Chapter 21
Bowen
The basketball bounces off the rim, bounces hard on the concrete drive, and rolls towards the edge of the yard. I don’t chase it.
Tucker’s saying something, laughing under his breath about Kit and Jude, but it’s background noise.
I don’t hear much over the low growl of the approaching engine.
A beat-up sedan slows at the end of the driveway, then pulls in.
Jude fucking Michaels leans across the passenger seat, pushing the door open.
Kit steps off the porch, Brett trailing a few steps behind him, both of them cast in a soft gold light from the porch lamp and the setting sun.
Kit hesitates, hand wrapped around one of the posts on the handrail.
His eyes flick toward me, just for a second.
I don’t move.
Brett says something I can’t hear and claps a hand on Kit’s shoulder, smiling too wide.
He does the ‘I’m watching you’ finger to eye movement at Jude, pointing to him where he sits like a smug bastard behind the wheel.
Kit gives a nod that seems to be more for himself than anyone and slips into the passenger seat.
The car reverses out of the drive.
I track it with my eyes.
It's not until the car is long out of sight that I feel Brett’s presence beside me. He doesn’t say anything. Just raises his hand and smacks me lightly on the back of the head.
“What the hell?” I flinch and glare at him.
“Idiot,” he mutters, not looking at me.
Then he walks off, cutting across the grass towards the house. Tucker is aiming up a shot and yells about sucking today when it misses.
I just stand there.
It’s not jealousy. It's not. I don’t even know what it is. But my chest is tight, and I’m not ready to go back to the game.
Not yet.
Brett doesn’t flinch when the door bangs shut; he’s too busy pacing the living room. One hand tugging through his hair, the other holding his phone like he might hurl it through a window.
Or at my face.
I grab a sport drink from the fridge and try to ignore the way Brett is huffing like he just finished a run.
“He text you?” he finally asks, voice too casual to be real with his current state.
“No. Why would he? He’s on a date.” I sit at the kitchen island, twist the cap off, and pretend like the sound of the plastic in my grip fills the silence.
Brett scoffs. “Right. Because obviously we’re not both dying to know how his little date with Jude motherfucking Michaels is going.”
I look up after a second. “What’s your problem, dude?”
He stops pacing, spinning to glare at me. “My problem? My problem is that you stood there and pretended like it didn’t gut you to see him get in that car. My problem is that Kit looked like someone carved his insides out with a goddamn spoon. That’s my problem.”
I bristle, looking down at the bottle in my hands. “He can date whoever he wants.”
Brett laughs, cold. Totally unfamiliar sound coming from him. “He can, sure. Doesn’t mean he wants to. Look at me right now and tell me you don’t care.”
I look toward the door but drag my eyes to him. I open my mouth, but…
“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with mock disbelief. “You’re going to pretend you don’t see it.”
“See what?” I snap.
“That you’re dense,” he fires back. “That you’re so emotionally constipated, you’ve convinced yourself you’re doing him a favor or some shit by being distant and neutral and fucking weird. When really? You’re just being a coward.”
“Back off, Brett.”
“No,” he says. “Because I’m not letting you play dumb anymore. And also? Also? Fuck you for bringing Delaney over here again. When are you going to stop using her as a shield, huh? But even her sitting there wasn’t stopping the way the wind was knocked out of you when he left.”
I slam the bottle on the counter. “I’m not gay, Brett.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just stares at me like I said the most irrelevant thing in the world.
“Okay? It doesn’t need to be that simple, dude. You’re smarter than that. Bisexuality is a thing. Fuck, maybe it's just Kit for you, and that’s valid, too.”
I can hear my pounding heart in my head. I just stare at my brother, and he takes my silence as a reason to continue.
“He wouldn’t expect you to label yourself. But if he knew that you see him, Bowen. Like he sees you? I wouldn’t have to see both of my best friends hurt. He misses you, and I know you miss him.”
I still don’t respond. I’m not even sure I can.
Brett shakes his head, walking to the door, but pauses at the threshold to the stairs.
“What if it ruins our friendship?” I ask the question hesitantly, barely more than a whisper.
I’m not sure he hears me, but he eventually looks at me over his shoulder and shrugs. “Aren’t you already?”
Then he’s gone, leaving me with my stupid fears and confusion.
I'm not… waiting up. I just don't feel like being inside.
That's all.
I've been sitting here long enough for the rough wood of the porch to dig lines into my palms. That's why I curl my fingers, not because it pisses me off that the shitty car has been sitting next door, idling for the last five minutes.
I don't look. Don't watch to see if the douchebag will end their date with a kiss. I sit until I see the stranger who wears my best friend's face walk up his driveway, out of the corner of my eye.
I sit until the door to his house closes. Until the sound of the obnoxious muffler is long out of earshot.
Then, I'm tired enough to go to bed.
I don't think about the fact that we said nothing to each other. Nope. Don't think about it at all. It definitely doesn't hurt.