“No,” I lie, “I actually got a lot written after you left.”
“Oh,” he gives an understanding nod, “so, I pissed you off enough to light a fire under your ass?”
“You didn’t do anything,” I spit scornfully, “you didn’t even text me back when you got a new phone.”
“No,” he admits, “I came here to see you instead.”
“Good Lord,” Barrett rolls her eyes and shifts in her seat, “if I wanted to sit in on a domestic dispute, I’d just go visit my parents.”
I should be more annoyed, but I’d be lying if I said I am. I can barely contain the smile that threatens to break through any second, I’m just glad to see him again.
Neither Barrett or I argue when Bowen swipes the check off our table and carries it up to the bar to close out everyone’s tab.
Barrett tilts her head, gawking at Bowen over my shoulder as he walks away, “He needs to grovel more,” then she gives me a nod, “but it’s a good start.”
When Bowen returns, we make our way out to the parking lot where Barrett extends her arms and I embrace her in a hug, telling her I’ll talk to her later.
She glances over my shoulder, “Nice meeting you, Bowen. And thanks for dinner!” Then she looks at me impishly, “He should come out with us more often.”
“Anytime,” Bowen nods as Barrett disappears behind a line of cars, leaving us standing in front of Calhoun’s. Then he turns his attention back to me, “What else are you doing tonight?”
My smile disappears as soon as Barrett’s gone, “Listening to the rest of your apology,” I reply flatly.
“Damn, baby girl,” Bowen scoffs and throws his head back with a laugh, “you’re not about to let me forget this, are you?”
I remain stone-faced.
“Alright,” he nods, “I’ve been gone since five this morning, so I have to go home to let my dog out.” He gazes across the parking lot at his black F250, “Follow me there.”
●●●
Bowen’s house is set back from the road with a gravel driveway that curves around a giant maple and leads to a grassy lowland backing up to the woods. The house looks like a one-story ranch, but it’s built into the side of the hill. It’s faced with limestone up to the bottoms of the windows, where it switches to black planks that climb to a black roof.
When I follow Bowen through the front door, the foyer opens into a living room with high, vaulted ceilings. On the far left is a kitchen with a black granite island and appliances that look like they belong in Wolfgang Puck’s kitchen, and to the left is a hallway leading to the bedrooms. On the opposite side of the living room is a wall of windows and a sliding glass door leading to a deck that stretches the length of the house.
A jingle echoes through the room and I eventually see the same rust-colored dog from the campground lumbering out from the other side of the sofa. Now that he’s in his own home, the dog moves like his only motivation is to greet visitors at the door and then promptly return to his bed in front of the fireplace. When I stick out my hand, he sniffs my shoes and lets me scratch the top of his head.
“You remember Waylon,” Bowen stoops down and gives the dog a pat on the side as he continues past me into the kitchen.
He flips on the kitchen light and hangs his keys on a hook next to the garage door, then he whistles twice as he crosses the living room to the glass doors. Waylon plods across the carpet and steps out onto the deck, disappearing down the stairs to the yard.
I come to a halt in front of a bookshelf, organized impeccably with not only books, but picture frames and an array of mementos from Bowen’s life. I’m intrigued by the eclectic collection of authors; Hemingway—how serendipitous—Faulkner, Ayn Rand, Tolkien, Isaac Asimov, Jon Krakauer, Sebastian Junger…not a surprising assortment for a man.
I drag my finger along the spines, slowing as I come to Gillian Flynn, Nora Roberts, Colleen Hoover, and even a legit Danielle Steel. I raise an eyebrow when I arrive at Rina Kent, glancing over my shoulder at Bowen while he empties his pockets into a teak bowl on the counter. I laugh to myself, turning back to the shelf to hide my grin. Imagine, Bowen sitting in his truck in out in the middle of nowhere, slumped down in his seat with his dirty boots and sweaty t-shirt, reading smut.
Maybe Rina Kent taught him how to fuck.
At the very end of the shelf is a black paperback with orange letters titled, The Best of H.P. Lovecraft. I glance at him one more time and continue past the bookshelf to a wall filled with photo frames. Most are candid in both color and black and white, except for a professional one of Bowen and Jay dressed in grey suits, likely taken at Hildy and Jay’s wedding. It shares a double frame next to an older picture of the two of them. They look much younger, probably high school-age. Bowen’s sitting on the hood of a white Mitsubishi Lancer parked in a gravel driveway, his feet propped up on the front bumper. His hair is tied back into a tiny messy bun at the crown of his head and he has a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Jay is standing next to him, arms crossed, with sunglasses on.
In a larger frame is a black and white photo of Bowen and Hildy sitting on the edge of a dock, holding fishing poles. They look even younger, probably in middle school, and they’re both looking over their shoulders at the same time, the same serious expression on their face, showcasing their twin characteristics.
Next to that one, in a distressed, white frame is a picture of Bowen, Hildy, Jay, and two other girls sitting at a picnic table. From the other kids milling around in the background and backpacks strewn at their feet, it looks like they’re in high school. Hildy is sitting on Jay’s knee, resting the side of her head against his. One girl is sitting on the top of the picnic table with her feet on the bench below. She has vibrant copper red hair that hangs down past her chest and striking blue eyes. Bowen is sitting on the bench between her knees, leaning back against the table’s edge with his legs outstretched and his ankles crossed. The last girl with straight, shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes sits on the table top next to the redhead, their shoulders pressed together.
“Hildy did it,” Bowen calls from the glass door, “it was her Christmas present to me last year. She got them all framed and said it needed to look like someone lives here.”
Suddenly, the organization of the bookshelf makes sense. Hildy probably did that, too.
I continue into the kitchen, glancing around the rest of the room, “Well, it looks like you live here now.”
There aren’t decorative mirrors, scented jar candles, or trendy lanterns next to the fireplace, but I suspect Bowen’s idea of interior design is a bit more muted. There is, however, a shelf full of videogames and an assortment of gaming consoles next to the mantle where the TV is mounted.
Bowen motions for me to follow him outside to the railing of the deck.
“OK, get ready,” Bowen leans over my shoulder and extends his arm, pointing to the woods at the edge of the yard, “there’s another 40 acres that’s mine, and on the other side is 60 acres where my parents live. Then,” he shifts his arm to the right, “over that hill is 50 acres where Hildy and Jay live.”
I hesitate for a moment, then turn to him with realization, “Do you live on a compound?”
“In a sense,” he chuckles, “my parents carved off some land for Hildy when she got married and they did the same for me.”
“But you’re not married,” I point out.
“No,” Bowen shakes his head, “I think they just felt sorry for me,” he says with a grin.
Maybe it was a good idea to meet his entire family in one fell swoop if they all live one valley away from each other. I hear the jingle of Waylon’s collar and a moment later he appears at the top of the stairs. We follow him back inside as he lumbers across the deck and steps through the glass doors, making his way back to his dog bed.
“Oh,” Bowen stops halfway across the living room, “you need to take next week off.”
I blink, “What?”
