Chapter 44 Kit
Kit
Dear B,
I almost forgot how hard the hard days could be.
Weeks go by between really rough days anymore.
I’ve grown used to the mild suck of life, I guess.
The constant hum of homesickness calling me back was replaced with the borderline intolerable pain of coming face to face with what I’ve missed.
The then and the now sent me straight over the edge.
I don’t know how to fix what I broke, or even if I can. If there is even a sliver of a chance that one day Bowen can look at me with even a fraction of the care he used to… I have to try. I miss my best friend. And he didn’t kick me out, so I guess that's a start?
I miss him, and he’s just across the hall.
Wish me luck, B.
The thought of putting on my shoes made me want to cry real, actual tears.
I have a blister the size of a grape on the side of both big toes and more on the bottoms of my feet.
I guess that's what I get for running around in crap shoes for hours.
I had to gingerly get out of bed and waddle like a penguin out of the room and cross the hall to the bathroom.
The pain was a solid distraction, though, I’ll give it that.
There was no denying my heart's anxious rhythm when full consciousness came to me, before I even opened my eyes.
I smelled him before I remembered where I was.
I hugged the pillow tighter to my chest and opened my eyes slowly.
Yep, I was in the cabin. My eyes were sore from the shit show that was yesterday.
My body was sore from the hell I put it through.
I was a mess from the inside out.
I need to shower. I need to eat something that’s not a Pop-Tart or protein bar. I could use water and perhaps a full lobotomy to scramble the memories of yesterday from my brain.
I settled for scribbling a letter to Brett on a piece of paper I found in the side table and enjoyed being in an actual bed.
I haven’t slept in a bed in two years.
Who would have thought that the first bed I sleep in would be a shout away from Bowen? After a night that we yelled at each other, after I cried and snotted in front of him.
Nice one, Kit.
I’ve heard him moving around out there now. I need to go to the van and grab something to change into, but the prospect of facing him is about to give me nervous hives.
Don’t be a little bitch.
I roll my eyes at myself and hop out of bed. I make it to the door, hand on the cool metal knob, before I just as quickly drop it and jerk around to pace the small space.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself.
“Just go out there and be like, ‘hey, Bowen, what’s up?’” I bite the side of my nail and scrunch my nose.
“Just be normal for once in your life, Kit. No, be Meyer. Not Kit. Kit cries; Meyer is totally a non-crier.” I nod to myself and turn back for the door, but don’t make it more than two steps before I turn right back around.
“’Bowen, my man. Wanna make some grub and…
watch football?’” I cringe hard and rub my face. Is football even a thing in the summer?
“What the fuck am I doing?” I whisper hiss at myself. This is going beautifully already. “Just be fucking cool, Kit.”
I grab the doorknob and fling the door open so hard it bangs against the wall. Of course, Bowen is coming out of his room right across the hall. He has an apple in his mouth, and I yell, “What’s good, Bowie! Lets grub together?”
Two dark brows shoot to his hairline. He takes a massive bite from the apple, looking from my wide smile to my body inwardly vibrating inside his too-big-for-me clothes.
“Are you…good?” he asks around his bite, then chews with one eyebrow staying quirked at me. I sort of want to slink back into the room, become one with the floor for all eternity.
Bowie?? Dear God, just take me now.
“Good as gravy, man. You good?”
He narrows his eyes at me for a breath, then shakes his head and moves down the hallway. I hear him take another bite of apple, and I follow him for the simple fact that going back into the room after that would somehow be more embarrassing.
He’s opening the door to the fridge when I pull out a chair and sit at the small dining table, facing the kitchen.
My legs are quite literally quaking. I just gave myself enough ammo for two A.M. anxiety attacks for the next decade.
That whole stunt will be on repeat in my mind on a late night here real soon.
“That was weird,” I admit on a sigh.
Bowen grunts, flinging a look my way before setting out a slew of random things on the counter.
He doesn’t say anything other than a command for the speaker in the corner to play music.
It's enough of a buffer to kill the silence and buzz over the awkwardness lingering around me like a giant bubble.
I bet I still have a dirt smear somewhere on my face.
My cheeks warm, and I discreetly wipe them while watching Bowen.
He drums his fingers on the counter, subtly nodding his head to the beat of the song playing.
It's something he’s always done. Air drums, head banging to a song that was sometimes only playing in his head.
His hair is in a low bun today, and he’s got a snap back on, backwards.
His shirt is sleeveless, showing off tan muscles and tattoos he never had before.
My heart kicks in my chest when he hums lowly, and I clear my throat and shift in the seat.
“Do you need help?” I force myself to ask. He doesn’t even bother to look back, just shakes his head and cracks another egg in the bowl in front of him. I settle, and just…watch.
He does move around like this is his home.
It's in the way he moves with ease around the counters, how he grabs a fork without looking or closes a cabinet with his foot. I want to ask him how this place became his, but I’m not sure there is an answer he could give that wouldn’t hurt.
The whole thing is a massive, tender bruise right now, so I keep my mouth shut.
It doesn’t take long before he walks over to the small table and sets down a plate in front of me, then sits down in the empty chair on the other side of the small bistro table.
“You made me breakfast?” I ask, incredulous.
He looks up at me without raising his head, and my gut clenches.
“You learn how to cook?”
“No.”
“Then…” He gestures to my plate, and my stomach rumbles. Loudly.
I pick up my fork and take a small bite of the eggs, groaning when the buttery, cheesy goodness hits my taste buds. It's all over from there. I dig in like a starved animal.
“Remember when you were mad at me that one summer? I made you eggs as an apology.” I can feel him looking at me, but I study my plate.
“I still hold firm that you couldn’t taste the vanilla.
” I say this softly, poking at the last bits on my plate.
Then I grab a piece of toast and look up to find Bowen already watching me.
He takes a bite of his own toast, and I feel like we’re in the midst of a staring contest. I feel like I’m being tested, pushed to see if I’ll look away first. I don’t think he’ll acknowledge my little walk down memory lane, but he finally sniffs and sits back in the chair, still looking at me.
“I should have made you apologize a second time for thinking you could use vanilla almond milk in scrambled eggs.” Then he grabs his plate and stands; they clank into the sink. “You can wash the dishes.” And just like that, he’s gone.
He said to wash the dishes, so that's exactly what I’m doing.
The sponge makes absent swirls on the plate, but I’m focused on what's happening outside the window. The sun is already high in the sky. I bet with all the rain from last night it's good and humid out there now. I know the ground is muddy because Bowen has scrunched his nose and looked down at his muddy boots a couple of times now. That hasn’t stopped him from setting up shop again today. I can’t see the small cabin or shed from this angle, but he’s right in my line of sight.
I squirt more soap on the dishes and pick the sponge back up.
Bad Omens is blaring out of the same small speaker from yesterday, but he’s too focused on what he’s doing now for air drumming.
He’s measuring something, bent over the table with his back to me.
He’s wearing athletic shorts today. It’s a look that has no right working with the boots but it does.
I am absolutely not checking him out. I’m just…observing.
I rinse the plate in my hands and set it in the rack to dry, then grab the other one. Bowen is crouched down, digging through a small toolbox on the ground, and my body sways closer to the window. If it wasn’t for my hips hitting the counter, I would have my nose pressed up to the glass.
I groan and look down. I make quick work of washing the rest of the dishes he made while cooking, then dash away from the window. The cabin is quiet without his music.
It feels even weirder being in here now than it did the other night.
It feels like I’m snooping now that I know this is his place.
I can only take the silence and questions I’m not sure I have the right to ask for so long before I grab a towel and bottle of water and make my way outside.
A quick stop at the van to change, then I move as quickly as my sore feet will allow.
Away from the temptation of making a further ass of myself with Bowen, towards the water calling my name.
Every step away from the cabin on the familiar path settles me more.
My lungs fill easier, my head feels calmer.
The dock creaks softly when I step onto it, and my stomach untangles.
By the time my toes are on the end, and my eyes are soaking up the view of the sunlight sparkling on the surface of the water, I feel calmer than I have all morning.