I said what I wanted to say, and it didn’t even matter because he’s leaving, just like that. No amount of begging matters. I could drop down to my knees right now, and I bet he would still slam the door in my face.
“Fuck you, Bowen.”
“In your dreams, Meyer.” The stab lands right in my gut.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop fucking crying,” he seethes, standing up and closing the space between us until I can feel his heavy exhales on my face. “You want to know what I want,Meyer? I want to be able to look at you without wanting to punch something, okay? I want to be able to see you laughing in the lakewith Ian and not want to gouge my own fucking eardrums out. Is that what you want to hear? You want to hear how every one of your pretty boy tears makes me want to scream?” He steps back, face red with agitation, and I’m transported back to a different place. A different time.
A different fight.
The only other time that Bowen has talked to me this way.
The fight that sent me straight back into the arms of blissful oblivion.
This time, I keep my feet grounded and tilt my chin up to look him in the eye. I’m not that Kit anymore. I’mnot.
“You hate me.”
Bowen barks a harsh laugh, it’s dark and twists my stomach up.
“Tell me to leave, Briggs.”
His jaw flexes, and I watch his chest move with each breath.
“Come on, do it.”
“If I wake up and you’re gone, kitten, I swear to God I will never speak a word to you again in this life. Do you understand?”
The slam of the door echoes long after he’s gone.
Bowen
“Asshole,” Kit sputters, wiping water from his eyes. I chased him to the end of the dock and wrapped my arms around his middle, flinging us both in. His scream rang out over the lake, only broken when we crashed through the surface.
I still haven’t let him go, but now he’s facing me.
I smirk, watching him rub his eyes again before finally looking up. The sun doesn’t do much for his pale skin, but it brings out every single freckle. Darkens the ones I can always see and shows me the ones hidden during the seasons lacking sunshine.
My favorite ones are scattered over his nose and across the tops of his cheeks. I used to try counting them when we were younger. When he didn’t think twice about spending an afternoon close enough for me to see.
“Let me go,” he huffs, cheeks pink.
“Why?” I ask, securing my arms around his warm back.
We seem to do nothing but circleeach other lately. It's not very often that I get moments like this with him. Where his guard is down, and he’s not shying away from me. Where Brett isn’t in the middle as a buffer.
“It’s rude not to hug back.”
His hazel eyes shine with humor. “Oh? Is this a hug? Feels a little like you’re holding me hostage after attempted murder.”
I snort. “You woke up sixteen today and decided to become a drama queen, huh?” I hiss out a laugh when his response is pinching my side. “See? Dramatic.”
“Unhand me.”
“You like being handed.” Kit blushes deeper and squawks all over again.
“What does that mean?” but all I can do is laugh, because he’s pinching my sides with little twists of his fingers. Then he’s splashing me, and I let go to splash him back. His laugh fills some of the spaces that have been empty since he started putting distance between us.
