Waylon’s still in the cab of his truck, half asleep and wakes with a start when Bowen tugs open the passenger side door. With a nod of Bowen’s head, Waylon begrudgingly stumbles over the console and into the back seat, making room for me to sit. I’m still naked, and even though it’s a warm summer night, the forest feels like a meat locker.
Bowen opens the back door and leans across the seat, emerging a moment later with one of his black hoodies tucked somewhere among all the backpacks and gun cases. I pull it on, tucking my legs up into the body so only my toes stick out. And when Bowen climbs into the driver’s seat, still shirtless and his jeans hanging low on his hips with no belt, he extends his hand over the console like always. And, like always, I weave my fingers through his, holding our clasped hands in my lap as he drives us home.
●●●
“This shit’s really hard to get off,” Bowen’s short nails feel incredible on my skin, scratching my back as scalding hot water simultaneously runs over my body.
I stretch my neck from side to side under the shower stream, “I’ve never been shot with paintballs before. It fucking hurts.”
“That’s what the pads and helmets are for,” he states as he gently brushes flecks of neon orange from my skin as they come loose.
I shoot him a look over my shoulder, “Too bad I didn’t have any.”
I doubt all of the paint will wash off tonight. It’ll stay on my skin to wear off with time, much like the welts beneath it and the assortment of nicks and scratches stretching from my knees to my ankles. At least the soles of my feet aren’t black anymore, the dirt washed down the shower drain along with a confetti of leaf crumbs and dried grass. Bowen sits on the tile behind me, his knees on either side of my hips as he extracts shreds of foliage from my hair, one by one. I lean forward, letting the water hit my chest as he rakes his fingers over my scalp, combing conditioner through my hair, all the way down my back.
“You mad at me?” Bowen grasps a fistful of my wet hair and gently pulls me back against his chest, kissing my temple.
I let my head fall back onto his shoulder, “No, I’m not mad at you.”
I can deal with a few paintballs to the back. Bruises will fade. But my nerves and my muscles haven’t recovered yet. I can’t calm them down and convince them I’m not about to die. I would’ve been angry about that part, but right now it’s the least I deserve; mental anguish of equal or greater value for what I’ve done, but still haven’t come right out and admitted to it.
Bowen runs his hands up and down my arms, washing away the remaining soap bubbles, “Something else is bothering you.”
And he’s right.
“Your mom and Hildy are pulling out all the stops with wedding planning,” I take a deep breath, “but I’m not good at this—all the stuff that goes into a big wedding—it’s just not me.”
“I know it’s not you,” Bowen doesn’t miss a beat, catching me off-guard, “it’s all Hildy. She had her entire wedding planned by the end of high school, whether it included Jay or not. She’s all about the big dresses and flowers and cakes and all that bullshit. And even though she’s had her wedding, she can’t wait to plan mine next. Meanwhile, you can’t even decide which movie to watch without an in-depth analysis,” he smiles, “so, what do you want?”
“I don’t want anything big. Your family knows everyone and everyone knows them, but I’m not like that. It gives me anxiety.”
“That’s one of the things I really like about you.”
“My anxiety?”
“No,” Bowen wraps his arms around my shoulders, crossing them over my chest, “that you’re not about appearances and the fake shit that only lasts for one day. You’re more than that. You’re contented with a quiet life, doing what you want to do. You have a few close friends like Barrett, and it doesn’t bother you that your family doesn’t even live in the same country because you don’t need to be constantly surrounded by other people.” He lets out a scoff, “Can you imagine if Hildy or my mom couldn’t reach each other within a three-minute window to decide which paper towels to buy? The fucking end of the world.”
“You and Hildy text every single day…” I quip.
He casts me a side-eye, “Valid point. But Brett when I said it’s all you, I didn’t mean you should do everything. I meant I’d marry you anywhere because none of the wedding stuff matters. So, tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”
There is something I want. And maybe it’s something that will make one major distraction in my life disappear, but I’m not sure I’ll get it even if I ask. I stare at the water hitting the tops of my legs for a moment and then decide to quit being a coward. If I’m going to marry this man, I should be able to tell him what’s bothering me.
At least, some things…
“Sometimes I feel like there are pieces missing from you.”
“Which pieces?”
“When I met you, I felt like I’d been searching for something for a really long time and I finally found it. Except, at the same time, I didn’t really know I was searching for anything. At first, you had this really dark, mysterious vibe going on and it was really exciting…” I hesitate, unsure of how to ask what I want to know, “but there are things that have happened, things you’ve said, and things Hildy and Hannah have said that make it seem like there’s something that no one wants to talk about.”
Bowen listens to me with calm consideration, “Like what?”
“Like why does Hannah act like she’s obsessed with you, but she showed up to Jay’s birthday with bruises all over her and acted like she was afraid of you?”
Bowen shoots me a knowing look, “Because I told her to leave you alone.”
“You don’t know where she got the bruises?”
His eyes wander across the tile, until they finally settle back on me, “I don’t know what’s going on with Hannah, but I don’t need to give her bruises to convince her to listen to me. If she said something bitchy to you, it’s because she knows she’ll never measure up. That’s just what she does. But I’m used to it, so I should’ve said something to her a long time ago before she started bothering you this much, so that’s my fault.” He rests his chin on my shoulder, “What else do you want to know?”
Ask him. Just ask him.
“Why does Hildy say she doesn’t know how your friend, Evie, died?”
Bowen blinks, pausing for a moment before tipping his head back to look at me, “What do you mean?”
“She was telling me the story about Evie and, at the end, she said she didn’t even know how Evie died. But that’s impossible because you told me. And when I told her that, she got really upset and said that you didn’t know shit about it.”
Bowen pauses, and then bows his head and presses his lips to my shoulder, “It’s the same reason I need to remember what Colson did to you.”
When he says Colson’s name out loud, it sends a jolt through my chest. I’m not expecting it, and for some reason it makes me really uncomfortable.
“What do you mean?” I ask with apprehension.
“You want things to be normal again—whatever that means. So, you try to look past people’s flaws and ignore things that should make you uncomfortable. That’s what Hildy does. Except, with Evie, she’s totally blocked it out and doesn’t remember that part.”
“She’s just repressed all of it?”
