Kit
I move a step closer, searching the wood surface of the door like I could find a slice missing to see inside at the man there. I can feel him. I can hear the shuffle of shoe-covered feet on the other side. A soft curse, a knock on the door. A slurred sort of response that I think was for me.
“Bowen? Are you…drunk?”
I'm not expecting how swiftly the door flies open, or the bang of it slamming into the wall inside.
But what I'm even less prepared for is the slightly swaying Bowen on the other side.
His work boots are on but untied. His belt is undone, shirt wrinkled like he picked it up off the floor from yesterday.
His hair is a curly, tousled mess around his head.
He looks wrecked.
I can smell the whiskey before he even opens his mouth, but the whole bottle of it in the hand not gripping the threshold is a good indication, too.
“Oh, that's fucking funny coming from you.” He snorts, but I catch a glimpse of his eyes moving over me quickly. Head to toe, I feel it, like he's searching for injury. His words hit somewhere low in my gut, and I flinch when he moves.
Bowen would never hurt me. Not physically. But the cold way he stands there, glaring down at me, may hurt more than if he just kicked me in the balls.
I imagined this whole evening going so, so much differently.
“You think I'd fuckin hit you?” He asks, harsh and raw. He huffs, steps back, and turns. He doesn't slam the door closed.
I'm five days sober, and the man I love is currently swigging from a bottle of Jim Beam. Not an ounce of the tenderness he normally has for me. My throat is burning with tears I refuse to shed. I should have told him. Should have…
I stare inside the townhouse. The living room light is dim, but there are no other lights on.
I can't see where he went, but I know he's in here.
And he's hurting. In all this time, Bowen has been a solid force.
Stronger than I could ever be in the face of it all.
Being strong doesn't negate sorrow. Doesn't mean he doesn't feel it all just as fiercely. I know that.
I know that.
But I'm selfish in grief. I've been selfish from the moment the officer showed up next door. From when he was speaking to Sheila and Bowen, when Sheila crumbled right there on the lawn, and Bowen had to catch her.
I ran. I ran and ran in the direction he drove off. I ran as fast as I could. I ran until I puked. Because it couldn't be. Couldn't.
I left Bowen alone to chase a ghost. I've been chasing him this whole time.
My heart kicks in my chest when I step inside. My fight or flight is pushing and pulling inside me, giving me whiplash. I want to run. I need to stay. The door clicks closed much quieter than it had opened a few moments ago, and I allow myself a few deep breaths before going to find Boe.
I find him on his black leather couch. Head back, legs carelessly spread wide.
He's disheveled and beautiful, and my guts clench with want.
I want to have the right to crawl into his lap.
I want to tell him all the things he needs to hear, the things he deserves to know.
I want to take the bottle from his hand and chug it down until I feel numb.
I swallow roughly. I can't do any of those things.
“You don't get to be disappointed in me, Kit.”
“I'm not…disappointed, Boe. I'm just surprised.”
His head lifts at that, and I see his sharp glare and clenched jaw before I lower my eyes to the floor.
“Which part is surprising? Is it really so surprising that you're not the only one here who has feelings?” He takes a lazy swig from the bottle before leaning forward and slamming it on the coffee table.
I jump at the noise.
“Is it surprising that maybe I care just as much as you? Did you forget, Kat-boy, that he was my fucking twin?”
“Boe…” I breathe, tears pooling in my eyes.
“Is it surprising that I'd drop down and choke on your cock right now if you asked me to?” He holds his hand under his mouth, like an imaginary microphone, “Bowen Briggs, ex-football star, willing to bend over for the little queer Kit Meyer who has had the hots for him since middle school.” He drunkenly mimics an announcer's voice, ending it with a hiccup.
My tears fall freely now, and I don't even bother wiping them away.
“I say ex-football star because I lost my scholarship when my fucking twin decided to wrap his car around a tree and get himself killed.
I got to hold my mother together during the day, and you together at night.
Is that what's surprising, Kit? Maybe it's surprising that I would appreciate a call or text after you run out on me in the middle of the night?” He wipes under his nose and leans back again.
“Maybe it was surprising when you got wherever you were going, to find you were still full of my cum.”
Jesus.
“Bowen,” I stutter out on a sob. He's never been so intentionally cruel before. Never.
“Or maybe,” he starts, and my heart is beating somewhere in the void that seems to have opened between us.
He feels unreachable in this moment. “Maybe it's surprising that even I have a breaking point, huh? I reached it this week. Worried fucking sick over you. Going bar to bar, flashing your photo to strangers. Wondering which alley you were face down dead in. I can’t...” He hiccups, and I'm shattered to hear the tears in his voice.
“I buried my brother, Kit. I won't survive burying you, too.
Do you understand? I. Won't. Survive it.” He presses his finger into his chest with each distinguished word.
“Watching you fucking wither away is going to kill us both.”
I watch him lose his steam, flopping back against the couch and covering his face.
The sight of my big, strong Boe breaking down, shoulders shaking with his sobs, is something I will never forget in my life.
It's enough to unstick my feet from the floor.
I'm about ready to throw myself at him, but he uncovers his face and shakes his head vehemently.
“No,” he croaks. “Get the fuck out, Kit.”
“Bowen, please…”
“Get out!” he roars, and the echo of it chases me all the way back home.
Dear B,
I messed up this time. Really, really messed up.
I woke to the smell of disinfectant and the beeping of machines.
My Dad was sleeping in a chair next to the bed I was in.
My Mom was standing in front of an unfamiliar window, looking out with a lost look I can’t wipe from my head.
Tucker was on the opposite side, sleeping with his head pressed against my hand.
Once my mom realized I was awake, she woke them up with her cries.
She cried like I had died, B. And she told me I almost did.
Alcohol poisoning, can you believe it? I almost choked on my own vomit and died.
Such a fucking pitiful way to go. It took them reminding me what happened to remember it all.
I thought if I came to a point that I was truly dying I would be at peace with it.
But it was your brother’s face that flashed through my mind.
Leaving him for real. Leaving him behind to deal with losing me too.
He shouldn’t care, but I knew he would. I had enough sense to call 911 before I passed out behind the bar.
I almost died in an alley, B.
Fuck.
Three years without you. Three years to destroy myself and everyone that cares about me. Your brother is gone now. I went in the bright light of morning to finally see him after I got out of the hospital, but he’s gone. He won’t answer me, but that’s okay.
I don’t deserve him now.
Maybe one day I will.
Maybe one day he’ll forgive me, B.
I realized that as much as I miss you, I’m not ready to come see you yet. I have to get better.
I have to see him.
I love you, Brett-man.
Please, forgive me.
“My name is Kit. I’m an alcoholic.”