I don’t know whether Bowen’s making an ill-timed joke or if he’s serious. How can he be serious? This is a disaster—a catastrophe. An agent wants my book and I have nothing to give her anymore because it’s gone. And Bowen’s telling me to just rewrite an entire book? You don’t have to be any kind of author to know how ridiculous it sounds to say, just write it again.
“I understand, this is really bad,” he bows his head to meet my eyes, “but isn’t this why you’re resigning—so you have the time to write?”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “because I had a finished book. Now, it’s gone! I don’t have anything!”
“Why didn’t you get to talk to Dave?”
I feel like I’m talking to myself. Why is Bowen so hung up on my derailed plans for quitting my job? The worst possible thing has just happened to me, only second to the death of a loved one, or losing a best friend...
All of that time, all of that work is gone.
I slam my palm down on the sofa cushion, “I don’t care about any of that right now!” I snap.
Bowen rocks forward and stands up, unfazed by my sudden outburst.
He starts to fasten his watch back around his wrist, “Yeah, and if you’d quit melting down for a minute, I’m trying to tell you it’s not the end of the world.”
I jump up with a start. Why is he so calm? Why doesn’t he care that my book is gone, like it never existed?
“I’ve been working on this book for years!” I cry, “And now someone’s interested and there’s nothing! I’ll never get this opportunity again! Why don’t you care?”
I’m losing it. And what’s more, I can’t handle the fact that Bowen doesn’t seem as upset as me. Not that I want him freaking out alongside me, but I need to know he cares and for his strong, calming influence to bring me back down. But right now, he has as much of an emotional response as Waylon does when he’s baking in the sun.
Suddenly, Bowen spins around, “Care?” Something strikes a nerve, setting him off. “All I do is care about you!” He thrusts his finger toward the garage door, “That car outside, this house you live in, all the money I make helps you—so you don’t have to work for someone else the rest of your life! And you’re sitting here asking why I’m not more upset?” He’s incredulous, “I should ask why you are! Why do you want to stay there when you could be doing what you want? I’m giving that to you!”
Staring at him, wide-eyed, I’m so overwhelmed that I can barely process his words, “I know you care,” I say wearily, “I just—why is this happening?” I whisper as my voice cracks.
“I don’t know, Brett,” Bowen replies with a shrug, “did you do it?”
I raise my head, pausing in confusion, “What?”
Bowen nods to me, “Did you go in and delete your file? You said you’ve been feeling off lately…”
I catapult myself off the sofa, “Why the hell would I do that?” Now it’s my turn to be incredulous.
“Stockholm Syndrome?” he deadpans.
My eyes round at Bowen, staring back at me with the same look in his eyes as he had a week ago in our kitchen. He slowly tilts his head, studying me with judgement and contempt while he waits for a reaction. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out but the sound of my enraged breaths creaking out of my chest.
My jaw tightens and I feel the blood rushing to my face, “How dare you,” I croak between breaths, barely able to raise my voice.
“No?” Bowen is undeterred.
He might even sound entertained if it weren’t for the ominous shadow settling behind his eyes.
“How fucking dare you!” my chest heaves with rage as I suck in one deep breath after another, “I am so tired of thinking about Colson Lutz!” I shriek across the living room.
Bowen takes a step toward me, “You’re tired of thinking about Colson Lutz?” His eyes narrow and he lowers his voice to a growl, “Please, Brett, ask me how tired I am of thinking about Colson Lutz.”
But I can’t ask him. I can’t even speak. So, I do the only thing I can think of. I stagger backward across the carpet until I can’t keep my composure anymore. Then I turn and escape down the dark hallway to the bedroom. I slam the bathroom door shut, lock the door, and flip the shower handle as I pace across the tile erratically, peeling off my clothes.
There’s an unexplainable safety under a shower stream. It’s loud enough to muffle your cries and miraculously washes tears off a drenched face like they were never there. If you cry in a shower, it’s like it never happened, right? I can sit on that ceramic tile forever and pretend I can wash all my problems off of me like mud and watch them disappear down the drain. I can wrap myself in its scalding blanket and breathe in its steam like it’ll make me forget everything. Showers are supposed to bring us back to life.
But this one won’t.
Because when I step out onto the tile, I see my phone light up in my pile of clothes. And when I pluck it from the folds of my jeans to look at it, any semblance of emotional restoration quickly fades.
UNKNOWN (6:24PM): Do you miss me yet Honeybee?
What? How…
I stare at my phone, utterly stunned. It’s like…how is he sending me this right now? Does he know what just happened? How does he know? Did he…
No, that makes absolutely no sense. I shake my head in disgust as more tears well in my eyes. I don’t even care that Colson texts me from some stupid hidden number anymore. It’s just a game to him and I’ve gotten used to it, like every other creepy, inappropriate thing he does.
I start tapping my screen furiously as more tears begin to fall.
ME (6:25PM): Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The Hollow Watcher
One Year Ago
It’s a surreal feeling being inside his house. And what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon?
Based on his recent behavior, I should’ve started visiting much sooner. Because that’s the last fucking time I let him get away with treating Brett like his own personal cum dumpster.
