“And?”
I flash my eyes at him, “If I told you, it’d ruin the ending.”
Bowen scoffs and throws his head back in exasperation, “So, what you’re saying is that I’ll have to stick around to find out?”
Precisely.
I give a tight-lipped smile and waggle my eyebrows. Maybe I would let him read my stories if he was genuinely interested. Maybe it’s better that I don’t know him very well, then his opinion of me and my writing wouldn’t be diluted with personal history.
“So, is that what you want to do,” Bowen asks, “write books?”
“Yes,” I sigh, “live somewhere beautiful, write all day, travel, maybe have a few babies later. Is that so much to ask?”
Bowen shakes his head, “No. Not at all.” He pivots, adjusting in his chair. “So, you write creepy stories. Is your favorite book creepy, too?”
“No,” I can’t help but smile, “my favorite book is The Outsiders. It’s about a bunch of high school greasers in the 60’s who are always fighting a rival gang of rich kids.”
“That’s straight out of left field,” he chuckles.
“But it’s so much more than that, though,” I continue, “like how people are more than the circumstances they’re born into and the importance of friendship and standing by someone unconditionally, no matter how imperfect they are.” When I look up, Bowen’s staring at me with fascination. “Anyway, I read it in middle school and I was hooked.”
“Fair enough,” he nods. “You said your dad’s Norwegian. Did you go to school in the states?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say with a nod, “he’s from Norway and my mom’s from Montreal, but they met while skiing in Park City, Utah. They literally knew each other for two weeks before they got engaged. They were supposed to be on separate vacations, but after that, they just travelled around to other ski resorts until they ran out of money. My dad had already moved to the U.S., so I grew up in North Bay, on Lake Erie. But my parents live in Spain now, because why not?” I snicker at the next part, “I’m technically first-generation American, so I got a scholarship to OSU.”
Bowen gazes at me in bewilderment, his mouth ajar, “Nuh-uh.”
“Wild, huh?”
“OK,” he nods, “do you have any other family?”
“My sister, Jo, and her husband live in Toronto.” I flash him a grin. “She was named after Jo March from Little Women.”
“Jesus…” Bowen scoffs with a laugh, “are you all close?”
“Yes, I miss them and I wish we saw each other more,” I look down sheepishly, “but I also really like having a reason to travel the world.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Bowen tosses a balled-up paper towel into the fire. It flashes momentarily and immediately disintegrates into black dust. “How’d you turn into a horror and adrenaline junkie?”
“I don’t know,” I ponder, “probably because I was born on Halloween.”
I smile to myself, recalling the memories, “It was great, the whole month was like one big party—pumpkins, apple-picking, Trick-or-Treating, Halloween parties, a birthday party…”
“So, if you like parties, you like games, right?” Bowen asks.
I hesitate.
Do you like games, Brett?
A distant memory, a mere sound-bite, creeps up through the recesses of my brain and sends a shiver up my spine. I shake it off before the goosebumps can reach past my elbows. How is this happening? What are the odds?
I swallow, my throat suddenly parched, “Sure.”
Bowen tips his head onto the back of his chair, “Truth or dare?”
I gaze into the fire, unable to remember the last time I played Truth or Dare. It was probably in middle school when CeCe Duckworth dared me to shotgun a beer just to see what would happen. Spoiler alert—I ended up spraying the entire beer all over myself and choking on the foam.
I’m always wary of what people will pick for a dare, so I pick truth.
Bowen rests his chin in his palm and peers at my profile, “Worst breakup.”
I lift my beer to my lips and avert my eyes. I empty the can and hold the liquid in my cheeks for a minute before finally swallowing. Then I mull over my response for another minute.
Bowen waggles his eyebrows, “I know that look.”
Finally, I shake my head, “You don’t want to hear about it.”
“If you’re a good storyteller, I do.”
I could’ve lied. I could’ve made up some embarrassing or dramatic story he would’ve easily believed and then forgotten in a day or two, something mildly uncomfortable, but without real consequence. Because real discomfort and real drama have consequences; they can show up, uninvited, years after you think you’ve forgotten them, or at least tried to forget.
But, then again, what would happen if I told him?
Often, it’s much easier to divulge the truth to a stranger than someone close to you. There’s less baggage, fewer preconceived notions, and fewer expectations. You can’t surprise me, and I can’t surprise you, because we don’t know each other beyond this moment.
Yes, I’m curious what Bowen will think or say, but what’ll happen to me if I say it out loud? There’s a chance it could change me, but there’s no guarantee how. Maybe it’ll mute the memories and dull the involuntary responses that hijack my body when I’m least expecting it. Maybe this is an opportunity born of serendipity.
Shadows dance over the softened features of Bowen’s face as the flames flicker over the embers. He waits for me to speak, his chin still resting in his palm. I stop trying to find the right words because it’s going to come out the same way regardless.
