Well. This gay man, anyway.
There is a hole in one thigh. A hole in the other knee. Frayed edges and soft-looking fabric. His boots look like they have definitely seen some shit.
Look away! Bad.
I’m embarrassed to admit how deeply I’m immersed in my perusal. I don’t even register that the boots are facing me until it's too late. They take a step closer but stop.
A quick glance shows one thick, dark brow raised. I swallow a groan. I know I’m the color of a tomato. Or a boiled crab abandoned in the sun.
So, what do I do?
Iwave.
Fucking. Wave.
Kill me now.
I snatch my awkward wave hand out of the air and fumble to take one of my earbuds out.
“H..hey,” I call out.
Bowen’s massive mountain man shoulders rise and fall with what I can only assume is a sigh. Then he turns, steps back up to the chopping block, and swings his axe around.
The sound of the breaking wood may as well be the sound of the door to communication slamming shut right in my face.
“Heeeey,” I snide softly in a mock, lilted voice, waving exaggeratively like an idiot. If the birds could laugh, there would be some laughing right now. Not in a ha-ha you’re so funny kind of way, but in a ha-ha you’re a major dumbass kind of way.
A twig snaps under my heavy footfalls as I try, and fail, to calm my heart the hell down.
So what? He doesn’t want to talk to me. What else is new? I don’t remember the last time Bowen wanted to talk. Talking has never really been his thing. Especially when you add in even an ounce of conflict. If it smells like emotions, count Bowen out. The man is allergic to them. He shuts down. Backs all the way the hell out of the situation. Will completely abandon years of friendship. Pretend you don’t exist….
It’s okay…
That’s not fair. Not totally. Bowen was there for me when I needed him. Even when I didn’t deserve him or his comfort. He gave when he could, when his own sadness was probably suffocating him inside.
One of the things I struggled with while spending endless days alone, traveling, was coming to terms with how damn selfish I can be. I don’twantto be a selfish person. Not just after Brett died, but before, too.
Bowen’s pissed at me. Or maybe just indifferent. Over it. He’s entitled to those feelings. Even though it makes me feel like my ribs are squeezing inside my body. He probably came here to relax and enjoy some summer quiet, and here I am. Fucking that up and bringing back shit he doesn’t want to deal with.
Like me.
The decent thing to do would be to leave.
It's not running away if it's the right thing to do, right?
It would be selfishnotto go.
I’m nodding my head, feet already moving swiftly back to the van. I came, I tried. He doesn’t want me here, and I don’t need to be somewhereI’m not welcome. I can feel the ramifications of this whole thing just outside my consciousness. Gathering there, just waiting for a moment I feel content to smack me in the face with the weight of a sledgehammer.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts and settle into the driving seat that’s permanently indented with my ass from all the hours and hours I’ve spent in it. Brett’s goofy grin stares at me from my keys when I pull them from the overhead compartment. “Your brother hates me,” I grumble at it before sticking the key in the ignition.
Then all hell breaks loose.
The dash lights are blinking at me. The wipers turn themselves on. The radio is cutting in and out. I jump, knock into the horn, and jump again.
Brett’s face is dangling, grinning.
“Oh my God, are youhauntingme right now?” I screech. The engine does not sound…healthy. By the time I get the wipers to turn off, the whole front-end sounds like it's hiccupping. I don’t know shit about cars if I’m honest, but I know enough to know thatthatis not good.
