I rub the bridge of my nose in embarrassment, “Oh, god.”
She smacks the edge of the table and lets out a cackle, “Granted, I’m sure he’s no Patrick Swayze.”
I give a shrug and take a sip of beer, “I mean, who is?”
“Well, unless he is Patrick Swayze reincarnate, I say forget about him and move on. Shouldn’t you be leaving the country soon, anyway?”
“Not for about four months—in December.”
“I thought you were going to see Jo next month.”
“No, their contractors had to reschedule and their remodel got pushed. I was already going there for Christmas, so there’s no point in making two big trips.”
I haven’t traveled out of the United States in nearly two years. The last time I did, I visited my parents in Spain. I haven’t been to visit my sister in Toronto since before then, and I’m ready for a longer vacation. Maybe I’ll even forget this micro-vacation in the process.
Fat fucking chance…
“Did you see Katie’s text today,” thankfully, Barrett changes the subject, “about her neighbor and his fiancée?”
“Yeah,” I laugh, “sounds like she…” my voice trails off and I immediately lose my train of thought when I sense someone sit down on the bench next to me.
My eyes round as an arm reaches in front of me, sticks its hand into my plate, and plucks out a French fry. Barrett stares at the intruder, mid-chew, her nostrils flaring. I continue glaring at my plate, my mouth half open in disgust, as the arm retracts back into my periphery. We’re no strangers to overzealous flirting, especially at Calhoun’s, but hands in my food crosses the line.
I jerk my head to the left, shooting a dirty look at whatever arrogant son of a bitch just stuck his fingers in my dinner, only to be rendered speechless.
Bowen Garrison is staring back at me.
I blink, my mouth falls open, and my brain short-circuits. There must be a rip in time and space, because he doesn’t belong here, he only exists in a place I’ve left behind. And, yet, here he is, sitting right in front of me.
And he’s looking at me like he’s been here all along.
Chewing my French fry, he waits patiently to see what I’ll do next. He looks slightly different; instead of his hair swooped wildly across his forehead, it’s combed back diagonally toward his buzzed scalp, and instead of a t-shirt, he’s wearing a black polo tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans.
I’m not thinking. Maybe I’m in shock.
His mouth stretches into its massive, quintessential Cheshire Cat grin and, as soon as it does, I lunge from my seat and throw my arms around his shoulders. He leans back, absorbing the impact, and wraps his arms around me, his familiar laugh ringing in my ear as I press my cheek into the side of his neck.
Finally, I pull back, still stunned, “What are you doing here?” I finally blurt out.
Bowen shoots me a look as if I should already know, “I came to see you.”
“But,” I gaze back at him with amazement, “how did you find me?”
He takes a swig of his beer he brought with him, “You’re not that hard to find. You told me this is where you hang out.”
I can’t remember all the things I’ve told him, it was so much, but I obviously must have. I can’t believe he remembered. When I look at Barrett, she’s sipping her drink, eyes wide, observing everything intently.
“Bowen, this is Barrett Halsey,” I motion to her, and then to Bowen, “Barrett, this is Bowen Garrison.”
“So, I’ve heard,” Barrett quips, arching an eyebrow mischievously before shaking his hand.
“So,” Bowen rests his elbows on the table, glancing back and forth between Barrett and I, “you ladies having a good evening?”
Having a good…suddenly, all the crushing disappointment rushes back to me.
“I haven’t heard from you since last week!” I snap in a flash of anger.
Barrett nearly chokes on her drink as she stifles a laugh. But Bowen is unfazed by my accusatory tone.
He reaches behind me and wraps his arm around my lower back, leaning closer, “I lost my phone in a swamp.”
“What?” Barrett shrieks from behind her glass.
Bowen is matter-of-fact, as though his explanation is enough, but I’m not buying it.
“A swamp,” I repeat, deadpan.
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his phone, and tosses it onto the table. The black and orange case looks brand new, a far cry from the scratched and faded silver case I remember from a week ago.
“Did you try calling me?” he asks.
I admit nothing.
“It went straight to voicemail, right?”
I never tried to call him because I was so angry. But he doesn’t have to know that. Instead, I look at Barrett, and she looks at me, poker-face firmly in place. She won’t say anything. Then I look back at Bowen, the muscles in his cheeks twitching with amusement.
“I knew you’d be mad at me,” he smirks.
