Brett laughs this time, too. “Think about it.”
I wipe the wetness from my face and quickly walk out of the kitchen, bottle to my mouth. I'm just about to take it up to my room and do something fucking pathetic like huff the pillow Kit slept on when I stop abruptly in front of my door. I flick the porch light on with more force than necessary, and sway on my feet when I turn too quickly.
“Fuck,” I murmur, my gut clenching. Whiskey on an empty stomach was probably not my best idea. I'm looking up the steps, wondering if I'll even make it up when there's a knock on the door behind me.
And maybe he fucking is gravity, because I feel the pull even through the thick haze of liquor.
“What do you want?” I rumble, stumbling and bracing myself on the redwood barrier separating us.
I picture his doe eyes. Only looking high enough to where my face would be because there's wood between us. My heart is beating unnaturally fast, relief and a boiling rage simmering just below the surface.
“Bowen? Are you okay?”
Kit
I move a step closer, searching the wood surface of the door like I could find a slice missing to see inside at the man there. I can feel him. I can hear the shuffle of shoe-covered feet on the other side. A soft curse, a knock on the door. A slurred sort of response that I think was for me.
“Bowen? Are you…drunk?”
I'm not expecting how swiftly the door flies open, or the bang of it slamming into the wall inside. But what I'm even less prepared for is the slightly swaying Bowen on the other side. His work boots are on but untied. His belt is undone, shirt wrinkled like he picked it up off the floor from yesterday. His hair is a curly, tousled mess around his head.
He looks wrecked.
I can smell the whiskey before he even opens his mouth, but the whole bottle of it in the hand not gripping the threshold is a good indication, too.
“Oh, that's fucking funny coming from you.” He snorts, but I catch a glimpse of his eyes moving over me quickly. Head to toe, I feel it, like he's searching for injury. His words hit somewhere low in my gut, and I flinch when he moves.
Bowen would never hurt me. Not physically. But the cold way he stands there, glaring down at me, may hurt more than if he just kicked me in the balls.
I imagined this whole evening going so, so much differently.
“You think I'd fuckin hit you?” He asks, harsh and raw. He huffs, steps back, and turns. He doesn't slam the door closed.
I'm five days sober, and the man I love is currently swigging from a bottle of Jim Beam. Not an ounce of the tenderness he normally has for me. My throat is burning with tears I refuse to shed. I should have told him. Should have…
I stare inside the townhouse. The living room light is dim, but there are no other lights on. I can't see where he went, but I know he's in here. And he's hurting. In all this time, Bowen has been a solid force. Stronger than I could ever be in the face of it all. Being strong doesn't negate sorrow. Doesn't mean he doesn't feel it all just as fiercely. I know that.
I know that.
But I'm selfish in grief. I've been selfish from the moment the officer showed up next door. From when he was speaking to Sheila and Bowen, when Sheila crumbled right there on the lawn, and Bowen had to catch her.
I ran. I ran and ran in the direction he drove off. I ran as fast as I could. I ran until I puked. Because it couldn't be. Couldn't.
I left Bowen alone to chase a ghost. I've been chasing him this whole time.
My heart kicks in my chest when I step inside. My fight or flight is pushing and pulling inside me, giving me whiplash. I want to run. I need to stay. The door clicks closed much quieter than it had opened a few moments ago, and I allow myself a few deep breaths before going to find Boe.
I find him on his black leather couch. Head back, legs carelessly spread wide. He's disheveled and beautiful, and my guts clench with want. I want to have the right to crawl into his lap. I want to tell him all the things he needs to hear, the things he deserves to know. I want to take the bottle from his hand and chug it down until I feel numb.
I swallow roughly. I can't do any of those things.
“You don't get to be disappointed in me, Kit.”
“I'm not…disappointed, Boe. I'm just surprised.”
His head lifts at that, and I see his sharp glare and clenched jaw before I lower my eyes to the floor.
“Which part is surprising? Is it really so surprising that you're not the only one here who has feelings?” He takes a lazy swig from the bottle before leaning forward and slamming it on the coffee table.
