Chapter 8 – Senior Year of Undergrad #2
“Yes way.” He shook me again. He peeled his shirt off to reveal…abs. So many glorious abs. Even drunk, I could appreciate that. Why am I drunk? I don’t drink. I blinked, totally ogling him, certain I was hallucinating. Because no one had abs that perfect outside of anatomy apps.
I studied the rest of him. “L-l-look at your d-deltoids.” I touched his shoulder.
He swatted my hand away, working on his shoelaces.
“And y-y-your l-l-ats.” I touched those too. “S-s-serrates ant-t-terior, trapezius. Oh, and b-b-biceps brachii.” I sighed like a twitterpated schoolgirl.
His pectorals flexed as he undid his belt. “Let’s go. We need to generate some heat.”
“W-wow…za.” I giggled. My shaking hands raked down his entire torso. “D-d-d-dang.” A loud guffaw shot out of my nose. “You…” I swayed and he caught me. “A-are hot.” I took another swipe down his abs.
“Oh-kay.” He chuckled as his jeans fell to his knees, revealing plaid boxers. My eyes bulged like he was doing a Magic Mike dance and not trying to save my life.
I covered my face, peeking between my fingers. “Oh…m-my.” But then I reached out to run my finger over the edge of his boxers. “I l-like those.”
“Your hands are freezing.” He shuddered. “Come on, Magnolia. Start undressing.”
“Uh uh.” Another giggle escaped. “Y-you-re not g-gonna see all my…s-stuff.” I bit my lip on the f sound. “Outh.” I wiped my mouth and saw blood on my hand, my knees quaking from the effort of holding myself up. “I’m blee-ing.” A tear ran down my cheek. “A-am I g-gonna d-die?”
“Not if I can help it.” He tugged off my coat and yanked my shirt up, pulling it over my head.
I huffed. “W-what’d you d-d-do tha f-for?
” Then I folded my arms over my chest, trying to hide my breasts.
But he didn’t seem to care. Just unbuttoned my pants and shimmied them down, revealing my panties.
“G-Griffin go-hna be mad at y-you.” And me.
But I couldn’t care at that moment. I was too exhausted.
I didn’t even care that Bowen was probably checking me out.
He wrapped his arms around me. “Good grief. What were you thinking, being on the road this morning?”
I couldn’t even answer. Could barely hold my head up.
“Come on.” His hands rubbed over my back hard and fast. Then he lowered me to the floor and pulled the sleeping bag up around us, zipping it to our chins.
My arms were locked by my sides, his embrace a straitjacket of heat. His shoulder was my pillow, his cheek covering mine, making a cave for my face between his jaw and the sleeping bag. Like my own personal warmth cocoon.
“Griffin’s not going to find out because we’re not going to tell him,” he whispered. “Okay?”
I nodded, so cozy and safe. “Um hmm.” We lay there for a long while, his arms and legs wrapped around mine, his muscular hands splayed against my back, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. Bowen’s taking care of me. The thought put a flutter in my chest.
I turned my head, my nose smashed into the side of his face, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, B-bowen. I knew you…were…a g-good…guy.”
His body went stiff but he didn’t respond. Just held me for a long while. Then he asked, “Are you warming up?”
“A little.”
“You don’t sound drunk anymore and you stopped shaking.”
“I’m just…tired.” I yawned. “I’m going to sleep now, okay?”
“Am I supposed to let you do that?” he asked.
“Um-hmm. That means my hypothalamus is no longer in full freak-out mode—” I yawned again “—trying to regulate my core temperature. So, I can go nighty-night.”
He tried to pull his arm out from under me. “I’ll let you sleep then.”
“No.” I snaked an arm around his waist, keeping him there, my hand pressing into the small of his back. “Not yet. My toes are still in danger of frostbite. See?” I pressed them into his shin and he yelped. I giggled. “You stay right here, mister.”
“Okay.” He sighed like he was fighting some kind of internal battle. But I didn’t let myself think about it. All I thought about was how tired I was. And warm. And contented. Bowen felt like a safe place when he wasn’t trying to wound me with his mouth.
I woke up briefly, who knows how long later, to see him fully clothed, driving. The disappointment at not being in his arms swept over me. But I shoved it away and let the exhaustion take me again.
When I woke up the next time, still bundled in the sleeping bag, he was carrying me…
into the ER. While they hooked me up to an IV and swaddled me in warm blankets, he stayed, sitting next to the bed, head in his hands.
And when they brought me hot chicken noodle soup, he spoon-fed it to me one slow spoonful at a time.
But then he stood and paced across the tiny room, like the walls were closing in and he needed out. Like maybe he was rethinking helping me. I wasn’t sure, but he was giving me anxiety.
I was so wiped out, I could barely lift my head. “Were you coming back from Seddledowne?” I asked, hoping a conversation would help.
He walked to his chair and sat. “Yeah. I went home for the weekend.” His head was back in his hands.
“Did I make you skip class?” Maybe he’d missed taking an exam and he was stressed?
He forced a smile. “Classes ended up being cancelled.” He scratched his eyebrow nervously. Then he stood and paced again.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, a doctor came in. He looked at Bowen. “You saved her life. She’s going to be fine thanks to you.”
“Good.” Bowen nodded. “So I can go? You’ll take care of her?”
The doctor scowled like the question shocked him. It definitely shocked me. The doctor looked at me. “Do you have someone who can drive you home?”
“Uh, yes. My friend Abilene. Should I call her now?”
“We’d like you to stay for another hour or so, just to make sure your body maintains a good temp. But yes, you can leave after that.” He exited the room.
Bowen grabbed his coat from the chair he’d set it in and put it on at breakneck speed, like he couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
My stomach clenched, waiting for whatever biting comment was coming.
Bowen couldn’t let a single interaction pass without saying something hurtful.
Usually, he saved his harshest putdowns for our goodbyes.
Like he wanted to send me on my way with no doubt of how much he despised me.
Leaving me bleeding out until the next time.
But he’d saved me today. Surely, we could be friends now.
“Thank you.” I gave him a gentle smile. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like my words hurt—which made no sense. When they opened again, I knew I was wrong. We couldn’t be friends. Not even today.
His face had turned to steel. The old Bowen was back.
I barely had time to brace myself before he rolled his eyes. “I mean, I guess. I would’ve stopped for a stray dog. Don’t mistake basic decency for something more.” His brows lifted, ready for my retaliation.
I didn’t even try to hide how much that hurt. “What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?”
For a split second, he looked ashamed of himself. But then he hardened his expression and shrugged like my pain was no skin off his back. “Nothing. Just don’t make a big deal out of something that isn’t.”
Then he pulled the curtain of the ER bay open and stepped into the hall.
When he yanked the curtain back in place without giving me a second glance, it felt like he’d kicked me off a cliff.
As I heard his footsteps fading, my heart ached so much it took up all the room in my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I didn’t know why I cared about Bowen Dupree or how he felt about me. But for some stupid reason, I just did.
When Abilene and I entered our apartment that evening, there was a sketch waiting that someone had slipped under the door.
It was of me, sitting on a couch, in front of a fire, in a chunky heather-blue cable knit sweater, a fuzzy blanket tucked over my lap.
My fingers were wrapped around a marshmallow-filled mug of hot chocolate.
I looked warmer in that picture than I’d felt all day.
And, as always, unrealistically beautiful.
I lived for the sketches. Even though Abilene said I should take them to the police station and turn them in because I obviously had a stalker, they always calmed me.
Reminded me that tomorrow was a new day and that my future was bright and waiting.
There were at least twenty pictures now, pinned carefully in a neat collage over my bed.
They continued to appear out of nowhere every few weeks.
In January, there was one of me with fireworks bursting overhead.
A promise of a happy new year to come. In February, it was Valentine’s themed with red hearts, balloons, and roses—though I did notice I was date free.
March was me blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
In April, I was standing in a field of tulips that looked suspiciously like Holland—my favorite flower and vacation I’d taken with my dad.
But May? Was a high five and a punch to the gut, all rolled into one.
A perfect snapshot of me in my graduation gown, School of Medicine stole and honors tassels around my neck.
I stood in front of the Rotunda, laughing as I stared up at the cap I’d just tossed into the air.
It was a quiet, anonymous congratulations from someone who saw me. Who celebrated me.
It should’ve felt like a triumph…and it did. But it also felt like a goodbye.
It was the end of an era. Of friendships I’d made over the last four years. Of the opportunity for Bowen and me to stop pretending we didn’t see each other whenever we passed on campus and the chance to bond over being Cavaliers at the same time.
But also, it was the end of the sketches.