It’s weird to knock on the door of a cabin that used to feel like mine. I can’t say how many times I walked in and out of this very door without a second thought. I remember the summer we painted it, Brett picked out the color. It doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
When the door swings open, and I see his feet, the sense of deja vu is so strong I nearly step backwards.
“Kitten?”he would always say, soft and reverent. Unsure.
Now he says nothing.
“I wasn’t going to drink any of it.” His feet stay planted where they are. No arms reach out to pull me past the threshold. I rub my teeth over my bottom lip and try to force the memories back into the recesses of my mind where I attempt to keep them.
Whatever lightness I felt at the lake feels suspended now, holding itself just out of reach. I look up in time to see his jaw do that ticking thing it does. I’m not expecting the harsh look in his blue eyes, or the way he's gripping the door like he’s contemplating slamming it in my face.
“I wasn’t Bowen, please belie…” The rest of the words fall flat when he walks away, leaving the door open.
I frown, step inside, and close the door softly behind me. I can smell something cooking, but I stay hovering by the front door, unsure.
I hate that this is what our relationship has boiled down to.
Hate it.
Hate it so much, my body feels like it's vibrating with the need todosomething. Say something.
One second, he’s tolerating me, and the next, he’s ignoring me.
What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that?
Thanks to the layout, I can watch him move around the kitchen. I watch him walk right by me with a plate in his hand and sit on the couch. He picks up the remote from the coffee table and turns on the TV. He picks up his plate and leans back, twirling spaghetti on his fork.
I may as well be a fly on the wall for how little he seems to care about my existence.
My heart beats wildly in my chest.
I move slowly to stand behind the chair. The fabric gives under my fingers when I grip it. “Is this how it's going to go, then?” Bowen’s eyes don’t move from the screen. “Make me breakfast and sit with me, then ignore me. Hot and cold. I know I deserve it.” I gulp and pull in a shaky breath through my nose. “Bowen…”
The look he cuts me with is sharp and gutted. He takes another bite of his food and watches me with a look that makes me want to cry.
“Boe…”
You’d think someone puked on his feet with the grimace he pulls. Nostrils flared, brows furrowed in disgust. His plate thunks down on the table, and he scrubs his hands over his face.
“What do you want from me, Meyer?” When he looks back at me, he has it all locked back up behind mile high walls of blue frost.
“I want… Fuck, Bowen, you’re my best friend.” I hate the way my voice cracks, or how it comes out unsure. It hangs as a question. But I square my shoulders and look him in the eyes.
“Why waste time holdin’ onto shit when we could just say what we want to say, ya know?”Ian’s earlier words ring in my head. I open and close my mouth three times before the words come.
“I want my best friend back. I want you to stop being a d…dick to me, even though maybe I deserve it. I also would like you to remember thaty…youleftmefirst. Not the other way around. If you don’t want me to be here, man the fuck up and tell me so.” I clear my throat and dig my fingers into the chair so hard they ache. “I don’t know how much more of the push and pull I can take, Bowen. So, if you have no mercy for me, just let me know. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” My throat burns but I don’t look away, not even for a second. “But I want to stay. That’s what I want.”
The silence that follows is a double-edged sword. He’s not telling me to leave, but he’s not telling meanything.
Bowen has always been quiet. Sheila used to joke that Brett stole all the words in the womb. It never bothered me. I could read Bowen’s eyes and understood his body language just fine. He didn’t always need to speak for me to know what he was thinking or feeling. Perks of growing up so close with someone. Now I feel like we’re not on the same wavelength anymore. Or there is a chasm that opened between us, and I don’t know how to bridge the divide.
“Say something…please.” Still nothing. “This is the second time you’ve asked me what I want. What about you? Tell me what you want.”
He stands, unfolding his big body from the couch. My chest rises and falls with a shuttered breath. He’s as big as the storm and as quiet as the aftermath. I can’t believe there was a time I could have walked to him, and he would have opened his arms for me without a second thought.
He takes his uneaten plate back to the kitchen, and I stare at the place where he was just sitting. I don’t blink. I don’t even know if I’m still breathing. It's not until I hear him behind me, by the door, that I finally turn to look at him. He’s bent, putting his boots back on.
He’s leaving.
