Bowen tilts his head, gazing over my shoulder in thought before he shifts his eyes back to mine with a nod, “Give me your number.”
I hold out my hand and wait. Bowen reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his phone, unlocks the screen, and drops it into my hand.
Once I finish sending a text to myself, I hand the phone back to him, “See you later.”
He gives me a final once-over and flashes a smile, “Bye, Brett,” he punctuates my name with a wink as he turns and heads back across the parking lot.
Ten pages later, I’m forced to come to terms with the obvious. I’ve written far more than I thought I would since I returned from the hike, but I need a good mid-story scare and I’m terribly distracted. So, I do the only thing I can think of. I call Barrett.
Barrett’s voice echoes through the room on speaker, “Dude, who is this guy?”
I stare at my laptop balanced on my thighs. It’s still open, which means I’m still being productive, right?
“His name is Bowen, and he’s from Canaan, literally just down the road. What are the odds?”
“A country boy can survive…” she replies with intrigue. “How old is he?”
“Our age—like, 24 or 25?” I reply.
“See? This is why I should’ve come with you. Now I’m missing all the fun.”
“I’m supposed to text him tomorrow and he’ll come get me.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. I’ll let you know.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s camping, so he clearly likes the outdoors, and,” I try not to laugh as I say the next part, “he has these really cute dimpled cheeks, but his smile is so big that it makes him look like the Joker from Batman—but in a good way.”
“Suicide Squad vibes?”
“Kind of.”
“Right up your alley,” Barrett mutters, “and can I just say that I love that you’re describing what attracts you to this man in terms of serial killer qualities?”
“Isn’t that what we do?”
“OK, fine, you’re right,” Barrett concedes.
“He’s really fun to talk to…” I trail off, trying to articulate the intangible aspects of Bowen Garrison, “and he knows who H.P. Lovecraft is.”
“Brett,” Barrett shouts through the phone, “he looks like the Joker, knows his creepy horror lit, and had the balls to come up to you and ask you on a hike within five minutes of meeting you. He’s your soulmate.”
My voice hitches in surprise, “Why shouldn’t he come up and ask me on a hike?”
“Brett, what do you always complain about when we go out?”
I roll my eyes, knowing exactly where she’s going with this, “That no guys ever talk to me.”
“And why is that?”
“OK, fine, you’ve made your—”
“Because you always look like you want to murder someone!” Barrett finishes my sentence.
“This is just how my face looks,” I try to justify my resting bitch face, but she’s right.
“Well, clearly Bowen’s into it. Maybe he’ll bring you a signed copy of a Lovecraft book…” she giggles mischievously.
God, Barrett, you had to bring that up, didn’t you…
CHAPTER FOUR
Brett
Present
Some days, I love going into Judy’s office because I feel like I’m getting somewhere, like I’m making real progress and I can conquer the world. Other days, like today, I feel like I can’t stop thinking about what happened.
The flashbacks are rampant and the memories are crushing me to the point that I can’t breathe. There’s a cinder block attached to my ankle and I’m drowning, sinking to the bottom of the ocean when I’m just trying to make some goddamn toast for breakfast.
But today even Judy can’t put me in a good mood. Whenever someone walks into her office, she looks at them like they’re her best friend who she hasn’t seen in 15 years. Her bright smile takes up most of her tanned face framed by her sandy pixie cut, all the laugh lines a testament to how she lives her life. And she does so while hearing about the most depressing, fucked up shit every single day.
She reminds me of Barrett in that way.
“Tell me what’s been going on,” she smiles as if I’m not sitting on her cloud-like sofa with my eyes bugging out, hands shaking, and looking like I’m tweaking out.
