Page 3 of The Art of Drowning

I’d never gone back. There was no point. It wasn’t like I had parents who cared if I made it home for the holidays. Staying away was easier. The only person I kept in touch with was a mutual friend. We weren’t that close, though enough to know that something had gone down between Sam and me, but they never knew the details.

Bowie, however… Bowie knew all about it. We met in college when I was at my lowest and I hadn’t been able to get rid of him ever since. Not that I wanted to.

Bowie worked part-time for a garage while he took some courses at the college. Bowie’s dream had been to open his own shop. To fix up cars and do custom shit. My dream had been to get away from Sam and Callum and the ache that lived in my bones.

Moving away from the Weeks’s had been harder than leaving my own parents. Walking away had been necessary but excruciating. In some ways, those wounds had never healed.

I spent all my holidays with Bowie and his family, but I never got comfortable there. Never let my guard down too much. Even ten years later, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And Bowie, well, he knew all about it. He knew the story, every detail. Mostly I was over it now. It had been years, how could I not be?

Yet, Bowie was in my house, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, staring me down. Concern radiated from him, and I both loved and hated it.

“I’ll be fine. Stop worrying.” I zipped my suitcase shut, then went to my closet to collect my suit. It hadn’t been worn since Bowie’s sister’s wedding. I’d have to get a more suitable tie for it, but that could wait.

“I won’t stop worrying about you. Do you remember how you were when we met?” He scowled at me.

He’d never been a fan of Sam or Callum, even though he never met them and never would. I used to think it was just jealousy, but when I told him that, Bowie looked like I’d kicked him.

I can be mad at the people who hurt you and not be jealous that they were in a position to do that to begin with, he’d said.

Bowie was overprotective, and most of the time I didn’t mind, because most of the time it was directed at his sister. I hadn’t been the focus of his overbearing worry since we met.

“That was a long time ago.”

“I know it was. But I’m worried, okay. You’ve never gone back before. And going back now when—” He cut himself off. Not that him stopping from reminding me why I was going back would make any difference.

“I’m only going for a few days.” It hadn’t even been our mutual friend who had notified me of the death. It was a lawyer on behalf of Mister Weeks. He’d passed away in a tragic accident and had left me something in his will. The plan was to go, say my goodbyes at the funeral, see what the lawyer had to say, then get my ass home and hopefully never have to think of them again.

Until a few days ago, I was fine. Until a few days ago, I hardly thought about Callum or Sam. The memories had faded, and they were locked away somewhere in my mind. A place I seldom visited, and when I did, it was only to take a brief glance back, to press on the bruise and see if it still hurt.

The answer was always yes.

It had never stopped hurting, and now there was a new ache to add to the old wound. A new loss to grieve. Eventually. Right now I felt hollow. The news had emptied me, and I was a husk. A shell of myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d often thought about what a reconciliation would look like. If I went back and begged for forgiveness, could we have salvaged anything between us?

“You’re going to call me every day, right?” Bowie asked.

“Twice a day if you want.” I already called or texted Bowie every day as it was. It would be no problem to keep up the long-standing tradition even if I was out of town.

“Make that three times. An hour.”

I finally looked at Bowie and shot him a scowl. “That’s excessive.”

“That’s my middle name.”

“Your middle name is Warren.”

Bowie rolled his eyes. “Only legally. My real middle name is excessive. Bowman Excessive Sinclair.”

“Deranged Idiot Bestie.” I pointed at him. Our smiles held for a moment, but then faltered.

“Call me when you get there. Are you sure you want to go alone? I can close the shop for a few days.”

“Stay. I’ll be fine. It’s going to be quick.” After the funeral, I could go back to pretending that they didn’t exist. That the whole town didn’t exist. “Make sure you look after Spike for me.”

Bowie rolled his eyes. Again. “Spike is a rock.”

“Shhhh, he’ll hear you.”