I’ve heard these words come out of her mouth more times than I care to admit, usually when I’m trying to avoid a difficult conversation.
“Colson might not come right out and say he’s fucking with me, but he also doesn’t try to hide it. But with Bowen, I feel like there are still parts of him that I don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“That shit with Hannah,” I say immediately, “you heard her at the Rickhouse. I don’t know what her fixation is with him, but it has something to do with their friend, Evie, that was murdered in high school. Then Hannah shows up at Jay’s birthday with these weird bruises while actively avoiding Bowen, and when Hildy tells me about Evie—”
“Wait, wait, wait—” Barrett waves her hand across the table, “Hannah showed up with bruises and acted afraid of Bowen?”
I hesitate, realizing exactly how it sounds. And if it sounds the same way to Barrett, then maybe I’m not misinterpreting things, after all.
I nod, “When I asked Hannah about them, she said something like, you’ve made your point, and then told me to leave her alone. Like I sicced him on her or something.”
Barrett is silent for a few moments, “OK, go ahead.” But I know she won’t let this go; she’s filed it away to marinate on for a while.
“Anyway, Hildy told me she doesn’t even know how Evie died. But she has to, because Bowen told me. It’s like they’re all telling different stories about the same thing. I don’t know,” I shake my head, “it’s just a weird vibe.”
“Like you’re an outsider in their shared trauma?” Barrett guesses.
I shoot her a grin, “You would know all about that.”
“Geez, Brett,” she laughs, “when did you become such a trauma sponge? But seriously, do you ever wonder—” Barrett tips her head up and gazes off into the distance, “if you’re so comfortable with Colson, even when he pulls shit like this, because you and he share trauma? Think about it—his sister died, he has PTSD, he forms a super unhealthy attachment to you, he has some violent, semi-conscious event, assaults you, and now you’re part of his story. What if you’ve normalized his behavior now because you want to believe he can still be a normal part of your life?”
My leg bounces under the table as I let her words sink in, “Maybe…”
I don’t want to hear any of this. I don’t want to hear Barrett tell me that Colson is too broken and he’ll only ever be a nightmare, except she would never say anyone’s too broken, at least out loud. She would also never tell anyone what to think. She’s smart like that, she asks certain questions and before you know it, you have your own epiphanies and inconvenient realizations that make you question reality.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing next to Barrett’s black Jeep in the parking lot, no closer to a solution.
“What the hell do I do? Just tell me what to do!” I plead with her.
Barrett lets out an exasperated breath and looks deep in thought, tapping her fingernail on her door handle.
After a minute, she turns to me, “You’ve never been one to rush into anything. Usually, you’re paralyzed with indecision and research everything to death. But with Bowen you were all in immediately, no questions asked,” she raises her hands to her chest, “not that he’s not great, I’m just saying...”
I look down at the pavement, nodding. I know she’s right. I never rush into anything, no matter how great it seems. Regardless, I should be avoiding Colson, but being around him is dulling the pain he caused and transforming him from a monster into something else.
And I am wholly unprepared for it.
“If someone like you came in and told me the story you just did,” Barrett muses, “I would tell them they did the right thing by talking to a professional because there are a lot of emotions that need processing and trauma symptoms being triggered by Colson’s antics…” Barrett emphasizes the last word in her best friend tone, “I would suggest putting safety measures in place, like talking to HR because of your past and maybe involving the police because of his history and the fact that he’s batshit. But I’ll leave that part up to your comfort and discretion, because you know me,” she gives a shrug, “I’d light his ass up.”
Batshit…I can’t help but laugh.
“That gives me somewhere to start, I guess,” I spin my key ring on my finger and hit the button for my Tahoe further down the lot, “at least I have a few days to think about it.”
“You know, sometimes the best thing to do is nothing,” Barrett opens her door and tosses her purse across the console into the passenger seat, “I don’t think anyone would blame you if you decided to press pause on the wedding and talk to a professional about all of this first. There’s a lot to unpack, and it doesn’t sound like Bowen would be opposed to that since he already knows about Colson and the gun. You wouldn’t have to disclose anything else to justify taking care of yourself.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” That, I know.
If I told Bowen I wanted to step back and scrub Colson Lutz from my psyche, he’d probably throw down for the best trauma therapist in the eastern United States and make sure I could live in a cabana on a beach while I did it. The man hates Colson for what he did to me.
“And I think you’re right, I was going to encourage you to be straight up and tell Bowen what happened, but—” Barrett takes a deep breath, a troubled look on her face, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea now.”
Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing.
On my way across the asphalt to my vehicle, my biggest concern is that I don’t like the idea of rocking the boat and doing anything to change my comfortable routine. Anything involving HR or law enforcement would undoubtedly turn my life into a goddamn headache.
Which is better—deal with Colson’s bullying and stalking on my own or potentially die of professional embarrassment?
I don’t get a chance to consider it further because as soon as I open my door, climb into my driver’s seat, and lock the doors, I do a doubletake and slam my head back against the headrest in terror.
There’s a black leather belt neatly looped over my rearview mirror.
No, no, no…
I don’t recognize it. But who recognizes a black belt—don’t they all pretty much look the same? Not too new, not too worn, silver buckle and leather with the perfect amount of flex…an upside-down noose hanging a foot from my face.
I jerk my head around, my heart racing as I search my backseat for an intruder. Then I peer through my windows, scanning for anyone in the parking lot. There’s no sign of anyone except for the patio buzzing across the asphalt. And worse, Barrett is already gone, leaving me alone to deal with whatever fresh hell this is.
But as soon as I turn around to start the ignition, I feel my phone vibrate. I reach back and tear it from my pocket, ready to shoot off a text to Barrett about what’s just happened. Instead, my stomach drops and my hand flies to my mouth when I see the text.
UNKNOWN (7:42PM): What did Barrett think of all the fun you’ve had?
How…
I stare at the text message, listening to my heart pound against my chest. I remind myself that I’m alone, and whoever put this on my mirror is long gone. Or I just can’t see them.
I can’t see him…
