My breath catches. Gets tangled up with the quickly growing ball of words in my throat. They tangle, making me choke as I sit up quickly. His voice is deeper than I remember it. Rougher. But I would know it anywhere.
“Should I also mention that sleeping alone on a dock is fucking stupid?”
I cringe, scrambling to my feet, damn near tripping over myself, and falling headfirst over the side of the dock.
“I… Sorry, I was… You…” I fumble with my words and then rub my face. Which is also fucking stupid because itburns.
How long was I out for?
My heart feels like it's trying to hammer its way out of my chest. My stomach is located somewhere by my feet.
I don’t know where to look. My gaze hits the lake, the cabin, the trees. Anywhere…
“What are you doing here?”
His question comes out even rougher. Grating. Like he couldn’t stop it from coming out any more than I can stop my eyes from flinting about the whole area.
“I didn’t…realize you were here,” I manage to say. Soft enough I’m not even sure he hears it. He doesn’t respond for so long, my body is vibrating on the inside with nerves. I want to puke, it’s so uncomfortable.
I used to dream of this. Over the last two years, when I was willing to acknowledge the wounds that I didn’t know how to heal. The ones that were more fresh. The ones that were different from the rest. I would lie awake and envision what it would be like to stand face to face with Bowen Briggs again.
It never happened like this.
For one, I always pictured myself playing itwaycooler. I think my mouth has done that gasping fish face several times already.
My cheeks are burning hotter than the sunburn now.
I fidget, feeling his eyes on me. I don’t even know what I’m wearing, to be totally honest. I’ve been a bit of a mess since the moment I decided I was coming back home. I made it back in much the same way I left it. Like I couldn’t breathe right until I was here.
Now I’m here, and I can’t breathe again for a whole new reason.
A reason that's about six feet three and over two hundred pounds of what I’m willing to bet is pure muscle. The kind of muscle someone gets from actually using them, not just lifting heavy shit in a gym. He’s got the farmers build now.
A beard, too. I saw that when my eyes ran over the space between us. A black, scruffy jaw was definitely in the background.
Would it be weird if I leaned over to catch my breath?
I think there may also be a man bun. God, why do you hate me?
“Meyer. Look at me." The challenge comes out low, but harsh enough my spine straightens at the call-out.
And I try. Fuck, I swear I do. But the little mole above his lip is covered now. His nose has a little silver hoop in the right side, and my insides are quaking.
I think I’m actually going to be sick.
I close my eyes, swallow past the nausea, and shake my head.
The silence after that is much, much louder.
I can practically feel his annoyance and anger as if they had claws and teeth and were reaching out to maul me right here, right now. Only Bowen is far too controlled for that, isn’t he? Because he just huffs a laugh that's full of contempt and turns on his booted feet.
My own feet move a step toward him before I lock them back down on the creaky wooden planks under me. He’s wearing worn dark jeans and a t-shirt that’s definitely seen better days. His black curls are, in fact, contained on the back of his head in a man bun.
“Bowen…” I call after him. The name feels foreign on my tongue after so long. It lingers there, rolling through me with little sparks to my system. “I swear I didn’t know you were here. I was just…I was just passing through.”
This earns me a head shake as he continues walking away from me, down the beaten path now towards the cabins.
I don’t like seeing him walk away any more than I liked standing in his silence.
