Chapter 49 Bowen
Bowen
“Hi, honey.”
The door behind me closes softly, and I let out a slow exhale. My head is pounding. “Hey, Ma.”
“How are you today?” she asks, cheery and chipper. Completely normal, reasonable question to ask. Except I’m not stupid, and I’m her son. I can hear that sliver of other in the question.
“I’m good. How are you? Did you get the package I sent?”
She snorts. “You mean the grocery delivery order you have sent every week? Yes, Bowen. I got it. And just like last week, I will remind you that I’m old, not decrepit yet. I can still manage the store just fine, baby. You don’t have to keep doing that.”
“Just like last week, I’ll tell you I’ll do what I want. And you’re not old.”
This makes her laugh. The sound eases some of the burning in my chest. I rub at it absently and turn to take in the cabin door.
The thing is old. I was going to replace it completely but thought I would see if I could salvage it for now.
I try to relax my jaw when my temples throb with the pressure of my gritted teeth.
“Haven’t you always? My stubborn boy. Which reminds me…”
“Here we go.”
My mom sighs after a second of silence. It hangs heavily down the line, and I hold the phone with my shoulder, bending over to put away the pressure washer.
“Why didn’t you tell me Kit showed up? Pat and Mary called to tell me.”
I roll my eyes. “Why are parents so nosy?”
“Because we love both of you. This is important, Bowen. That boy has been through enough. You have been through enough. But I know my son, and I know that you’re brooding.”
I scoff, wheeling the clunky machine down the steps. I cringe with the creek of the wood on the last one when it thunks down onto it. “I am not brooding.”
“Please.”
The grass is wet from the water running off the porch, and it takes a little extra pull to get the wheels moving through the muddy patch. I leave it off to the side and make my way back to the porch. I’ll figure it and the rest of the door out. Later.
“Just say what you want to say, Ma.”
“Fine. Kit coming home is a huge deal, Bowen Lee. We miss him.” Her voice thickens, and she cuts herself off long enough to clear her throat before continuing calmly. “Promise me you will try. If not for you, then for me. For his parents. For…”
Brett.
“Okay?” she says in the I will take no bullshit tone she had to perfect raising two boys by herself.
“Got it.”
“I know this is hard for you, honey. Kit is—”
“I said got it, Ma.” My eyes sweep over the living room. Empty.
She blows out a puff of air and then hums softly. “Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you in a few days.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
I hang up and pocket my phone before opening the fridge. I haven’t been to the store in days. Not since I got home the last time to find a piece of shit, rusted-out van in the driveway. I can’t believe that thing made it crossed state lines let alone around the fucking country for two years.
My temples throb, and I close my eyes briefly from the pain. He’s such a little dick for letting me find him passed out on the dock. My blood pressure spiked the moment I saw him lying there, and I don’t think it's gone down since.
But since I don’t have much left, I grab more eggs and other odds and ends left on the shelves to make omelets for dinner. I move around in the silent cabin and take on each task.
Grab bowl.
Crack eggs.
Throw away shells.
I circle my head around, trying to ease the tense muscles in my neck.
Add milk.
Add seasonings.
Whisk.
The bowl clanks against the counter when I set it down. My fingers slide into my hair, pushing back the rogue curls, and then I grip the counter and hang my head.
The cabin feels different. Nothing has changed. Nothing has moved. But it's different because I can feel him here.
I know he’s right down the hall.
A slow breath hisses through my teeth, and I push off the counter.
“Promise me you will try…”
Yeah, Ma. A lot of fucking good it did me the last time I tried.
Kit Meyer has been an enigma since he hit puberty.
Suddenly, he was the most confusing fucking person I have ever met.
He would say one thing, then look at me like I kicked a puppy when I did that thing.
He would smile like I wrote him a sonnet one second and then act like my mere presence caused him physical pain the next.
I scrub my face and get to work on the omelets.
I manage to make it through half of the first one before a flash of him at the bottom of the stairs earlier flashes through my mind like a fucking jump scare. His panic-stricken face. That wide eyed look, like he was pleading with me to fix it.
Nothing is more terrifying than Kit Meyer.
Omelets and toast done, I stare at the two plates.
I drum my fingers against my thighs.
It’s probably cold by the time I snatch one off the counter and walk down the hall.
His door is closed, not a bed spring or creaky floorboard to hint at what he’s doing in there.
The plate doesn’t make a sound with how slowly I bend over and set it down, fingers hovering on the edge even after its safely on the ground.
My jaw ticks.
“I know that you’re brooding…”
I let go of the plate and stand, tucking my hands deep in my pockets.
Fuck.