“The fuck you are.” His hands don’t leave me. One stays at my jaw, the other rests heavy on my knee. That familiar weight. The grounding touch. It used to mean everything to me. I used to hate it—hate how much Ididn’thate it, not at all. But more than anything, I took his easy touches and constant affection for granted.
Now it just fucking hurts. It hurts, yet I still wish he would pull me into his arms.
“I’m okay, Bowen.”
He scoffs, not mean but raw, and pulls back like my skin burns him. He doesn’t stand, just sinks down onto the ground beside me instead, elbows braced on his bent knees, hands clasped together tightly like he’s trying not to punch something.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?” His voice is quieter now, but it carries. “Brett texted Delaney. I had to hear it from fuckingDelaney, Kit.”
I glance at Brett, who has the audacity to look unapologetic as hell. And pissed. “I knew you were back with her. Fucking dumbass.”
Bowen’s laugh is drenched in bitterness. “Whatever.”
They stare each other down, and I press a hand to my temple. The pounding in my head is nothing compared to the one behind my ribs.
“I didn’t want to make it a big deal. I’m fine,” I say, which is true and also the worst lie I’ve ever told. “It was just a few punches.”
“Right. Just that.” Brett sighs, so fucking sad sounding.
Bowen’s eyes sharpen, scanning me over again, like he can see the places I was touched now. Can see how they touched me. I cross my arms over my chest.
“Don’t do that,” Bowen snaps. “Don’t downplay it. Tell me.”
I blink hard. “I got my first kiss, just like I wanted. He tasted like shitty beer and thought he could hit all the bases. I clammed up and changed my mind. He didn’t like that. What else do you want me to say? I said I’m fine. Let’s drop it.”
“What the fuck, Kit? Stop acting like it doesn’t matter,” Bowen hisses.
“Does it matter to you? Really?” I regret it as soon as the words leave my mouth, but I can’t take them back.
“Of course it matters to me.” His voice is breaking at the edges, and I have to choke down the ball of emotions in my throat. He’s mad, and I'm scared, and he’s so far away, even sitting beside me.
How did we get here?
“Of course? I didn't realize you still gave a shit.” I snort, a bitter laugh of my own hanging between us.
Something flickers across his face. A thousand things all at once. Regret. Fury. Longing. Confusion. Or maybe it's all just my imagination. I still want to grab onto his shirt and shake the fucking shit out of him. I want to see Bowen Briggs, the unmoving force that he's been lately, crumble and break.
I wantmyBoe back.
When he speaks, his voice is back to being quiet but razor sharp.
“Don’t do that.”
“What can’t I do now, Bowen?”
“Make this about me. Us.”
I scoff, but he gets up before I can say anything else. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing like Brett had been just minutes before. Same sidewalk. Same storm. He doesn’t say another word. He definitely doesn’t touch me again.
Bowen
Age 17
I’ve been in the attic. Downstairs. The kitchen. In the backyard. The porch. I’ve paced the front yard and sat by the side of the house.
I’ve avoided the hallway upstairs, though. I didn’t look in my bedroom a second time. The first, and last, time I looked in there, I saw Brett; his arms were looped gently around Kit’s waist, guiding him in for a hug like he was fragile. So precious to him. Kit was leaning against him, eyes heavy-lidded from the pain, from the day. From everything.
He looked small in my hoodie. Small and swallowed up andsafe.
