch, reminding me of Banks’s silver Citizen. “Surprised they’re not back yet,” he says in concern.

I walk over to the window facing the back parking lot, my eyes widening when I see Mom chatting with Banks. “Oh God,” I groan, quickly darting to my bedroom to grab my wig.

I’m not sure I can trust Mom talking to anybody because she doesn’t always have a filter. And since I haven’t exactly mentioned my neighbor, who knows what she’s told the virtual stranger?

Dad appears in my bedroom door. “What’s the matter, pumpkin?”

I can feel him watching as I frantically try putting my hair in place. “Mom” is all I say, brushing the frizzy strands out of my face.

Shouldering past him, I jog over to the window to see if she’s still trapping Banks in conversation. I dart away when I see her pointing in my direction.

Dad follows me, head tilting and a secretive smile gracing his face. “A friend, huh?”

I ignore Dad as I head out the door and speed walk to the back lot, where Bentley is holding two grocery bags beside my mother.

“There she is.” Mom beams, holding her arm out for me as I approach them.

“Mom,” I greet nervously, eyes moving from her to Banks. At least he looks amused. That means she couldn’t have told him too much.

Hopefully.

“I just met your neighbor,” she says, rubbing my arm. “You never told me you had cute neighbors. I told him he should join us for lunch. Your father certainly made enough.”

Heat blossoming over my face, I shift from one foot to the other on the loose gravel, only then realizing that I came out in my socks.

Mom notices too. “Why on earth do you come out here without shoes?” She shakes her head, looking up to my neighbor. “I swear, this girl always keeps me on my feet. She’s an adventurer. That’s why we named her Sawyer. We both knew she was going to be a handful.”

Banks’s spine straightens. I’m not sure what the alarm in his muddy eyes is when they dart to me, but I simply shrug it off. “They named me after—”

“Tom Sawyer,” we say simultaneously.

Mom perks up, happiness curving her lips. “Oh, how nice. Not many young people have heard of the character before. Such a shame they don’t teach the same classics they did in my day, although I suppose Mark Twain is a bit controversial.”

Banks’s attention goes from me to my mom, studying her as if trying to figure something out. His eyes move up to her hair, then over to me, his brows furrowing.

He must be uncomfortable with the invite.

I clear my throat. “If you have plans, it’s no big deal.”

It’s Bentley who says, “What, sis? You don’t want yourboyfriendto join us for lunch? Are you afraid we’re going to embarrass you or something?”

Narrowing my eyes at my annoying little brother, I hiss, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Banks is now shifting uneasily. I can’t look him in the eye for fear of what I’ll see. Is he mad he was called that? Does he assume I referred to him as that to my family? Or does he see it as harmless fun?

Wrapping my arm around my mother’s, I pull her in the direction of the apartment building while nudging Bentley along. I look at Banks as I shuffle along the driveway. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

I don’t give him time to reply before I all but shove my family back inside.

As soon as the doors are closed behind us, Mom pulls her arm away from mine. “That was rude, Sawyer. Why don’t you want him around? He seemed perfectly nice.”

“He is,” I agree, walking them back up to my apartment. “But he also doesn’t know.”

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