“Kitten…”
“Don't call me that.” It's not about Tucker and Delaney. The vise wrapped and strangling my heart has absolutely nothing to do with them and everything to do with this morning. “Was the goal to hurt me?” My fingers throb from how hard I grip the phone.
“Jesus. What?”
“You heard me.”
“It pissed me off when you first brought her up. I couldn't believe you thought I would try something with your brother's girlfriend. Then I realized you didn't know, and that pissed me off too. But it wasn't my news to share, Kit. I told Tucker to tell—”
“Fuck Tucker and Delaney, Bowen!” I can't catch my breath.
“What? Why are you mad then?”
Why am I mad?
Why am I mad?
“Is this a game to you? Was it just a few fucks? Scratch the itch and be done with it?”Done with me?
“Kitten…”
“I said don't call me that,” I spit, the feeling dreadful inside my stomach. I'll blame tiredness on the tears rolling down my cheeks. I'm so, so tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of wanting. Tired of tiptoeing around feelings and truths.
“You can't be serious,” Bowen rasps.
“About which part? I'm deadly serious, Briggs. That's what you want, right? Briggs and Meyer.”
“Fuck. Stop it.”
“You don't get to fuck me, call me kitten, and then pat me on the back and kick me to the curb and expect me to understand!”
“Are you crying?” His voice drops, frustrations softening around the sharp edges.
I scoff, wet and thick. “N…no,” I stutter over a sniffle.
“Kitten, turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around, baby.”
Baby…
I turn around, confused. But a whole new round of tears work their way down my cheeks when I look through the open window and see Bowen looking at me from across the driveway. He rolls his forehead on the glass, holding his phone to his ear.
“Hi.” It sounds heavy and raw.
“Hi,” I manage around the thickness in my throat. I don't even bother trying to wipe the tears away, just eat up the view of him. So close, yet so far. “You're there.” I move over to the window and place my palm on the glass. Bowen mirrors the move on his side. “You left the lake?”
“For tonight. Please stop crying.”
I use his hoodie to wipe the tears. “I missed you so”—hiccup—“so much.” The understanding of what I'm trying to say is evident in the way his whole body sags against the window. I didn't just miss him today. I have been missing him. I don't want to miss him anymore.
“I want to hold you,” he says, dropping his hand to rub at his chest. He's still wearing the same shirt and joggers from this morning. “I need to touch you, Kit.”
His hand tenses and relaxes, like he can't handle the space. Can't handle the fact he can't get to me from there. But rejection is a beast that doesn't like to let go so easily.
“You didn't even kiss me goodbye.”
