Chapter 41 Kit
Kit
The shower feels so good. I don’t remember the cabin having this kind of water pressure before, or water this hot. It feels heavenly beating against my back, and I stand there for a while just soaking it up. When you live in a van, every shower is a cherished event for real.
I scrub clean, then scrub again. Wash my hair twice just to make sure it's squeaky.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I used his stuff that was in the shower the first go around, then stood under the spray like a deer caught in headlights because I smelled like him. Musk and cedar and delicious.
I smell like my own stuff by the time I get out, after my second scrub. I dry off with a plush black towel that I found in the cupboard.
A cupboard that was full of…stuff.
Pain meds, rubbing alcohol, band-aids. There were Q-Tips, lotion, and shaving stuff. A stack of these new-looking towels on the bottom shelf, wash clothes. Toilet paper.
Normal bathroom stuff, I guess.
But why is it here?
Ian said he comes a couple of times a week.
There were…things, lying all around the cabin when I walked through to the bathroom. A mug on the counter that I don’t remember. An air fryer!
The old, forest-themed lamps were replaced with simple, modern styles. The old patchwork couch replaced by a soft brown one.
It smelled like him first. The smell of the cabin I remember second.
I feel like I’m going crazy.
Truth is, I made it pretty clear early on that I couldn’t handle hearing about what was going on back home.
I didn’t want to hear what I was missing.
What Tucker was doing. What Bowen was doing.
I didn’t want to know. It was like a flashing arrow pointing at their accomplishments while I was clawing my way through every day.
Which is dramatic as all hell, I realize that now.
But two years ago, I wanted to cover my ears and blah blah over my parents talking about anything that wasn’t surface level.
Was I alive? Yes.
Was I safe? Yes.
Perfect, love you, bye.
That’s about all I could handle.
Now they handle me with kid gloves, and it's my own fucking fault.
It’s my own fault that Bowen appears to be living in our lake cabin, and I had no idea.
After I’m shaved and dressed, I gather all my stuff back in my toiletries bag, ball up my dirty clothes, and swing open the door to Bowen standing on the other side, leaning back against the wall.
Hazel eyes clash with blue so vivid I nearly choke.
I drop my gaze to his lips. His beard. His Adam’s apple.
“You can’t sleep in the van.” Smooth and cold like steel.
“You smell like beer. And why is the small cabin off limits?”
His jaw ticks, and he doesn’t say anything for so long, I don’t think he will. But eventually he says, “Because it is. You can sleep in the guest room.”
I would rather sleep with the bugs outside, thanks.
“It’s fine. I’ll just leave the door cracked in the van and—”
“Just stop talking, Meyer.”
“Stop calling me that,” I breathe.
“Look at me,” he breathes right back, raspy and raw.
I want to close my eyes. Shut out everything that’s got to be glaringly obvious if he looks for even a second.
But I can’t stop watching the way his chest is rising and falling with short, irritated breaths.
I ignore him and instead step out of the bathroom and walk into the open living space.
I see all the differences, but I see all the things that are still the same.
The walls feel like they’re listening. Holding their breath while Bowen walks up behind me. He’s not close, but close enough for my body to feel him near. “I didn’t expect it to go this way.” A truth. One I can give. “I imagined it would be easier.”
A beat. Then, “Nothing with you is ever easy, is it?”
Ouch.
“I probably deserve that,” I nod, taking a shaky inhale. “But I wanted it to be. I wanted enough time to pass that I was a more secure version of me. That maybe you wouldn’t still hate me. That we could…be friends. Or friendly, I guess.”
I miss you.
“So, you wanted to come back home but not see me, is that right?”
“Well, no, but…”
The door to the cabin swings open, and Ian comes in with a cheeky grin. “Gotta pee. Sorry.” He looks from me to Bowen who is standing somewhere behind me. “Man, the air in here is weird. You guys good?”
“Yes,” I say at the same time Bowen says, “No.”
“Ooookay, then,” Ian laughs. When the door to the bathroom closes, I turn.
The floor is still the same natural wood it's always been, but there is a tan shaggy area rug under the coffee table now. I dig my toes in it, grounding myself. Every heartbeat feels like it’s being pulled on a string.
“Sleep on the couch, Meyer. Don’t be stupid.” And with that, Bowen walks out on the porch, letting the door slam behind him.
I sink down onto the couch for no other reason than walking by him out there now doesn’t feel like an option I’m willing to take. So, I put my face in my hands and just breathe until I hear the bathroom door open, and Ian comes back out.
Luckily, there must be something on my face that lets him know I don’t want to talk because he just smiles and waves and leaves much quieter than Bowen did a few moments ago.
It takes me a few minutes to calm down, but when I do, I pull my phone out of my bag and scroll to the right contact. It’s getting sorta late, but I press call anyway.
It rings three times before it connects.
“Kit?” Dad says, sounding surprised.
“Hey, old man.” I go for easy going, not seconds from spiraling.
“Hey you back. Is everything okay?”
I loathe that he probably thinks I need money. Or that he’s not very far off from that.
“Yeah, um, its Fio…the van. Funny story, I’m actually at the cabin. Long story short, Bowen said he thinks maybe some mice chewed through wires or something. It won’t start.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“Yeah. At the cabin, huh? Getting close to home.”
My throat is thick, and I nod, even though he can't see it. “Yeah, Dad. That was the end goal. Now I’m kinda stuck.”
There’s a rustling on the other end, like maybe he’s getting up from the couch, I can hear a TV in the background. “Your mom and I are in Florida. We planned on staying the week. If you need me to—”
“Oh God, no, Dad. I didn’t know.” Of course I didn’t. How would I? That would require actually calling them.
“Maybe Bowen can give you a ride back home? We can get the van sorted when we’re back.”
Being locked in a car with Bowen for two hours? Water boarding sounds better.
“Yeah, okay. That works. Sorry for bothering you. Tell Mom I said hi. Have a great trip.”
“We will. Hey, Kit?”
My eyes burn, and I lean forward, phone pressed to my ear and face in my other hand. “Yeah, Dad?”
“It’s so good to hear you’re on your way back home. We love you.”
I swipe at my eyes, nodding again.
“Love you.”
We hang up, and I stare at my phone. The lock screen is a picture of Brett and me. He’s sticking his tongue out, and I’m rolling my eyes with a smile on my face. Brett would know what to do right now. He would tell me like it was the most obvious, singular option.
I have no clue.
After who knows how long of sitting there feeling sorry for myself and letting the knife buried in my chest twist with every deep laugh from the porch, I get up with my stuff and make my way outside.
“I’m just sayin’ man,” Ian laughs. “Oh, hey, Kit. Just in time for pizza.”
The box he holds up has the Pepperoni King logo on it. The one and only pizza place that will deliver here. I haven’t eaten anything but a protein bar this morning, but I still shake my head and walk right on by.
I take the steps quickly, and I’m not even sure I breathe until I’m in the familiar cramped space of my van.
It's like a sauna.
I’m instantly sweaty. Tacky skin. Ugh.
I fish out a Pop-Tart and a jar of peanut butter and am halfway through stuffing my face in the dark like a troll when I hear Ian get closer.
“I know—I’m just grabbing my bag.” He hiccups the hiccup of a drunk person, and I strain my ears and hear what sounds like his truck door opening and closing. Then his footsteps crunching the occasional leaf back to the porch. There is a quiet murmur of their voices, then nothing.
I hold out for about thirty seconds before I can’t take it anymore and scramble to the covering on the window and pull it sideways to peek. They’re both in the cabin, the cooler left on the front porch.
I slide the door of the van open slowly and suck in a much-needed breath of slightly cooler air.
I guess Ian has sleepovers.
I smear peanut butter on the other half of my Pop-Tart and rip into it like it's a steak. I wonder what they’re doing? What do grown men do during drunken sleepovers?
I can think of one thing.
Two, maybe, but both are done naked.
I want to puke.
But instead, I finish my Pop-Tart, drag my pillow by the open van door, and lay down.
I’m woken up by the sticky heat and the smell of smoke.
I blink my eyes open, and I have the perfect view of the porch steps…
and the figure sitting on them. The cherry of the cigarette burns brighter when he takes a hit, and I watch the tendrils of smoke in front of his face.
His features are mostly hidden by the shadows of night, but I can see enough that it makes my heart trip over itself.
He’s beautiful. Always has been. Always will be.
He doesn’t say anything else about where I’m sleeping. I don’t make a move to go to the cabin.
Dear B,
I thought the hardest battle coming here would be against the memories waiting around every corner. From under every tree. I thought I would have to war with the memory of you sprawled out under the sun and the reality that you'll never be sun-kissed again.
I never thought I would come here and have to face a living, breathing opponent on top of the rest.
Your brother of all people.