Nice one, Kit.
I’ve heard him moving around out there now. I need to go to the van and grab something to change into, but the prospect of facing him is about to give me nervous hives.
Don’t be a little bitch.
I roll my eyes at myself and hop out of bed. I make it to the door, hand on the cool metal knob, before I just as quickly drop it and jerk around to pace the small space.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself. “Just go out there and be like, ‘hey, Bowen, what’s up?’” I bite the side of my nail and scrunch my nose. “Just be normal for once in your life, Kit. No, be Meyer. Not Kit. Kit cries; Meyer is totally a non-crier.” I nod to myself and turn back for the door, but don’t make it more than two steps before I turn right back around. “’Bowen, my man. Wanna make some grub and…watch football?’” I cringe hard and rub my face. Is football even a thing in the summer?
“What the fuck am I doing?” I whisper hiss at myself. This is going beautifully already. “Just be fucking cool, Kit.”
I grab the doorknob and fling the door open so hard it bangs against the wall. Of course, Bowen is coming out of his room right across the hall. He has an apple in his mouth, and I yell, “What’s good, Bowie! Lets grub together?”
Two dark brows shoot to his hairline. He takes a massive bite from the apple, looking from my wide smile to my body inwardly vibrating inside his too-big-for-me clothes.
“Are you…good?” he asks around his bite, then chews with one eyebrow staying quirked at me. I sort of want to slink back into the room, become one with the floor for all eternity.
Bowie?? Dear God, just take me now.
“Good as gravy, man. You good?”
He narrows his eyes at me for a breath, then shakes his head and moves down the hallway. I hear him take another bite of apple, and I follow him for the simple fact that going back into the room afterthatwould somehow be more embarrassing.
He’s opening the door to the fridge when I pull out a chair and sit at the small dining table, facing the kitchen. My legs are quite literally quaking.I just gave myself enough ammo for two A.M. anxiety attacks for the next decade. That whole stunt will be on repeat in my mind on a late night here real soon.
“That was weird,” I admit on a sigh.
Bowen grunts, flinging a look my way before setting out a slew of random things on the counter. He doesn’t say anything other than a command for the speaker in the corner to play music. It's enough of a buffer to kill the silence and buzz over the awkwardness lingering around me like a giant bubble.
I bet I still have a dirt smear somewhere on my face.
My cheeks warm, and I discreetly wipe them while watching Bowen. He drums his fingers on the counter, subtly nodding his head to the beat of the song playing. It's something he’s always done. Air drums, head banging to a song that was sometimes only playing in his head. His hair is in a low bun today, and he’s got a snap back on, backwards. His shirt is sleeveless, showing off tan muscles and tattoos he never had before. My heart kicks in my chest when he hums lowly, and I clear my throat and shift in the seat.
“Do you need help?” I force myself to ask. He doesn’t even bother to look back, just shakes his head and cracks another egg in the bowl in front of him. I settle, and just…watch.
He does move around like this is his home. It's in the way he moves with ease around the counters, how he grabs a fork without looking or closes a cabinet with his foot. I want to ask him how this place became his, but I’m not sure there is an answer he could give that wouldn’t hurt. The whole thing is a massive, tender bruise right now, so I keep my mouth shut.
It doesn’t take long before he walks over to the small table and sets down a plate in front of me, then sits down in the empty chair on the other side of the small bistro table.
“You made me breakfast?” I ask, incredulous.
He looks up at me without raising his head, and my gut clenches.
“You learn how to cook?”
“No.”
“Then…” He gestures to my plate, and my stomach rumbles. Loudly.
I pick up my fork and take a small bite of the eggs, groaning when the buttery, cheesy goodness hits my taste buds. It's all over from there. I dig in like a starved animal.
“Remember when you were mad at me that one summer? I made you eggs as an apology.” I can feel him looking at me, but I study my plate. “I still hold firm that you couldn’t taste the vanilla.” I say this softly, poking at the last bits on my plate. Then I grab a piece of toast and look up to find Bowen already watching me. He takes a bite of his own toast, and I feel like we’re in the midst of a staring contest. I feel like I’m being tested, pushed to see if I’ll look away first. I don’t think he’ll acknowledge my little walk down memory lane, but he finally sniffs and sits back in the chair, still looking at me.
“I should have made you apologize a second time for thinking you could use vanilla almond milk in scrambled eggs.” Then he grabs his plate and stands; they clank into the sink. “You can wash the dishes.” And just like that, he’s gone.
He said to wash the dishes, so that's exactly what I’m doing. The sponge makes absent swirls on the plate, but I’m focused on what's happening outside the window. The sun is already high in the sky. I bet with all the rain from last night it's good and humid out there now. I know the ground is muddy because Bowen has scrunched his nose and looked down at his muddy boots a couple of times now. That hasn’t stopped him from settingup shop again today. I can’t see the small cabin or shed from this angle, but he’s right in my line of sight.
I squirt more soap on the dishes and pick the sponge back up.Bad Omensis blaring out of the same small speaker from yesterday, but he’s too focused on what he’s doing now for air drumming. He’s measuring something, bent over the table with his back to me. He’s wearing athletic shorts today. It’s a look that has no right working with the boots but it does.
