Sheila loves him loudly. She says his name, reminds the world that he was here and real and wonderful. She smiles over who he was and holds onto his memory with warmth.
I'm not so naive to think that she doesn't absolutely crumble under the weight of her grief. She lost her son. I watched her fall apart, and I heard thescream from that night in my head when I closed my eyes for months. But she picks herself back up. She finds reasons to smile. Reasons to remember.
Bowen got his mother's strength.
When Sheila excuses herself to answer a call, I look at Bowen and ask the very last thing I expected to ask today.
“Take me to the attic?”
“We were gonna watchShrek.” My voice comes out hoarse. I don't think I've blinked since I pushed open the door to the attic, my eyes burning, watching the dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the small windows.
I was scared to step into the house earlier, but it has nothing compared to the feeling I have sitting in here. The same old, shaggy carpet. Bowen's old bed in place of where the couch had been once upon a time. The small TV stand pulled to the center of the far wall, blankets folded in a stack on the floor. Ready for us to lay them out and sleep hot and tangled on top of them.
It looks exactly like it did that night, and my guts are twisted with how badly I ache.
“He was so excited,” I continue. The memory is raw and alive in my mind. I opened the door to it an inch, and it poured in through the crack. Warm and alive, finally given room to breathe for the first time in five years. “So excited,” I push out on a slow breath, willing myself to not fall apart.
I remember it all so vividly. The excitement that I couldn't help but feel because Brett's was so big. The ache of missing those moments and being relieved to have another night.
Bowen's hand squeezes mine softly, his thumb rubbing up and down.
He's quiet where we both stand, leaning back against the wall closest to the door. I look over at him, at the curve of his nose. The brows that are always set lower than Brett's ever were. The jaw that's always more tense, the lips that save smiles like Brett saved frowns.
“Do you think we ever would have made it?”
Bowen doesn't look at me right away, but when he does, he looks as lost in memory as I am. Warm lips meet each one of my knuckles, and he blinks slowly when he lowers our hands and gently lets go of my hand.
I'm about to protest at the loss of contact, but he moves away, towards the closet that used to hold board games and toys. I watch him move something on the top shelf, then he walks over to the bed and sits down. I don't move until he looks up at me and motions with his head for me to follow.
The box is set between us, and then Bowen just watches me.
I sniffle, pulling off the top of the box. My eyes immediately fill with tears, and I huff a laugh. Pictures.
Bowen's pictures.
Just like the cabin walls. Bowen's been capturing us his whole life. In his mind. Frozen in frames. Memorialized in burned wood. My fingers tremble, pulling them out one by one. Each emotion Brett wore all over his face and tucked into every smile. His wild heart and even wilder energy.
Tucker's exasperated eyerolls and basketball skills. His soft eyes looking at Delaney in a dozen different places over the years. I glance up at Bowen, but he's still just watching me.
And then…me.
I can see it all played out right in front of me, in years of photos. The love. The want. The heartache. The shyness. The happiness. The desperation. The loneliness. He captured me when I was looking right at him. When I pretended not to see him, and when I had no idea he was watching.
“Had I not been a coward, he never would have walked out of this room that night.” Bowen's broken voice has me looking up from the photo in my hands. His eyes shine with more pain than he normally shows, and my heart lodges in my throat.
“Boe…it's not your fault. If anything, I was the coward. I shouldn't have ran, not from you. Not from him. He wouldn't have left had I stayed.”
Bowen shakes his head. “I'm so fucking sorry, baby. You want to know if we would have made it?” He points to the pictures scattered all over the bed. “You're my heart, Kit. I was miserable without you then. I'm miserable without you now. Brett always knew.” He exhales a tired laugh, the kind that can only come from years of healing.
He picks up a picture I took not long after I gave him the camera. I felt a pang of sadness, seeing Bowen take pictures of everyone else. Always behind the lens, never in front. He deserved to be seen, just like he saw us.
I threatened to shave my head if he didn't let me take his picture that afternoon. The results were a string of pictures of Brett doing increasingly obnoxious things until I finally captured Bowen smiling. Not the half stunted thing. Not the cute smirk. But the smile that mirrored the one Brett wore like his favorite accessory. Brett was mid jump in the background, victory fist pumped in the air.
“It could have happened on his way to the gym or driving to his girlfriend's house. He could have been on his way home from the store or driving off to college.” A tear runs down Bowen's cheek, and I reach over to brush it with my thumb. “We didn't kill Brett, Bowen. The man who decided to get behind the wheel wasted killed him.”
Guilt is layered. Life is layered. Love. Loss. It was easier to feel guilt, to harbor hate for myself than sit with the knowledge that one man's choice to drink and drive stole the life of my best friend. Just like that. No reason.
It was easier to place blame on myself. Go mad over the what-ifs. To come up with a hundred different scenarios that would have ended thenight with us lying in front of that TV, together and alive. But seeing Bowen do the same? It's easier to peel back the layers to the truth that's always been in the center.
