Chapter 65
Kit
The last time I walked into the Briggs' house, I had plans to sleep over with my best friend. He was so damn excited to reclaim a sliver of our childhood. Shrek locked and loaded, candy prepared. Life was already pulling us apart, but Brett was going to hold on with both hands and gritted teeth.
He was dead by morning.
My feet feel like they're a thousand pounds, and my very soul feels like it's writhing in the pits of my stomach.
Bowen has been standing next to me, thumb rubbing steady circles on my hand while I stare at the door. I don't think we've let go since I grabbed his hand on the stairs before breakfast. It's my lifeline now.
“He's not in there,” I finally murmur.
Bowen exhales slowly, and I see him shake his head in my periphery. “No, baby, he's not.”
I nod.
I'm okay.
“How did you do it?” I ask, squeezing his hand. “Go in there, I mean.”
Bowen shrugs, somehow a gentle movement.
I know he's being soft for me, but his hand squeezes mine just as tightly.
“I had no choice. I lived here. My mom was here, and I wasn't going to leave her here all alone. I chose to let his presence everywhere feel comforting instead of haunting.” He sighs. “Doesn't mean it was easy.”
I nod again. “You're strong, Bowen. So fucking strong. I never told you that. I should have.”
Suddenly, the door swings open, and I stumble over into Bowen.
Sheila looks at me with tears in her eyes and chokes on a laugh. “I tried to give you a minute to cut the crap, but I figured if I didn't hurry this along, you'd become one with the porch mat.”
Her blue eyes are radiant. Not haunted. Not full of pain and sorrow.
They're her son's eyes. Brett's laugh is held in those depths, and I burst into tears, dragging Bowen forward with me so I can wrap his mom in my arms. It turns into a semi-awkward tangle until Bowen huffs a laugh and turns it into a group hug, because I refuse to let go of his hand.
Brett gave the best hugs because he learned how from his mom. Sheila may be small, but she's fierce. Her arms hold you in a way that lets you know she means it. Brett got a lot of his personality from her, and maybe that’s part of the reason I didn't reach out.
Another reason is the same reason I wouldn't look at Bowen. I was scared shitless that some part of her blamed me like I blamed myself.
But there is none of that in the way she looks at me when I finally pull back.
Just the same love that she's always shown me.
“You look so good, Kit.” And like her other son, Sheila pushes my hair back and ruffles the strands.
“Come in, come in. I bought this new tea that I think you'll like.” Like Brett, Sheila has a way of worming through the cracks and fissures of a person.
You don't even realize she's pulled your entire focus until you're sitting in a living room you haven't seen in five years and didn't even have a freak out on the way in.
“So,” she says, changing gears from talking about her vegetable garden this year. Bowen groans from his spot next to me, and I smirk. Sheila is waggling her eyebrows at us. “About damn time you two removed your heads from your asses.”
“Ma, can we not?” Bowen sighs.
I sputter over a laugh. “What do you mean?”
She throws her hands up and slaps them against her jean-clad thighs. “It was obvious to everyone but you two, apparently.”
I glance over at Bowen, and he looks back at me. The soft squeeze feels a lot like a tiny apology. I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. It's okay.
“Brett would have been so happy,” Sheila says, soft and wistful.
“You know how many interventions that boy planned? He once even considered the morality of stealing your phone, Kit, to confess your feelings to Bowen over text. He was positive that Bowen would crack then.” She gives her son a warm but exasperated look. “It's hard not being a nosy mom.”
“You are a nosy mom,” Bowen grumbles. But then he snorts. “Brett was the most nosy. Like a preening, annoying mother hen.”
Sheila's eyes are shiny. “He loved you both so much.”
It used to feel like a sword twisting in my guts to hear his name out loud. I couldn't even write it in my letters. I couldn't bear speaking it myself. Not for a long time. Like if we didn't talk about it, it didn't happen. That if we didn't speak his name, the pain wasn't there.
Sheila loves him loudly. She says his name, reminds the world that he was here and real and wonderful. She smiles over who he was and holds onto his memory with warmth.
I'm not so naive to think that she doesn't absolutely crumble under the weight of her grief.
She lost her son. I watched her fall apart, and I heard the scream from that night in my head when I closed my eyes for months.
But she picks herself back up. She finds reasons to smile. Reasons to remember.
Bowen got his mother's strength.
When Sheila excuses herself to answer a call, I look at Bowen and ask the very last thing I expected to ask today.
“Take me to the attic?”
“We were gonna watch Shrek.” My voice comes out hoarse. I don't think I've blinked since I pushed open the door to the attic, my eyes burning, watching the dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the small windows.
I was scared to step into the house earlier, but it has nothing compared to the feeling I have sitting in here.
The same old, shaggy carpet. Bowen's old bed in place of where the couch had been once upon a time.
The small TV stand pulled to the center of the far wall, blankets folded in a stack on the floor.
Ready for us to lay them out and sleep hot and tangled on top of them.
It looks exactly like it did that night, and my guts are twisted with how badly I ache.
“He was so excited,” I continue. The memory is raw and alive in my mind. I opened the door to it an inch, and it poured in through the crack. Warm and alive, finally given room to breathe for the first time in five years. “So excited,” I push out on a slow breath, willing myself to not fall apart.
I remember it all so vividly. The excitement that I couldn't help but feel because Brett's was so big. The ache of missing those moments and being relieved to have another night.
Bowen's hand squeezes mine softly, his thumb rubbing up and down.
He's quiet where we both stand, leaning back against the wall closest to the door. I look over at him, at the curve of his nose. The brows that are always set lower than Brett's ever were. The jaw that's always more tense, the lips that save smiles like Brett saved frowns.
“Do you think we ever would have made it?”
Bowen doesn't look at me right away, but when he does, he looks as lost in memory as I am. Warm lips meet each one of my knuckles, and he blinks slowly when he lowers our hands and gently lets go of my hand.
I'm about to protest at the loss of contact, but he moves away, towards the closet that used to hold board games and toys. I watch him move something on the top shelf, then he walks over to the bed and sits down. I don't move until he looks up at me and motions with his head for me to follow.
The box is set between us, and then Bowen just watches me.
I sniffle, pulling off the top of the box. My eyes immediately fill with tears, and I huff a laugh. Pictures.
Bowen's pictures.
Just like the cabin walls. Bowen's been capturing us his whole life. In his mind. Frozen in frames. Memorialized in burned wood. My fingers tremble, pulling them out one by one. Each emotion Brett wore all over his face and tucked into every smile. His wild heart and even wilder energy.
Tucker's exasperated eyerolls and basketball skills. His soft eyes looking at Delaney in a dozen different places over the years. I glance up at Bowen, but he's still just watching me.
And then…me.
I can see it all played out right in front of me, in years of photos. The love. The want. The heartache. The shyness. The happiness. The desperation. The loneliness. He captured me when I was looking right at him. When I pretended not to see him, and when I had no idea he was watching.
“Had I not been a coward, he never would have walked out of this room that night.” Bowen's broken voice has me looking up from the photo in my hands. His eyes shine with more pain than he normally shows, and my heart lodges in my throat.
“Boe…it's not your fault. If anything, I was the coward. I shouldn't have ran, not from you. Not from him. He wouldn't have left had I stayed.”
Bowen shakes his head. “I'm so fucking sorry, baby. You want to know if we would have made it?” He points to the pictures scattered all over the bed.
“You're my heart, Kit. I was miserable without you then.
I'm miserable without you now. Brett always knew.” He exhales a tired laugh, the kind that can only come from years of healing.
He picks up a picture I took not long after I gave him the camera. I felt a pang of sadness, seeing Bowen take pictures of everyone else. Always behind the lens, never in front. He deserved to be seen, just like he saw us.
I threatened to shave my head if he didn't let me take his picture that afternoon.
The results were a string of pictures of Brett doing increasingly obnoxious things until I finally captured Bowen smiling.
Not the half stunted thing. Not the cute smirk.
But the smile that mirrored the one Brett wore like his favorite accessory.
Brett was mid jump in the background, victory fist pumped in the air.
“It could have happened on his way to the gym or driving to his girlfriend's house. He could have been on his way home from the store or driving off to college.” A tear runs down Bowen's cheek, and I reach over to brush it with my thumb.
“We didn't kill Brett, Bowen. The man who decided to get behind the wheel wasted killed him.”
Guilt is layered. Life is layered. Love. Loss. It was easier to feel guilt, to harbor hate for myself than sit with the knowledge that one man's choice to drink and drive stole the life of my best friend. Just like that. No reason.
It was easier to place blame on myself. Go mad over the what-ifs.
To come up with a hundred different scenarios that would have ended the night with us lying in front of that TV, together and alive.
But seeing Bowen do the same? It's easier to peel back the layers to the truth that's always been in the center.
We didn't kill Brett. His death wasn't fair, and it wasn't our fault.
“He would have been so proud of you, kitten,” Bowen says, grabbing my hand from his face and linking our fingers once more.
“He would have been proud of you, Bowen. You went to school; you started your career. You have an amazing talent you could totally share with the world if you wanted to. You found support with the Bennets and a good friend in Ian. You may feel like you ran to the lake, Boe, but you never stopped living.”
Bowen makes a throaty, choked sound and pushes off the bed. He rubs his face on his way to the other side of the room. I watch him wipe his face, then grab one of the folded blankets. He lays it out in front of the TV, and my heart beats wildly in my chest.
Bowen crouches down in front of the TV, and I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until a minute later when the screen turns on, and I suck in air.
“I once caught him reading Shrek fanfic,” he says, fiddling with the remote. He doesn't see my watery smile, but it's there.
“Donkey and his wife?” He loved the ass.
“Nah,” Bowen says, grinning at me over his shoulder. “Shrek and Don, baby. He swore he would put a hex on me if I ever told a soul.”
I snicker, moving over to the blanket. When Bowen finally settles next to me, I have tears running down my face. And the smile on my lips?
I fought so fucking hard for it.
When the movie clicks on, it's at full volume, and Shrek is yelling about finding everyone in his swamp.
Bowen and I look at each other and laugh.
We don't stop at Shrek. We watch the whole stack of movies, only leaving the blanket to get snacks and use the bathroom. Sheila brought us up lunch during The Hangover and dinner during The Notebook. She smiled at us from the doorway and chuckled when I wiped my wet cheek on Bowen's shoulder.
I jumped during IT, even though I knew the jump-scare was coming and pretended not to melt like a chocolate bar in the sun when Bowen pulled me to his chest.
I pretended I didn't notice the sun sinking lower in the sky. Or what Bowen's sigh from behind me meant when the credits roll not long after.
We haven’t talked much since the first movie started. Now it's been hours, and I still don't know what to say, but I know what I want to hear.
I told him I loved him last night.
I've shied away from the memory all day, but it's all I can think about now. He's a solid force at my back. Warm. Real. Here. But not for much longer.
He never said it back.
He said I was his heart, and that's enough. It is. But he's still silent. He's still wanting me to read between lines, and I'm still aching for him to lay it out plain and bare for me. So it’s impossible for me to misinterpret.
I want Bowen Briggs to ask me to be with him. To be his, for real, not when we're in the haze of lust. I want him to look at me right here, in another place that's full of our memories, and tell me he wants me.
Ask me to go with you. Tell me you love me.