“Love you both!” my mom exclaims, waving into the camera before ending the call.
She does love Bowen. She said as much after the first time she video chatted with him for over an hour, and then again after he sent her a bunch of music in a Google Drive folder. And then my dad decided he loved him, too, when that music included George Strait, my dad’s favorite. I can’t blame them. I love Bowen, too.
Two weeks after I met him, I was sprawled out on a bed with creaky springs in a lodge at the edge of the mountains, curled up against his chest, exhausted from hiking all day. The room was dark and silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan and a cacophony of tree frogs and crickets floating in through the open window. We’d been laying there for over an hour and hadn’t even bothered to change out of our dusty clothes. I thought Bowen had fallen asleep, but then I heard his deep voice cut through the darkness.
“I love you.”
I didn’t have to think about it. I heard myself say it back to him in a soft, dog-tired voice, and I meant it, without a shadow of a doubt. He’s all I want and I can’t imagine being without him. A second later, he rolled over, wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my neck, and fell asleep.
And now we’re getting ready to go to a wedding together.
“Did she call to talk to you or me?” I ask as Bowen shoves his wallet and keys in his pockets.
He glances at me with the faintest of smiles and starts for the garage door, “That’s none of your concern.”
I pick up my clutch and follow him, “She probably likes you more than me, now, anyway.”
“That’s the plan,” Bowen replies as he opens the door for me and presses the garage door opener.
Every time I walk across the concrete floor, I can’t help but laugh and think how much of a bummer it must be to build a new house only to realize your truck is too big to fit in the garage. But what does Bowen care? I know it doesn’t bother him. He spends most days outside, which sounds nice until you realize “outside” also includes 100° summers and 10° winters.
He opens the passenger side door and holds out his hand. I take it and carefully step onto the side bar with the toe of my shoe, hoisting myself into the seat.
“I didn’t bring the lipstick I wanted,” I lament while evaluating my lip color in the mirror one last time, “the one I always wear, Black Honey.”
Bowen glances at me and then back at the windshield, “That’s not what you have on?”
“No, this is a different one.”
He slides his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, “They look the exact same.”
“This one’s more brownish than pink.”
“You know,” he reaches over the console and slides his hand under the slit of my dress to my bare thigh, “you wouldn’t have to deal with all this if you just moved in with me.”
I smile and glance out the window at the walls of honeysuckle whipping by. Three weeks after Black Canyon, Bowen asked me to move into his house. I said I’d think about it. The idea of selling my condo and moving in with Bowen after dating for less than two months was a bit much. It’s a big deal, a bigger deal than forgetting my lipstick.
“It would be nice to only pay half a mortgage,” I muse.
“What mortgage?” he mutters, not taking his eyes off the road.
I pause, then turn to Bowen, “Really?”
He shoots me a brief glance and then turns back to the road. I can’t see his eyes, but I know exactly how entertained he is with my oversight.
“Wow, OK,” I scoff.
I should’ve known, and now that I do, the prudent, financially savvy part of me thinks shacking up with Bowen sounds very appealing.
“Come on,” Bowen squeezes my leg, “sell your condo, save your money, write your books, get fucked every day, live the dream.”
He looks at me with the same wide grin I loved so much the first time I laid eyes on him. And when he puts it like that, it sounds pretty good.
“Let me think about it,” I nod, “seriously.”
●●●
Hildy waves to us as she dashes down the hallway carrying an armful of bouquets; peach roses and baby’s breath. The skirt of her Navy blue off-shoulder bridesmaid dress flutters in the air behind her as she disappears around the corner.
I’ve already forgotten the names of the bride and groom. All I know about this wedding is that one of Hildy and Bowen’s childhood friends is getting married and Bowen said that I’ll probably meet the entire population of Canaan in one evening.
“This is Brett Sorensen...”
Bowen doesn’t have to elaborate. Everyone seems to know who I am before I even open my mouth. Everyone knows him and, by default, they all know me, too.
Everyone.
I’ve known him since he was five…his mom and I went to school together…his dad and I used to work together…I played soccer with him in high school…I babysat him and his sister when they were toddlers…
And this is how it goes from the moment I step through the ornate mahogany doors of the country club, winding through a sea of people, my hand perpetually clasped in his. I stop keeping track of who everyone is by the time we get to the opposite end of the foyer. By this point, I’m just along for the ride.
Hildy finally appears again as the dishes are being cleared away at the reception, collapsing into the empty chair next to Jay. At the same time, a pair of arms come out of nowhere and stretch over Bowen’s shoulders. I flinch and lean away as a woman leans over and wraps her arms around him. She’s wearing the same Navy blue off-shoulder dress as Hildy, her blonde hair affixed in a French twist at the back of her head. Bowen turns his head slightly to see who it is, and once he recognizes her, he relaxes again.
“What’s up?” he asks while chewing the last of a dinner roll, not bothering to look behind him.
The woman plants a hand on her hip and runs her other hand back and forth across his shoulders. Oddly enough, I recognize her. She’s in one of the framed photos on Bowen’s wall.
“Did you see Hildy almost fall down the steps outside?” the woman snickers at Jay across the table.
