CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Brett
One Year Ago
Barrett chews her lip, staring at me with her hands folded neatly on the wrought iron table. I glance at my phone sitting next to my glass and check the time.
8:16.
To the untrained eye, she would appear calm, but I know she’s trying not to explode.
I finally break the silence, “Say something.”
She leans back in her chair and looks away with a devious smile. Her poker face might be stellar with her clients at work, but she’s never been good at holding one with me.
“ Fuuuuck, dude! ” she exclaims, tugging at the collar of her cream blouse like she’s burning up, “I’m having palpitations over here.”
I let my head collapse into my palms with a groan, but a tiny laugh sneaks out.
“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate—best friend response,” Barrett thrusts her arm into the air, waving at the closest server on the patio, “I need another glass of wine, please!”
Now I think I might need another drink, “Yeah, so that’s the story,” I exhale, dragging my hands down my face,
“The whole story?”
“The whole story.”
“How could you not tell me any of this? Holy shit! ”
I shoot her a look.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Gun to the head, I know,” Barrett nods, “you’ve just never been the controversial one, you know? It’s usually me coming to you with stuff only seen on Bravo TV.” After a moment, she looks away, grinning to herself, “Colson fucking Lutz,” she sneers.
“So, I guess wherever I go, he goes. Even after all this time, even after what he did…”
“You talk about this with such pragmatism,” she eyes me from across the table, “like it’s just the way it is.”
I shrug, “That’s what Bowen said when I told him what Colson did with the gun.”
“Can you tell Bowen what happened,” she asks, “I mean, what happened today?”
“No.” It’s such a small but loaded word, and what trails behind it is a litany of reasons I never can. “Bowen warned me about him from the start. He told me I’d see him again, and he was right. Then, after Colson showed up at work, Bowen told me I needed to be careful and not get too close to him. But I blew it off because Colson seemed so mellow, like he grew up. He was nice . And now look...”
“You’re worried Bowen’s going to blame you,” Barrett says.
“Of course, he will! And what would I say to him?” I scrunch up my face and hitch my voice up an octave, “ I have this really complicated and fucked up relationship with my stalker who I haven’t seen in three years because he put a gun to my head, but it’s OK because he didn’t really mean it. And today, he came into my office, acted like a psychopath, and his dick accidentally ended up in my mouth. ” I furrow my brow at Barrett, who can’t even hide her laughter now, “I can’t tell him.”
“Well, we can debate who decided to do what and under how much duress later,” Barrett rolls her eyes.
Both of us abruptly pause when the server approaches and sets down another glass of wine in front of Barrett.
Once he leaves, Barrett takes a deep breath to compose herself, “Are you afraid Bowen will end the relationship or that he’ll do something else?”
We both know what something else is, that underlying meaning that dwells between the lines that no one wants to admit. But Barrett doesn’t have a problem asking about it. She’s seen people choose violence too often and she’s not na?ve enough to believe anyone is an exception. And Bowen is far from an exception.
I see Hildy on the front porch of the country club, telling me about how much Bowen used to fight anyone and everyone. And then I see Hannah and her suspicious bruises, and all of a sudden, I’m not sure what to think. If he chose violence, I’m not sure who would be on the receiving end. And then I realize that in itself should also be concerning.
But still, I’ve never seen him say or do anything hostile except for giving Hannah nasty looks …
Barrett leans across the table, “I want to preface this by saying I’m not going to judge you, but I need to ask you this to get a better idea of where you’re at.”
“You don’t have to preface anything. I know why you’re asking the things you’re asking, so just say it.”
Barrett glances down at the table and then lowers her voice, “Did you like what Colson did today?”
I knew she was bound to ask something like this, it was inevitable. I know the answer, but saying it out loud is a different story. However, if I can’t say it to Barrett—someone who’s trained to respond to the most fucked up shit in the world—who can I say it to?
“Some of it,” I mumble, crinkling a shred of napkin in my fingers.
“I’m not here to kink-shame you, you know that. But it would help me understand why you’re talking about Colson the same way you talk about a flat tire making you late for work instead of curled up in a corner, crying hysterically.”
She’s got a point. Colson Lutz—a pothole in brand-new pavement—here to wreck shit.
“I liked what he did,” I speak slowly and carefully, “But I don’t like that he picked now to do it. And I’m sorry for what happened to his sister, or whatever, but…” I trail off, forgetting where I’m going with this.
Barrett casts me a faint smile, “Are you aware of how much emotional labor you do for this guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Years ago, you accepted him for all his flaws—and believe me, they’re major flaws —and now, after trying to move on with your life after his… episode , he shows up out of nowhere and you give him a lot of leeway with tamping down your emotions, acting like everything is normal at work, giving him a chance to be a normal person when he finally does speak to you, and now you’re stressing about what you should do to maintain the status quo after he has the audacity to throw a wrench in everything and do this. That’s pretty manipulative of him, don’t you think?”
“Which part?”
Barrett sets down her drink, “All of it! I’m talking about how he only says or does things he knows will upset you when you literally can’t walk away. Like all that stuff he told you in the car, how he chose to chronicle his entire stalking history while he was balls-deep inside you, and then doing whatever the hell that was in your office today.”
“He’s totally manipulative. And what the hell kind of basis is that for any relationship?” I sit back in my chair, twisting my beige hair tie through my fingers, “You know what’s funny? Sometimes I think Bowen and Colson are the same person.”
“Really?” Barrett scrunches up her face, “How? ”
“Tangible things like how they both have one sister—now, at least—they both carry guns every day for work, which is maddening, they’re both surly, tatted up, and they both even used to street race.”
Barrett gives a laugh, “I think that just means you have a type.”
“But it’s other things, too,” I continue, “they have the same mannerisms and talk in similar terms, with this decisiveness and hyper loyalty that borders on possessiveness. And it seems like they’re both constantly one step ahead of everyone, like they both live or die by anticipating and planning their next move.”
“OK, well that is fucking weird,” Barrett shrugs, “but after you’ve explained everything, it makes total sense why you’re with Bowen,” Barrett ponders while gazing into the fading sunlight, “you found all the qualities you liked in Colson when you met Bowen. Except Bowen does it better. He’s just unhinged enough not to be boring, but he’s also stable with a career, a house, and a dog on 50 acres he wants to share with you . He buys you a car, he’s supportive of your writing, and he embodies everything you wanted in Colson, except he doesn’t have a history of stalking and hasn’t tried to murder you. And that’s why when Bowen asked you to marry him after only a few months, you said yes because you found a better, socially acceptable version of Colson.”
Her observations hit me like a freight train. I always had the feeling, but I didn’t realize I was on a subconscious search for the uncanny characteristics that embody Colson Lutz.
“You’re right. You’re right about all of it. But here’s the thing,” I hesitate for a moment, deciding whether to even elaborate, “Colson’s honest to a fault.”
“Honest- ish ,” Barrett echoes into her wine glass.
“He says and does whatever he’s thinking, even if it’s incredibly inappropriate or downright creepy. Bowen doesn’t do anything like that, but—” I pause and then think better of it, “nothing.”
“It’s never nothing, it’s always something,” Barrett chirps.
I’ve heard these words come out of her mouth more times than I care to admit, usually when I’m trying to avoid a difficult conversation.
“Colson might not come right out and say he’s fucking with me, but he also doesn’t try to hide it. But with Bowen, I feel like there are still parts of him that I don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“That shit with Hannah,” I say immediately, “you heard her at the Rickhouse. I don’t know what her fixation is with him, but it has something to do with their friend, Evie, that was murdered in high school. Then Hannah shows up at Jay’s birthday with these weird bruises while actively avoiding Bowen, and when Hildy tells me about Evie—”
“Wait, wait, wait—” Barrett waves her hand across the table, “Hannah showed up with bruises and acted afraid of Bowen? ”
I hesitate, realizing exactly how it sounds. And if it sounds the same way to Barrett, then maybe I’m not misinterpreting things, after all.
I nod, “When I asked Hannah about them, she said something like, you’ve made your point , and then told me to leave her alone. Like I sicced him on her or something.”
Barrett is silent for a few moments, “OK, go ahead.” But I know she won’t let this go; she’s filed it away to marinate on for a while.
“Anyway, Hildy told me she doesn’t even know how Evie died. But she has to, because Bowen told me. It’s like they’re all telling different stories about the same thing. I don’t know,” I shake my head, “it’s just a weird vibe.”
“Like you’re an outsider in their shared trauma?” Barrett guesses.
I shoot her a grin, “You would know all about that.”
“Geez, Brett,” she laughs, “when did you become such a trauma sponge? But seriously, do you ever wonder—” Barrett tips her head up and gazes off into the distance, “if you’re so comfortable with Colson, even when he pulls shit like this, because you and he share trauma? Think about it—his sister died, he has PTSD, he forms a super unhealthy attachment to you, he has some violent, semi-conscious event, assaults you, and now you’re part of his story. What if you’ve normalized his behavior now because you want to believe he can still be a normal part of your life?”
My leg bounces under the table as I let her words sink in, “Maybe…”
I don’t want to hear any of this. I don’t want to hear Barrett tell me that Colson is too broken and he’ll only ever be a nightmare, except she would never say anyone’s too broken, at least out loud. She would also never tell anyone what to think. She’s smart like that, she asks certain questions and before you know it, you have your own epiphanies and inconvenient realizations that make you question reality.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing next to Barrett’s black Jeep in the parking lot, no closer to a solution.
“What the hell do I do? Just tell me what to do! ” I plead with her.
Barrett lets out an exasperated breath and looks deep in thought, tapping her fingernail on her door handle.
After a minute, she turns to me, “You’ve never been one to rush into anything. Usually, you’re paralyzed with indecision and research everything to death. But with Bowen you were all in immediately, no questions asked,” she raises her hands to her chest, “not that he’s not great, I’m just saying...”
I look down at the pavement, nodding. I know she’s right. I never rush into anything, no matter how great it seems. Regardless, I should be avoiding Colson, but being around him is dulling the pain he caused and transforming him from a monster into something else.
And I am wholly unprepared for it.
“If someone like you came in and told me the story you just did,” Barrett muses, “I would tell them they did the right thing by talking to a professional because there are a lot of emotions that need processing and trauma symptoms being triggered by Colson’s antics… ” Barrett emphasizes the last word in her best friend tone, “I would suggest putting safety measures in place, like talking to HR because of your past and maybe involving the police because of his history and the fact that he’s batshit. But I’ll leave that part up to your comfort and discretion, because you know me,” she gives a shrug, “I’d light his ass up.”
Batshit… I can’t help but laugh.
“That gives me somewhere to start, I guess,” I spin my key ring on my finger and hit the button for my Tahoe further down the lot, “at least I have a few days to think about it.”
“You know, sometimes the best thing to do is nothing, ” Barrett opens her door and tosses her purse across the console into the passenger seat, “I don’t think anyone would blame you if you decided to press pause on the wedding and talk to a professional about all of this first. There’s a lot to unpack, and it doesn’t sound like Bowen would be opposed to that since he already knows about Colson and the gun. You wouldn’t have to disclose anything else to justify taking care of yourself.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” That, I know.
If I told Bowen I wanted to step back and scrub Colson Lutz from my psyche, he’d probably throw down for the best trauma therapist in the eastern United States and make sure I could live in a cabana on a beach while I did it. The man hates Colson for what he did to me.
“And I think you’re right, I was going to encourage you to be straight up and tell Bowen what happened, but—” Barrett takes a deep breath, a troubled look on her face, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea now.”
Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing.
On my way across the asphalt to my vehicle, my biggest concern is that I don’t like the idea of rocking the boat and doing anything to change my comfortable routine. Anything involving HR or law enforcement would undoubtedly turn my life into a goddamn headache.
Which is better—deal with Colson’s bullying and stalking on my own or potentially die of professional embarrassment?
I don’t get a chance to consider it further because as soon as I open my door, climb into my driver’s seat, and lock the doors, I do a doubletake and slam my head back against the headrest in terror.
There’s a black leather belt neatly looped over my rearview mirror.
No, no, no…
I don’t recognize it. But who recognizes a black belt—don’t they all pretty much look the same? Not too new, not too worn, silver buckle and leather with the perfect amount of flex…an upside-down noose hanging a foot from my face.
I jerk my head around, my heart racing as I search my backseat for an intruder. Then I peer through my windows, scanning for anyone in the parking lot. There’s no sign of anyone except for the patio buzzing across the asphalt. And worse, Barrett is already gone, leaving me alone to deal with whatever fresh hell this is.
But as soon as I turn around to start the ignition, I feel my phone vibrate. I reach back and tear it from my pocket, ready to shoot off a text to Barrett about what’s just happened. Instead, my stomach drops and my hand flies to my mouth when I see the text.
UNKNOWN (7:42PM): What did Barrett think of all the fun you’ve had?
How…
I stare at the text message, listening to my heart pound against my chest. I remind myself that I’m alone, and whoever put this on my mirror is long gone. Or I just can’t see them.
I can’t see him…