CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
I’ve never been good at packing. I waver between a capsule wardrobe that can fit in a weekender and a full-size suitcase filled with 30 pairs of underwear and a pair of cowboy boots, just in case . This time is no different.
I commit to a carry-on, which is more than enough space for a four-day trip to Toronto. Except that right now, it looks like my red suitcase is vomiting the contents of my dresser drawers across the bed. Waylon lays sprawled across the grey carpet, in the middle of the room, snoring. He’s adorable, but no help. I turn back to the bed, realizing that, in addition the packing, I should’ve gone through my clothes after the move and donated about a third of them. So, that’s what I do on a Sunday afternoon, the day before Bowen and I are supposed to fly to Toronto to spend Christmas with my sister, Jo, and my brother-in-law, Omar. Instead of packing, I go through all my clothes and decide what to donate and what to pack into totes to store until summer.
I should’ve done this when I moved in. The market was still hot when my condo sold a month ago and even though I hadn’t lived there that long, it still sold for over asking price. I’m still riding that high, ecstatic to put some money in the bank and not have to turn around and throw it on another down payment. When it was all said and done, I filled the entire bed of Bowen’s truck with boxes of books and he built two brand new bookshelves to hold the ones that wouldn’t fit on his existing shelves.
Once my warm-weather clothes are packed up, I begin carting them down to the lower level of the house. Currently, it’s a sparse second living room, lined with floor to ceiling windows and a sliding glass door leading out back. There’s an extra bedroom that serves as an extra storage space filled with shelving, boxes, and random furniture that doesn’t go anywhere else. The totes full of warm weather clothes will go here, too.
I find a space next to a metal shelving unit and sit the tote down next to it. Bowen doesn’t do clutter, which is fortunate because neither do I. Maybe that’s why I decided to move in with him. He’s organized. Very…organized.
Everything has a place, and this room where all the extras go to live is no different. I stroll over to the metal shelves, examining the boxes and containers and extra books stacked neatly. At the far end of the shelf, I come to a maroon binder and two brown leather photo albums leaning against a cardboard box with another shoebox sitting on top of it. I lift the maroon binder off the shelf and open it. It’s filled with an array of colorful, themed scrapbook pages. The title page is labeled with, Bowen Garrison, Social Studies , clearly a middle school project. The first brown leather album is filled with random family photos that span Bowen and Hildy’s entire childhood. The second one includes photos from high school; a mixture of parties, vacations, and sporting events.
For a moment, I wonder if I should be looking through Bowen’s stuff like this, but I brush it off—it’s only old photos and memorabilia. I replace the albums and reach for the shoebox. Inside is a pile of loose photos and papers. The first is a high school soccer team photo with Bowen standing in the back row. His black hair is longer and tied back at the crown of his head. The second is a high school softball team photo with Hildy kneeling in the front row, her black hair much longer and flipped up at the ends.
I flip through the rest of the photos and papers, examining each one: Hildy and the redheaded girl from the photos upstairs, both in softball uniforms, a page torn from a yearbook with the senior photo of the same girl, and a printed news article, the headline reading, Canaan Senior Vanishes , with a photo of the redheaded girl below it. I scan the article from years ago, reading about how Evie Maguire disappeared from a gas station one night, a month before graduation. She was a star softball player bound for UCLA on scholarship.
This must be who Bowen was talking about, his friend who died back in high school, for whom he got Amy Lee’s lyrics tattooed on his ribs. My muscles tense and I feel a chill creep over my skin. I quickly fold up the article and tuck it back into the pile, flipping to the next photo.
The next few are of Bowen and a girl I don’t recognize from any of the pictures upstairs. She has long, thick, auburn hair and green eyes that pop when she smiles. In most of the photos, she has her arms around Bowen, obviously his girlfriend at some point. There’s nothing that says her name, only pictures.
I replace the photos and fold the top of the shoebox down. As I tuck Bowen’s past back onto the shelf, I remember I’m supposed to be packing. I wonder if the girl with the auburn hair is the one who ghosted him. Logic would say so, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. We all hang on to random memories from the past, myself included. Who knows what I have saved in middle school photo albums and journals from long ago. So, for now, the nameless girl will stay a mystery in Bowen’s miniature sarcophagus of memories.
●●●
Unlike me, Bowen is much more concise when it comes to packing for a trip. It takes him five minutes to pack a duffel bag with everything he needs for a week. It takes him even less time to realize why I’m staring at him like a lunatic as I watch him do it. By Monday afternoon, his five-minute bag is sitting on the floor of Jo and Omar’s guest room next to mine, which looks like it’s been detonated by the bomb squad. Again, I’m organized in every other aspect, but packing is still a struggle.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with you,” Omar mutters to Jo as he takes another biscuit from the cast iron pan in the middle of the table, “this guy should just move in.” Then he nods at me and Jo, “You two, return to the States, I’ll be up here eating butter and lard like a king.”
Jo tosses a crumpled-up paper towel across the table. It bounces off Omar’s chest and falls to the floor.
“ Or, ” Jo glares at him, “you could just have him teach you how to make them and you could be the biscuit king, too.”
“I think that would make you the biscuit prince, ” I smirk while slathering my own biscuit in butter.
Omar scrunches up his face and waves me off, “Small detail.”
“Where’d you learn to make these?” I turn to Bowen, “The last time I tried to make biscuits, they turned out flat.”
Bowen takes a swig of coffee, “Nanna Ginny, my dad’s mom. Six years old and she had me cutting lard into the flour.”
“ Oh, I thought you were going to say your mom.”
“Nanna never gave mom the recipe,” he snickers.
“Why not?”
“No one knows,” he replies, leaning back in his chair. “She kind of did before she died, but they turned out awful, so everyone thought she gave mom the wrong directions on purpose. Like, on her deathbed.”
Jo explodes in laughter, nearly spewing coffee across the table, “I’m sorry,” she takes a breath, brushing her sandy hair away from her face, “that is next-level petty, and I love it.”
I can’t help myself, I have to laugh too, as I envision Leona glowering at a pan of ruined biscuits, cursing her dead mother-in-law for sabotaging her attempt to carry on the coveted family recipe.
Bowen grins and looks over his shoulder at me, “It’s kind of like your book—bad blood over the family secrets. ”
“Plot twist—” I take a bite of my biscuit, “the big secret is Crisco. Voila! This book just wrote itself.”
“Speaking of which,” Jo stands up and takes her plate over to the sink, “have you finished the book?”
“Not yet,” I shake my head and stand up to follow her, “but I will. It goes a lot slower when I can only write for a couple of hours at a time.”
Omar sits back in his chair and throws his hand in the air, “Quit your job!” Then he motions to Bowen, “ He makes money. Family business, right? He’s the American Dream. What’s the problem?”
Now it’s my turn to choke on my coffee. “No,” I cough, “I’m not going to quit my job.”
Bowen shrugs, “Why not?” he cracks a smile, “I mean, if you’re serious about being a writer…”
“See?” Omar brushes the crumbs off his hands and onto his plate, “What are you complaining about? Done!” he declares, considering the matter resolved.
“Thank you,” I empty the rest of my coffee into my mouth, “in the future, I’ll just let the two of you all make my major life decisions for me.”
Bowen stretches and clasps his hands behind his head, “We bring solutions to the table.”
“For the record, I wouldn’t usually endorse something like this, but ,” Jo leans back against the edge of the sink, “you’re an amazing writer and someone is going to want to publish it, so ,” she glances to the side, “they might have a point…”
Claps and shouts erupt from the table as Jo shrugs, reluctantly taking their side.
“You all are ridiculous—especially you, Captain Sensible,” I narrow my eyes at her, “I am not talking about this right now!” I exclaim through the cacophony of laughter. “Moving on. Christmas Eve—what’s the plan for today?”
Jo crosses her arms and looks up at the ceiling in thought, “Dinner at seven,” then she lets her eyes fall to me, “I told Bowen he has to take you to the Christmas market in the Distillery District because you’ve never been and it’s amazing. But prime rib will be done by seven, so don’t be late.”
“You guys aren’t coming?” I ask.
“Not this time,” Jo replies with a shake of her head, “we still have Christmas stuff to do around here,” she glances at Bowen and Omar with a slight smile, “so, get out.”
Omar lets us borrow his Audi to take to the Distillery District, but I don’t know how to drive a stick. However, Bowen can, which he makes known by drifting out of their neighborhood and shooting down the highway like a NASCAR driver. Speeding past every other car on the road, Hildy’s voice pops into my head and I immediately remember her talking about how Bowen and Jay used to street race in high school .
My eyes dart between him and the dashboard, the speedometer climbing rapidly until it reaches 90 mph. Bowen doesn’t say anything, he just watches me out of the corner of his eye, glancing back at the road every few seconds as everything whips by at warp speed. I let out a startled gasp when he suddenly swerves into the right lane, smoothly passing the car in front of us. A few moments later, he takes the off-ramp so fast that he drifts around the curve, but he never crosses the line onto the shoulder.
When he turns the next corner into a straightaway, he jerks the gearshift and slingshots over the undulating pavement into a tunnel of pines, sending a wave of butterflies through my stomach. At the next curve, I raise my arms over my head and close my eyes, harkening back to summer trips to Cedar Point with my friends back in middle school. We’d ride the rollercoasters over and over again, all day long, daring each other to keep our arms raised the entire time.
I don’t lower my arms or open my eyes until I feel Bowen let off the gas. The Audi coasts to a legal speed as we approach a traffic light in the distance, bringing the rollercoaster to an end. A sharp heat hits my nostrils, the faint smell of acrid rubber and brake rotors drifting through the vents. Then I notice he’s watching me from the driver’s seat with an expression I’ve never seen before. His mouth is slightly ajar and he’s looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.
I give a faint laugh, “What?”
“Nothing,” he replies softly, shaking his head.
“Oh, sorry,” I say sarcastically, “was that not the reaction you were expecting?”
Bowen smiles, “Something like that,” then he reaches over the console and slides his hand over the inside of my thigh, “you would’ve been my shotgun back in the day.”
Once we’re in the Distillery District, it seems like Bowen knows where he’s going. We weave through the crowd, immersing ourselves in the balsam and cedar and sticky aromas of cinnamon and vanilla. I stroll at a glacial pace past the booths filled with Christmas ornaments, perusing the porcelain turtle doves and pine silhouettes covered in glitter and holly berries.
Bowen Garrison never claimed to be a sentimental person, but I suspect he does have some shred of nostalgia based on the box of photos and tragic memories in his basement. Granted, he doesn’t know I’ve seen the box and I’m not about to tell him. But in spite of my lack of urgency, he waits for me to sift through the racks and racks of Christmas ornaments to pick the perfect one.
“I didn’t know you were so hardcore about Christmas ornaments. You don’t have many of them,” he says while perusing a rack of postcards against the wall .
“That’s why I have to pick the perfect one—because I only pick one each Christmas.”
He doesn’t argue with this logic. However, he stands behind me acting like he doesn’t care, but comments on each one I consider until, finally, I pick up a glazed figurine of the yeti from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
I feel Bowen’s cheek against my temple as he leans over my shoulder, “That one.”
“I’m still disappointed I didn’t see one at Salt Fork,” I reply, lamenting being in the Big Foot capital of Ohio and not catching a glimpse of any cryptids.
He leans into my ear, “You must’ve been distracted,” he murmurs and kisses my cheek.
Minutes later, ornament in hand, Bowen is leading me by the hand toward a brick building with a sign suspended from the wood beams of its massive patio, El Bandido Destileria. I follow him through a set of doors into a dim Mexican restaurant with high ceilings and dramatic lighting that accentuate the murals of neon sugar skulls. We make our way to the bar, a floor to ceiling redwood catacomb of every bottle imaginable that spans the length of the restaurant.
Bowen stops near the end of the bar, still sparse due to the early hour, and pulls one of the black leather high top chairs out for me. A minute later, a middle-aged man appears in my field of view. He has olive-skin with a shaved head and he’s wearing a royal blue button-down shirt rolled up at the elbows.
“What’s up, man?” He looks at Bowen, nods, then turns at me, “I’m Joaquín. You ever been here before?”
“No, never,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap in preparation to hear a spiel about specials and house drinks.
“See all this?” Joaquín motions to the colossal wall of bottles behind him, “It’s the largest collection of tequila and mezcal in the country. If that’s what you’re into, you’re in the right place.”
“Oh, God,” I sigh, dreading having to make a decision, “what do you recommend?”
Joaquín leans over, resting his elbows on the bar top opposite me, “Don’t worry, I can help you.” He glances to the side and points at Bowen, “You’re a whiskey guy, straight up.”
He pulls a whiskey tumbler out from beneath the bar and sets it in front of Bowen, then he turns and hikes his leg up to hoist himself up onto the back counter. He strolls along the countertop and plucks a bottle of Weller from one of the shelves. He hops back down, pours three fingers worth into the glass, and slides it in front of Bowen.
“But you,” Joaquín turns back to me and taps his finger on the bar top, “you’ve got something dark going on. ”
His comment catches me off-guard and I watch in silence as he pushes off the edge of the bar and walks to the far end where he disappears through a heavy, wooden door. Slowly, I turn to Bowen, settled back in his chair, his arm resting across the back of mine. He shrugs and takes a sip of his whiskey, totally unconcerned.
This is weird.
Eventually, Joaquín returns and sets a dark bottle of wine in front of me, “You’re a Malbec girl,” he states, planting his palms on either side of the bottle, “pretty on the outside, but intense and full-bodied, with notes of black cherry and a smoky finish.” He pauses and then winks at me, “ Spooky. ”
I’m at a loss for words, unsure how to interpret anything that’s happening. I blink, staring at Joaquín, and then look over my shoulder at Bowen. The only thing stranger than being told I’m full-bodied and spooky by a bartender I just met is that Bowen looks completely unperturbed by any of it. In fact, he looks downright entertained.
“I’m sorry— what? ” I laugh, peering at Joaquín.
Joaquín chuckles and reaches beneath the bar, pulling out a wide-bowled glass and setting it down next to the wine bottle.
He picks up the bottle and begins unscrewing the cork, “Want to hear some spooky stories about this place?”
“Of course,” I lean forward, intrigued.
“Alright, before this was a Mexican restaurant, it used to be a steakhouse with a huge wine collection.” He points to the redwood beams behind him, “ Massive. Anyway, one of the servers walked into the dining room, carrying an entire baguette and saucer of olive oil. She looked up and saw a man hanging by his neck above the bar.”
My eyebrows shoot up, “For real?”
“Oh yeah,” Joaquín nods, “right up there, from one of the beams. She freaks out, drops everything—waves of olive oil all over the floor. But then he disappeared…” he pauses suspensefully, “or maybe no one else could see him except her.”
“OK, that’s terrifying, ” I laugh.
“That one’s creepy,” Joaquín waves his hand dismissively, “but this one is good,” he says while rubbing his hands together dramatically. “One night, a couple was sitting here at the bar and they watched a bottle fly off the top shelf and land upright on the bar.” He slams his palm down on the bar top, making me flinch, “It didn’t bounce, it didn’t wobble, it didn’t break, it just landed upright with a bang.”
“No way,” I chuckle, leaning back in my chair.
Joaquín pops the cork out of the Malbec bottle and tilts the glass, pouring until it’s a third full. Then he slides the glass toward me.
“Taste it,” he thrusts his finger at me, “and tell me it’s not your favorite! ”
Joaquín is right. Just like he said, the wine is thick, fruity, and smoky. It tastes so good, I could down the entire glass right there.
“This is fucking amazing.”
Joaquín lets out a whoop of laughter and leans back against the redwood beams. I glance at Bowen and see he’s laughing to himself, his white teeth gleaming as the light hits his face just right.
Joaquín narrows his eyes, “You know why?”
From the look on his face, I just know he’s about to say something shocking. I shake my head, smiling with anticipation.
He nods to the top of the shelves, “Because that bottle fell from that shelf up there.”
My eyes moved from Joaquín, to the glass, then back to Joaquín, “ No! ” I exclaim in astonishment.
“Well,” he gives a shrug, “it was one of four or five on the same shelf, but it might’ve been the one.”
It doesn’t matter, I’m still stunned, absolutely dumbfounded I might be drinking wine from a haunted bottle. Is the wine haunted? Am I drinking ghosts? I have no idea what to say.
“But,” I pause, my mind racing, “but, how did you know I like spooky things ? ”
“Maybe I’m just that good,” he winks at me and taps the bar top, “let me know if you need anything else.” He grins and, in an instant, he’s halfway across the bar, leaving Bowen to his whiskey and me to my haunted wine.
I jerk my head around, my mouth ajar, “What just happened?”
Bowen takes a swig of his whiskey and cracks a smile, “Looks like you found a kindred spirit.”
I glance at him a couple more times as I smooth the front of my hunter green sweater and gaze up at the redwood beams, envisioning a body hanging from the rafters. Talk about holiday spirit…
I take another sip of the wine and hold it on my tongue, savoring the rich taste while Bowen stares at me with a faint smile on his face. He sits perfectly still, his elbow propped up on the bar and his chin resting in his hand.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, shooting him a side-eye.
He shakes his head with a laugh, “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that looks the most beautiful when she’s thinking about haunted houses and murder scenes.” Then he reaches over and runs his fingers across my back, “Are you happy?”
“Yeah,” I close my eyes, taking in the moment, “I am.”
He gives his whiskey a swirl, “In that case, you know what would make this even better?”
I shake my head.
“If you say you’ll marry me.”
I give one long blink, as if I couldn’t be any more stunned at this moment. Before I can respond, Bowen sets down a small, black, velvet box on the bar top and slides it in front of me. The lid is open, revealing a cushion teal sapphire with pave set diamonds along the gold band. I touch the box with my finger and stare at the ring, my mouth half-open.
I jerk my head up, “Are you serious?” I ask in a whisper.
Bowen grins, “I’m asking you, aren’t I?”
I gaze down at the ring and clasp both hands over my mouth, “But we’ve only been together—”
“Four months,” Bowen finishes my sentence, “are you planning on going somewhere?”
I smile at him as I pluck the ring out of the box, gaping at the large, teal stone, “No…”
Bowen takes the ring from me and holds my wrist steady while he slides it onto my finger. Then he kisses the back of my hand, “I already know what I want, and I knew it long before tonight. But,” he shoots me a look, “I knew if I asked you when I really wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to handle it because you have to plan everything, like, six months in advance.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
I do have to plan everything six months in advance—at least, I used to… Now, I don’t seem to mind that Bowen decided to buy me a new vehicle or asked me to move in with him after only a short period of time. And now the thought of marrying him after only four months feels like something more akin to excitement rather than being crushed under a boulder. I don’t have to be on-guard all the time because I trust him. I can’t change who I am overnight, but being with him makes so many of the neurotic things I do seem unnecessary. Maybe I can be free again…
Bowen rotates my hand back and forth, examining the ring shimmering on my finger, “I realize you—" he starts, but I don’t give him a chance to finish.
“Yes,” I say, cutting him off, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” I reach for his face and pull him in close to kiss him. I could hold onto him like this the rest of the night, under the moody lighting of a haunted bar in a faraway city on Christmas Eve.
“You know,” Bowen ponders when I finally let go of him, “tonight played out a lot differently than I thought it would.”
I lift my wine glass to my lips, “Like how?”
“I tried to think of the most romantic thing I could do for you, and it turned out to be sitting next to you in a haunted bar on Christmas Eve, talking about the hanged man next to the top shelf mezcal.”
It is pretty perfect.
Suddenly, I remember we’re not back in Ohio, “They’re going to freak out,” I chuckle.
“Who?”
“Jo! Omar! My parents!” I exclaim, “They’ll probably think I’m nuts.”
“No, they won’t,” Bowen says dismissively, “they’ll be happy. ”
“How can you know that?”
“Because your parents only knew each other for two weeks before they got engaged. And,” he brings his glass to his lips, “everyone already knew about this anyway…”
I am rendered utterly speechless—again. Clearly, I am the last one to know about anything happening here tonight. But, oddly enough, I don’t mind.
“OK, but seriously,” I pause, glancing around at the entire scene, “you did all this?”
“Well,” Bowen leans back in his chair, “I know you’re not one for big scenes.”
“But how did you do all this? You’ve never been here before.”
One side of his mouth curls, “Was it good?”
I lean over and kiss him again, “It was really good.”
Bowen grins and tips his whiskey to his lips, “Then that’s all that matters, right?”