“Brett just sent me screenshots of the texts between you and Bowen,” she says disapprovingly, “what in the holy hell is going on? Why are your boobs on his phone?”
Jesus Christ. Everyone’s seen my tits and I don’t even know what picture they’re talking about.
I don’t blame Katie for being outraged. I would be, too—if I’d actually done it. Nothing about this makes sense. I don’t want to get with Bowen. I never have. Because the first time I met him was when he showed up at Calhoun’s and Brett was head over heels for him, which means he was off-limits from the get-go. I didn’t send him those texts and I sure as hell wouldn’t have sent him a nude!
“If you accidentally sent it to him, just say so,” Katie’s tone softens, “it happens. I mean, it’s fucking embarrassing, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“I didn’t!” I tell her, yet again. “There’s no way Bowen should have a naked picture of me.” Something is off with those texts. They shouldn’t exist, because I never sent them. “Katie, can you please send those screenshots to me? There’s something really weird going on.”
I wait impatiently until my phone starts vibrating as the pictures start rolling in.
ME (8:42PM): 824 Hibernia Hills
ME (8:42PM): The key is under the yellow flower pot on the porch
ME (9:02PM): (Attachment)
BOWEN (6:42AM): Barrett what are you doing?
ME (8:06AM): I’m going to tell Brett about this.
BOWEN (8:18AM): You should
“Oh my god!” I holler at my screen as soon as I see the picture of myself posing in my bathroom.
I recognize the picture immediately, and I remember exactly why I took it. I was going to send it to Anna’s friend, Harrison, who I’ve been texting with for a couple months. Luckily, I had a sudden moment of clarity and chickened out. But I kept it because, frankly, I look damn good.
All the same, it shouldn’t be on Bowen’s phone. And the more I stare at the screenshots, I realize there are quite a few things missing from them. My thumb flies over my screen, opening my text thread with Bowen and comparing it to the screenshots.
ME (8:42PM): 824 Hibernia Hills
ME (8:42PM): The key is under the yellow flower pot on the porch
BOWEN (6:42AM): Barrett what are you doing?
BOWEN (7:26AM): Your outlet’s fixed
ME (7:28AM): Thanks. I appreciate you coming over, but you shouldn’t have been hanging out in my kitchen in the dark and then prevented me from leaving when I had basically no clothes on. And you trying to touch me wasn’t cool, either.
BOWEN (7:31AM): You know I’d never try to make you uncomfortable.
ME (7:52AM): And why were you asking me weird questions about Brett and Colson?
BOWEN (8:01AM): Because I know you’re lying to me
ME (8:05AM): I’m not aware of anything going on. But if you’re worried about Colson, you need to talk to her about it, not me.
ME (8:06AM): I’m going to tell Brett about this.
BOWEN (8:18AM): You should
I’ll lie to Bowen all day, because he’s not my best friend—a fact that was conveniently erased from our conversation. No wonder Brett thinks I’m a lying sack of shit. But how…
Then it hits me while I stare at the time stamp above the picture. I know what he did. I know what he fucking did. He had my phone that one evening. He could see anything he wanted, send anything he wanted, and erase anything he wanted…
And now all I can think about is Brett telling me about Hannah and how she’s afraid of Bowen now. I should’ve pressed, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to seem overprotective, but I should have. Some people might’ve glossed over everything and given him the benefit of the doubt.
“I didn’t see it happen.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t have proof.”
But I have seen it, all too often. I’ve seen what happens when people ignore the signs. People aren’t resilient; they do what they need to survive and later the trauma comes out in my office in the form of anxiety, attachment disorders, and post-traumatic stress.
And now Brett’s in that house, with Bowen, and there’s no way for me to know if she’s OK. I have to get her to talk to me, I have to warn her before it’s too late, and I won’t stop until I do.
●●●
Emotions are high and I have a wedding to attend in Detroit over the weekend, so I decide to let the dust settle more before trying to reach out again. But it seems I don’t have to, because Tuesday afternoon, I get a text from Brett.
BRETT (3:48PM): I need you.
I stare at it for the longest time. Such a short phrase, but its placement in the midst of such chaos gives it more meaning than any other three words strung together.
ME (3:59PM): I’ll be home by 5:15
Brett’s on my porch at 5:00. When I glance out the peephole, she looks completely normal. But when I open the door, she suddenly deflates and doesn’t even look like herself. Her face is puffy and she looks exhausted. She’s lugging a tote and a duffel bag that looks like it’s stuffed to the gills.
