I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to tell Bowen.
And, immediately, my body reverts to what it knows best—shutdown.
I take a breath and look him in the eye, “I didn’t do anything.” My voice is firm and my eyes glaze over, seeing him, but not really seeing him.
I can make it make sense in my head. I didn’t initiate anything with Colson, but I didn’t mind it, either. I justify it enough to get stoic and survive whatever the hell is happening right now, just like every other time my brain’s threatened a breakdown.
Bowen’s jaw tightens, “I really hope you’re not lying to me.”
I stare back at him, focusing on his pupils dilating and watching his deep brown irises go black. I can stand here like a statue for as long as it takes, until he calms down and decides he’s finished. He and Colson have some odd similarities, but hopefully one of them isn’t the sadistic psychological torment Colson enjoys.
After a few moments, Bowen takes a deep breath and runs both hands up his face and through his hair, “Baby girl,” he gives his head a shake, almost like he just realized he turned into a completely different person for a few minutes, “You know I love you more than anything and I’ll give you everything under the sun.” Suddenly, his hands fly up to cup my face, giving me a start, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you and I’ll never let anyone take you away from me. Because you are everything to me.” A second later, his eyes darken and he lowers his voice again, “But I promise you, if you ever betray me, I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare.” He lets his hands fall away from my face, still frozen in a stoic trance, “So, you let me know if you want to stay friends with Colson Lutz. Otherwise, you should probably cut him loose before things get complicated.”
Bowen steps away from me and turns, storming out of the kitchen and into the garage. He slams the door behind him, leaving me in the middle of the kitchen in an adrenaline-addled daze, wondering what just happened.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Hollow Watcher
One Year Ago
I haven’t seen her in eight years. But aside from the fact that she doesn’t dress like a high schooler anymore, she looks basically the same. Dark hair, dark eyes, standing with one foot crossed over the other, chewing the inside of her cheek and swiveling back and forth at the hip while she waits in line. She’s still very pretty.
I’d recognize her anywhere. And she recognizes me, too.
That is, she does after I’ve stood behind her for a good five minutes in the Starbucks line inside Target. She stares off into space until the girl in front of her finishes ordering and then she steps up to the counter. She orders a grande iced white mocha and then swipes her phone under the scanner. When she scoots off to the side, I step up to the counter next to her. I cross my arms over my chest and square my boots, studying the menu board for a moment before ordering the exact same thing.
“I’ll have a grande iced white mocha, please.”
She immediately recognizes my voice. And in my periphery, I see her glance over her shoulder and do a double-take. The effect is immediate. She quickly looks back down and her hands start to tremble as she fidgets with her phone. As I swipe my card, she turns and hurries to the end of the counter, trying to act like she hasn’t seen me. And I follow right behind her.
She stops close enough to the counter to feel some shred of security, but far enough away not to make it awkward for the baristas. I stroll toward her, taking my time, my eyes locked onto her until I’m only a couple feet away. Even though I’ve just invaded her space, she’s still acting like she doesn’t see me, her eyes darting up and down between the menu boards and a girl with shiny dark hair and a purple swoop making her drink.
I’m kind of shocked she’s ignoring me, considering how feisty she used to be. When did she lose her nerve? I turn and take a stance next to her, hands in my pockets, gazing around like everything is perfectly normal. And, for me, it is.
For her, not so much.
Finally, she can’t take it anymore, “What are you doing here?” she mutters, still afraid to make eye contact even after all this time.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” I give her a sweet smile, “I live here.”
“Since when?” she keeps a straight face, but her tone turns sour.
She has a point. I don’t usually come here for groceries, but it’s the first place she stopped after I started following her today. She’s also probably annoyed that I’ve ruined her relaxing Saturday afternoon Target trip. I’m sure that mocha won’t taste as good and every piece of white ceramic and birch colored Magnolia decor she touches will be tainted by the sound of my voice.
“Did you miss me that much?” I ask, my tone just as cheerful as hers is sour, “Don’t be mad, sweetheart, this time I’m sticking around for a while.”
The black-haired barista with the purple swoop sets one iced mocha on the counter, but then stops and glances at the cup before sighing with irritation, “Oh, sh—” she catches herself before uttering a curse, “yours is supposed to be white, right? I made a regular by accident. I can make you a new one really quick, I promise!”
“No—” she shakes her head so fast that I think she’ll give herself whiplash, but purple swoop girl turns on her heel and is halfway across the back of the counter before she even notices.
I should stuff some cash in their tip jar. I wish I could tell her how much I appreciate her mistake. At that, I turn back to my target, who’s looking down and brushing her dark hair behind her ear like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She gives a huff and manages to finally look in my direction, but she still can’t look me in the eye.
“OK, why are you here?” she repeats, resigned to wait or else forfeit her overpriced coffee.
I shoot her a sideways glance, “I need fabric softener.”
She exhales with exasperation and I can tell she’d rather throw herself into traffic than stand here next to me for one more minute, which is perfect, because this isn’t over by a long shot.
“Which way are you going?” I ask, glancing around, “We can get some groceries, catch up…”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hisses, still refusing to look at me.
“No?” I cock my head and then give a shrug, “You and your friends had such a big crush on me back in high school, I thought you’d like to play pretend for a few minutes.” I lean toward her and lower my voice, “I always thought you were pretty cute. I bet you still think about me from time to time.”
She long blinks and presses her berry pink lips together. But she stays silent, compulsively picking her cuticles as she stares at her cup being refilled and mixed with the correct ingredients. I keep going, digging in deeper. We’re both compulsive pickers of some kind.
“Have you ever thought about what your life would’ve been like if you didn’t care so much what your brother thought?”
I see the veins in her neck pop and then fade, pop and then fade. They’re pouring the mocha into my cup and I know she hopes to God it’s hers so she can finally escape me. If she even thinks about touching it, I swear I’ll knock it to the floor and make her stand there for another five minutes.
Finally, she dares to speak again, “What do you want?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“I’m pretty sure you know what I want.”
“If you don’t leave me alone, you’re going to have problems. Just like last time.” She emphasizes the last part like it should scare me.
“Are you going to go tell big, bad brother on me?” I scoff, gazing across the counter as another barista with a blonde top knot pops a top on my cup, “I guess he didn’t tell you.”
