Bowen pulls his shirt from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his arms and hands. “Looks like rodents went to town under here.” Bowen closes the hood and doesn’t even bother to look at me. “My guess is they chewed up the important shit. You’ll have to have it towed to the shop in town.”
“Bummer, man. I’m gonna go grab the cooler. I think Kit needs a beer.” Ian slaps my shoulder again as he passes, but I barely register the sting over the ringing in my ears.
Mice chewing up important shit sounds real expensive. Not the kind of expensive a full-time traveler that works odd jobs and picks up random side gigs can afford.
My bank account is constantly playing chicken with overdraft fees as is. I can’t add a victimized van repair needs to the mix.
“I’ll call my dad,” I say quietly. More to myself than to Bowen, but he’s still standing next to me.
He sighs softly, then turns in my direction. “Yeah. You do that.”
“Kit, come get a beer, man,” Ian is calling from behind the van.
Oh, you have no idea how much I would love to, Ian.
“It’s Lord Farquaad, by the way,” Bowen murmurs in his grumbly voice, stepping around me and making his way to Ian. They carry the cooler to the porch of the cabin, and I’m left standing there like a moron trying to rub together his last two brain cells to determine if Bowen Briggs just made a joke.
Was that a joke?
Or was he being an ass, making sure I knew he heard my crash out in the van? Either way, he saidwords.
It's enough to have my feet moving, albeit slowly, towards the porch of the cabin. Bowen and Ian both fall into the two wooden rocking chairs, the blue cooler between their feet.
Bowen has his head resting back against the chair; eyes closed when I step up onto the first step. Ian straightens with a beer and tosses it at Bowen, laughing when he grunts and quickly grabs the cold can off his shirtless chest before it can roll all the way down his rippling stomach.
Stop looking, Kit.
“Why are you being shy, dude? I don’t bite.” Ian cracks open his own can and has another locked and loaded in his other hand. Before I can even decline, the silver can is airborne, and I have to step closer to grab it.
A heavy weight drops into my center when I look down at the can in my hand. I was never a big beer person. I preferred liquor. It worked faster, seemed to last longer. But I wasn’t a stranger to a beer, that's for sure. Before I turned twenty-one and relied on random people outside convenience stores and gas stations to buy me my fix, I had to take what I could get.
“I…”am an alcoholic, Ian. I fucked up my life. Nearly drank myself to death. Broke my parents’ hearts. Ruined my relationship with my brother. Oh, and Bowen completely walked out of my life because of it. Thanks, though. Enjoy!Bowen’s eyes are drilling into the side of my face. It's a moment of held breath. A moment that builds and pulses as I feel the weight of the can in my hand. Acknowledge thewant.Remember the why.
“Thanks, Ian. But I’m good.” I toss the can back to him, and as soon as it’s out of my grasp, the weight lifts. The moment passes. I wish I was brave enough tolookat him. To see if there is pain that lingers anymore, or if I’m just Meyer now. Kitten dead and gone.
Ian shrugs, no big deal. I clear my throat and fiddle with my fingers. I don’t know why I came over here. I don’t have anything to say or add. Ian is talking about repairs to the shed roof like they’ve been friends for years.
I guess I was so caught up with the van that I didn’t consider how random it is having Ian show up. Like Bowen spends a lot of time here.
“How often are you here?” I ask.
Ian chuckles, tilting his head at me curiously. “Me? I don’t know. Couple times a week, I guess. This baby uses me for my muscles and sick ass BBQ sauce recipe.”
“In your dreams. My sauce is superior.”
Ian barks a laugh, “Your sauce is Ray’s Original straight from the bottle.” His eyes are twinkling when he looks over at Bowen.
Bowen rolls his head to look over at Ian, and something hot and sharp stabs my insides. Repeatedly.
Are they…flirting right now?
I’m so caught off guard by the idea, my spine locks up, and I look anywhere but at the two guys that are currently going back and forth about whose sauce tastes better.
What the fuck?
“Can I use the shower?” I blurt.
Bowen just nods, then says, “You like the thick sauce, man. Admit it.”
