BOWEN (5:10PM): What are you waiting for??
I could send it, it’s in the cloud. I could send it right now, but I feel the need to read through it one last time. After spending so much time making sure the first two chapters were perfect, I was too exhausted to continue when I didn’t even know if anyone would want to read it.
ME (5:12PM): I should read it one more time. I’ll do it tonight and send it tomorrow!
While packing up my tote, part of me wishes Colson would walk by. I don’t want to go find him. I don’t even want to IM or text him because I also can’t even bring myself to think about him right now. But I wish he just stopped at my door so I could tell him that Jada wants to read my book—and represent me.
But, it’s too much.
It’s probably best I kept my door shut all day.
As I’m walking through the parking lot, my phone starts vibrating and Bowen’s name flashes across my screen.
When I answer it, I don’t even say hello first, “I swear, I’m going to send it tomorrow. It has to be the final-final draft.”
“Good, because you won’t have time tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m taking you to Brass Nine. So, drive downtown instead of going home.”
I come to a halt in the middle of the asphalt, “Are you serious?”
Brass Nine is located near campus in a swanky neighborhood just shy of downtown, and Bowen wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near downtown. The only reasons he ever went anywhere near downtown before, was to come see me before I moved in with him.
“Yes, I’m serious. I know you didn’t take your bike with you today, so you’re still dressed in regular clothes.”
I glance down at my outfit. He’s right, I’m still wearing black skinny jeans with platform sandals and a loose blush tank top. It occurs to me when I’m halfway to downtown that Bowen wasn’t dressed for any type of civilized social event when he left this morning in his jeans, scuffed up boots, and camo hat.
But he’s a chameleon; he can look like he crawled out of a swamp and, an hour later, he looks like he belongs with the attorneys and real estate developers on a rooftop bar like this one. Which is exactly what he looks like when I see him standing in front of the dark brick building waiting for me.
Quintessential Bowen, tall and dark with perfectly fitted jeans and the widest smile I’ve ever seen. At least I’m still right about him. I’d probably die of shock if he ever changed.
In a matter of 20 minutes, I’m in a far better mood. In addition to someone—a stranger—being excited about my book, it doesn’t hurt that Bowen took it upon himself to put the brakes on his mom and sister’s overzealous wedding planning.
He motions to my peachy coral drink I chose at random from the menu just to be fancy, “You like it?”
“Yeah,” I nod, thoroughly impressed, “they actually give decent pours.”
“Good, because we’re getting married here,” he says casually.
I almost spit said drink across the table, “What do you mean here?”
Bowen reaches over and runs his hand up my back, “On August 24th, show up here in a pretty dress for a nice dinner. Except, beforehand, you’ll be standing right over there, next to me,” he points to an open area with an amazing view of the cityscape, “while I promise to love you ‘til death do us part, and then some. Then you can eat as much steak as you want and drink more radioactive cocktails.”
I lean into him with a grin, “As long as you promise there will be steak,” I murmur against his lips.
No mile-long guest list, no formal gowns, no centerpieces, no wedding party—as if I even have a maid of honor now—no ring bearer, no flower girl, no string quartet…
“Thank you, Bowen,” I look down at the stainless-steel table top, starting to feel halfway normal again, “for everything. Right now, everything should be exactly how it’s supposed to be, but—” I pause, unsure how to even explain it to him, “I don’t know, I’ve just felt really off lately. Like I’ve not been myself. And then what happened with…” I trail off, still unable to even say Barrett’s name out loud without falling to pieces, “I just want to feel normal again.”
“You know,” he leans over and kisses my temple, “I do know what it’s like for everything to fall apart without warning, for people you love to disappoint you.”
I guess he does know that feeling if his last girlfriend ghosted him like Hildy said.
“But if I can make it better for you, I will. Speaking of which, I also need to talk to you about something else. Maybe it’ll help.” Bowen reaches back and scratches the back of his head, “Since your book’s been picked up—what now?”
I furrow my brow and take another sip of my drink.
“Like, are you going to quit your job and write books?” he clarifies.
To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it. I’ve been too concerned with whether anyone would even be interested in reading it to think about what would happen after.
“I haven’t sold anything yet. I would still need to replace my income before I quit my job.”
“Brett,” Bowen shoots me a dramatic side-eye, “you don’t have to replace any income.”
I glance across the rooftop patio with a laugh, knowing precisely what he’s implying.
He gently squeezes the back of my neck, “Maybe you should stop thinking of it as help and just accept that this is what someone does when they love you and promises to take care of you for the rest of your life.”
“I told you I’m really bad at that kind of thing,” I say, averting my eyes.
“Don’t I know it,” he scoffs, “but I’m not going anywhere. I’m not asking you to sign a prenup. If you do this, it’ll be because you have the talent to make it your career. I’m only giving you the extra eight hours a day to do it.”
It seems like a big deal—too big of a change for me to even consider it. But logically, how is it any different than Bowen letting me live in his house rent-free and buying me a car?
“If I did quit my job, when would I do it?” I muse, “When’s the best time to walk into Dave’s office and say, hey, I’m resigning to go write books?”
