Chapter 11
Kit
It clicks.
Everything clicks, and I know.
I know.
I wish I could rewind the last thirty seconds and unknow it.
Because oh my god, am I screwed.
So, so screwed.
Bowen is chuckling and tosses a chip at Brett. “You don’t even like her, dude, you just like that she called you cute.”
Brett crunches on a chip, waggling his brows. “Not true, man. She’s got nice hair.”
“Nice hair?” Bowen teases, “Kit’s got nice hair, too. Wanna date him?”
Brett tilts his head, like he’s actually considering. My heart skyrockets into my throat, lodges itself there, and refuses to move for the chip I try to swallow. It’s beating so hard, I feel lightheaded.
I sit up, forcing myself to swallow.
“You are pretty, Kat-boy. Probably prettier than Sarah is, actually,” Brett shoves more chips in his mouth before talking. “But I don’t think I’m into guys like that. Are you?”
I have no freaking clue who the question is directed at, but he may as well have put a microphone under my mouth and asked, “Kit, are you gay?” in front of a stadium full of people with how my insides shrivel up.
I’m sweating.
The conversation started sucking somewhere around the time that Bowen said he had a hot chick in his English class this year. Then it kept on sucking a little harder by the second as they kept talking about girls.
It felt like someone reached down inside of me and started strangling my lungs when Bowen said he wanted to ask out that hot girl.
My mind was screaming, “What? No!”
And then I was freaking out about that.
Then Bowen nudged my foot with his, where he’s sprawled out next to me on the floor of my room. He talked about this girl while he absently knocked his foot on mine and fed me chips, totally oblivious to the downward spiral I was in.
And when he came in with another chip, leaning slightly over me, I made the poor choice of looking up at him. He was smirking, listening to his brother but looking down at me. Wild black curls and pale blue eyes. He rubbed his thumb over the corner of my mouth, and I wanted to die. Because I knew.
I think I’ve known for a while, but my heart and my head have been chasing each other around in circles, and it took a while to catch up. My whole body goes hot and then ice cold. I want to crawl out of my skin.
I like him.
Bowen.
I like Bowen.
And I’m screwed.
He’s one of my best friends. He’s Brett’s twin. He’s Boe. The boy who is always watching out for me. Taking care of me. He still sleeps next to me sometimes, still checks on me when I’m too quiet. He knows every embarrassing thing about me.
Dear God.
None of it meant anything more than Bowen being Bowen before. But now?
Now it’s all crash-piling right on top of me, and it’s too much.
I force a laugh.
Try to breathe.
He probably sees me as a brother. The tag-along who is always around. There is absolutely no way that he will ever feel the same way.
I’m just…Kit.
I’m small. Too dramatic. Would rather read a book than participate in any sport. I zone out when they talk video games, and I don’t have a single care for cars or motorcycles. I’m not as soft as girls.
I'm not a girl.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard.
I don’t catch whatever Bowen says in response to Brett’s question. I’m far too busy having my very first gay panic.
I cannot like Bowen.
I can’t.
I’ve been avoiding him.
Not in an obvious way, I’m not dumb. I still sit where I’m supposed to sit.
I laugh when I’m supposed to, respond when it’s expected.
But I’ve gotten good at timing things. Leaving the room after Brett does.
Sitting on the other side of the porch swing.
Finding reasons to leave when it’s just the two of us.
It’s been working. I think.
Mostly.
Maybe?
Until today.
I’m struggling with the canoe. One end is dragged halfway on the bank while the other is stuck awkwardly in the shallows.
I misjudged how heavy it would be and how slippery the shoreline has gotten since the rain.
Of course, no one else is around. Brett ran off to grab water and likely got sidetracked in the fridge.
It’s just me. Me and this stupid canoe that refuses to cooperate.
I’m about to just leave it.
“I got it,” Bowen says, and I shoot around to see him making his way towards me.
“No,” I blurt. “I got it.”
He pauses. “Kitte…”
“I said I’ve got it.”
There’s a beat of silence. My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, but I can’t take it back now.
I turn back to the canoe instead, gripping the edge and pulling with renewed strength.
Each tug is powered by embarrassment and nerves lighting up my insides.
Especially when the dang thing immediately shifts, splashing mud up my leg.
“You don’t have to help me all the time,” I snap. Again.
Yeah, Kit. Dig yourself deeper. Idiot.
I avoid looking at him, still trying to pull. “I’m actually not a little kid. I’m the same age as you.”
“What? I know you’re not a little kid,” he says finally, sounding confused but calm as ever. So Boe. “I help because I want to.”
“Well, maybe don’t.”
It comes out fast. Loaded with meaning I don’t ever want him to understand. I mean it, though, I don’t want his help. His touches and attention and argh. I feel like every time he’s close to me, I’ll say something wrong or look too long and give it all away.
Bowen steps closer anyway.
“Yeah, okay, kitten.” Then he’s gripping the back end of the canoe and lifting it like it weighs nothing. “You’re being weird.”
I whirl on him, heart somewhere in my tonsils. “I’m not being weird.”
“You are. You’re being something.”
“I just…” I stop. My throat is constricting, just waiting to close up on itself in self-preservation. To keep the wrong words from slipping out. It all feels right there. Right on the tip of my tongue. “You don’t always have to be so…so nice.”
He sets the canoe down and turns back to me. He’s frowning, confusion pulling his dark brows low.
“I’ve always been nice to you. Why wouldn’t I be nice? What the hell?”
“Yeah, well…” I bite back whatever else I was about to say, looking away.
I can feel his eyes studying me.
Then he says quietly, “I don’t help because I think you need it, Kit.
I help because you’re you.” I see him rub at his head, trying to think of the words he wants to say.
I hate that everything he does warms my chest. “Not in, like, a gay way or anything. Shit, that sounded bad. I mean, I…I just like helping, okay?”
“You don’t have to,” I croak.
Not in a gay way…
And then…then, he grabs the rolled-up towel I dropped earlier and drapes it over my shoulders. His fingers brush the back of my neck, and I flinch like he burned me worse than the sun did when he gives my hair a rustle before pulling away.
“Still helping,” he says, walking back towards the cabin.
I stand there for a long time, long enough for the lake water to stop running down my legs and my fingers to cramp from gripping the towel.
My heart feels wrecked.
Not. Gay.