Chapter 39 Kit
Kit
The first thing I hear is the crickets. My face is warm, too warm, the kind of warm someone gets from falling asleep in direct sunlight. I groan softly, not wanting to open my eyes. I fell asleep with my memories, and I know the reality is just on the other side of my eyelids.
I just want a moment longer.
But the nudge to my side has my eyelids flying open, anyway. It was a gentle nudge, but something in the quick tap makes me think it wasn’t the first one.
At first, all I see is a silhouette, a figure standing over me, backlit by the last golden rays of the day. Tall. Broad shoulders that taper down to hips that have hands braced on them. Their head cocks to the side, and it’s that movement that has my stomach bottoming out.
Black curls.
Black brows drawn together.
The last lingering whispers of sleep vanish.
“You’re trespassing.”
That voice.
My breath catches. Gets tangled up with the quickly growing ball of words in my throat. They tangle, making me choke as I sit up quickly. His voice is deeper than I remember it. Rougher. But I would know it anywhere.
“Should I also mention that sleeping alone on a dock is fucking stupid?”
I cringe, scrambling to my feet, damn near tripping over myself, and falling headfirst over the side of the dock.
“I… Sorry, I was… You…” I fumble with my words and then rub my face. Which is also fucking stupid because it burns.
How long was I out for?
My heart feels like it's trying to hammer its way out of my chest. My stomach is located somewhere by my feet.
I don’t know where to look. My gaze hits the lake, the cabin, the trees. Anywhere…
“What are you doing here?”
His question comes out even rougher. Grating. Like he couldn’t stop it from coming out any more than I can stop my eyes from flinting about the whole area.
“I didn’t…realize you were here,” I manage to say. Soft enough I’m not even sure he hears it. He doesn’t respond for so long, my body is vibrating on the inside with nerves. I want to puke, it’s so uncomfortable.
I used to dream of this. Over the last two years, when I was willing to acknowledge the wounds that I didn’t know how to heal.
The ones that were more fresh. The ones that were different from the rest. I would lie awake and envision what it would be like to stand face to face with Bowen Briggs again.
It never happened like this.
For one, I always pictured myself playing it way cooler. I think my mouth has done that gasping fish face several times already.
My cheeks are burning hotter than the sunburn now.
I fidget, feeling his eyes on me. I don’t even know what I’m wearing, to be totally honest. I’ve been a bit of a mess since the moment I decided I was coming back home. I made it back in much the same way I left it. Like I couldn’t breathe right until I was here.
Now I’m here, and I can’t breathe again for a whole new reason.
A reason that's about six feet three and over two hundred pounds of what I’m willing to bet is pure muscle. The kind of muscle someone gets from actually using them, not just lifting heavy shit in a gym. He’s got the farmers build now.
A beard, too. I saw that when my eyes ran over the space between us. A black, scruffy jaw was definitely in the background.
Would it be weird if I leaned over to catch my breath?
I think there may also be a man bun. God, why do you hate me?
“Meyer. Look at me." The challenge comes out low, but harsh enough my spine straightens at the call-out.
And I try. Fuck, I swear I do. But the little mole above his lip is covered now. His nose has a little silver hoop in the right side, and my insides are quaking.
I think I’m actually going to be sick.
I close my eyes, swallow past the nausea, and shake my head.
The silence after that is much, much louder.
I can practically feel his annoyance and anger as if they had claws and teeth and were reaching out to maul me right here, right now. Only Bowen is far too controlled for that, isn’t he? Because he just huffs a laugh that's full of contempt and turns on his booted feet.
My own feet move a step toward him before I lock them back down on the creaky wooden planks under me. He’s wearing worn dark jeans and a t-shirt that’s definitely seen better days. His black curls are, in fact, contained on the back of his head in a man bun.
“Bowen…” I call after him. The name feels foreign on my tongue after so long. It lingers there, rolling through me with little sparks to my system. “I swear I didn’t know you were here. I was just…I was just passing through.”
This earns me a head shake as he continues walking away from me, down the beaten path now towards the cabins.
I don’t like seeing him walk away any more than I liked standing in his silence.
It's okay.
The first step is slow. The second one is uncomfortable. I take the third with a ragged breath. By the time the wood under my feet is replaced with the worn, patchy grass, I stop again.
You’re being an idiot. I can hear Brett’s voice in my head say it clear as day, like he’s the devil on my shoulder, and he is not impressed.
Well, I’m not very impressed either, okay?
The walk back sort of feels like a walk of shame. Well, I think maybe it is a walk of shame. Every step is heavy, and I’m scared to look anywhere but at my feet. Scared that if I take my eyes off them, I’ll be running back to the van and seeing the lake in my rear-view.
Running when shit gets hard is so much easier.
Burying it under the cloak of alcohol.
Denial.
There is a plethora of choices for a skilled runner like me. It feels unnatural to fight that urge. Which tells me that's exactly what I need to do.
Nothing about healing is easy.
It’s fucking messy. It's been messy for five years, and I’m sure it will still be messy some days five years from now.
It aches, and burns. Some days, my skin doesn’t feel like it sits right on my body. Some days, I want to curl into a ball and pretend that the world paused its movement for a little while so I could catch my breath.
Most days, it's choosing to take that step. And another.
Another.
Until you’re standing at the bottom of the steps of a cabin full of memories, looking up at the figure sitting at the top.
Smoke tendrils curl in front of his face. My eyes stop at the hoop in his nose, and I swallow thickly.
“I can leave.”
I watch his lips close over the butt of the cigarette. They’re the same lips they always have been. The bottom is full and soft; the top has a deep cupid’s bow. There may or may not be a few renderings of them scribbled into sketch books back home in my bedroom.
The smoking is new.
My heart races. He blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I’m well aware of what you’re capable of.”
It lands exactly like the blow he wanted it to be. I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
“Are you at least planning on stopping to see your parents on your passing through?” He continues after a pause.
“Yeah. Yes, of course.” I croak out and clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. “I… Yes.”
Bowen takes another drag and blows the smoke out with an audible breath. He’s irritated. At me.
It’s okay.
“Stay. Go.” He shrugs, then points with his fingers holding the cigarette between them towards the other cabin. “Small cabin is off limits. Guest room is open.”
He puts the smoke out under his black boot, pocketing the butt when he stands. I feel like a peasant under him. I feel raw and exposed and so incredibly inadequate.
The van creaks as I shift onto my back to switch from staring out the windshield to staring up at the ceiling instead.
The soft yellow twinkle lights strung up around the perimeter of the back of the van are the only light now, have been for a while.
Except for the glow of the moon, anyway.
That comes and goes as the clouds move across the dark sky.
The bed is digging into my spine, but I ignore it like I have for the last two years.
Nothing about living in a van has been comfortable.
I didn’t do it because it was in or trendy.
I did it because it was my last idea for survival.
I did it because my life needed a drastic change, and I didn’t know how to heal in the place that broke me.
Mountain quiet is different than city quiet. Nature never fully sleeps, and it's singing to me a lullaby now, but fat chance of me sleeping.
I feel alive in a way I haven't felt in a long, long time. Every fucking atom is humming under my skin.
Bowen Briggs is here. Inside the big cabin. He offered me the guest bed like he owns the place.
Funny, how I never questioned why he was here at my family’s property.
I don’t even have to ask to know he’s seen them a hell of a lot more than I have recently.
I bet he still goes over there all the time.
Still lets my mom coo and fuss over him.
Still watches football games with my dad. Still talks to Tucker.
I bet he does. He’s earned his place here.
I’m the intruder.
He’s here.
I can hear something breaking up the sound of the trees and nature. Something electrical, maybe, coming from the cabin. A low, constant reminder that I didn’t need at how damn close he is.
Not a memory. Not a ghost.
Him.
It’s surreal considering how long it’s been.
How it ended.
I shift again. Back to the windshield.
I deserved it.
I did.
I deserved it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt. Doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt.
I can picture him now, moving through the small kitchen just a little ways away from me.
He’s pushing back a loose curl, jaw ticking like it does when he’s frustrated.
He’s looking at the window, but not looking through it.
He doesn’t care enough to see. But annoyed enough to acknowledge that he’s not alone here anymore.
I hate how fast my brain fills with him.
There’s a small boy with wild curls and a reserved smile.
A kid hovering on the line between boy and teen.
A teen with the beginnings of shadows in his blue eyes.
A guy who’s hollow and tired. A bearded, guarded, fully grown man.
Every version of him is walking around my mind, looking at me.
Inspecting my swirling memories. My aching heart. Measuring me up.
That boy is frowning, wanting to fix the burn in my throat and the ache in my chest.
The kid wants to crawl into bed next to me and shield me from whatever is making me lose my breath.
The teen is hovering just off to the side, warring with himself.
The guy is sitting next to me, back against the bed. Knees bent up. He won’t let me sit alone, but he doesn’t know how to fix me any better than I do.
And the man? Well, the man is in a cabin after letting me know he didn’t care if I stayed or if I left.
I shift back to looking up at the ceiling.
“Meyer. Look at me.”
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
But God, I want to.
I force my eyes to close. I toss and turn. I manage to fall into that space between sleeping and awake.
The smell of smoke follows me into my dreams.