“Babe,” Bowen calls from the closet, “come here.”
I round the doorway to see Bowen standing at the dresser. He’s holding two folded long-sleeved shirts and staring into one of his drawers. When I peek around his arm, I see my grey Lake George hoodie neatly folded at the bottom of the drawer.
I turn to Bowen, stunned, “Where did that come from?”
He shrugs, “Must’ve gotten mixed in with my stuff.” He pulls the sweatshirt out and hands it to me
before shutting the drawer.
I wait for Bowen to finish dressing and leave the closet before I carefully examine the sweatshirt. I should be happy, but it feels like a cursed relic in my hands. I know I saw it at the bottom of the tote in Hannah’s closet; there’s only one, with Navy blue block letters and a small grease stain near the right cuff. I raise the sweatshirt and press it to my nose, inhaling the cotton. It smells of our detergent and our fabric softener, like it’s been nestled in Bowen’s drawer for months. I can’t explain it. And I can’t ask Bowen about it without admitting to my own indiscretions.
Turning on my heel, I scurry from the closet and whip around the corner to the vanity. As soon as I tug open the third drawer down, my breath catches. My earrings—the gold hoops with the dangling stars—are laying neatly among the others. I jerk my head to the doorway and then back to the vanity. They were gone. Bowen even saw they were gone. And now they’re not.
This doesn’t do anything but destroy the false sense of security I managed to regain over the weekend. Now it’s Monday morning and, in an instant, I’m just as wound up as I was on Thursday afternoon after that creepy conversation with Colson—when he gave me tainted coffee.
I know he did. He admitted it, didn’t he? But that’s what he does, he doesn’t come right out and say things. Instead, he just waits and watches and revels in other people’s blissful ignorance until he picks the right time to strike. Just like he did back in college when he snuck into my room and…
I should’ve just told Barrett about it that night at dinner. But I didn’t, because then I would have to tell her other things that I’ve managed to keep nicely hidden away for three—nearly four years. As much as I want to, I can’t ignore Colson forever, just like I can’t ignore my belongings disappearing and reappearing at will in my closet.
But if Hannah actually brought my stuff back, why would she replace it exactly where she found it? It’s too…polite, especially for her. Bowen should’ve gotten our key back from Hildy, but I don’t put anything past Hannah anymore. Locks and keys don’t always stop people with obsessive tendencies. I should feel secure in this house, with a man who’s extremely protective of his space, but I don’t.
Even though I’m working from home again today, I still get up at the same time as Bowen so we can eat breakfast and drink coffee together. He’s sitting on the sofa with a bowl of cereal in his lap, scrolling through emails on his phone. His full mug is on the coffee table next to mine, but he always leaves my bowl of cereal on the kitchen island with the milk sitting next to it so I can pour it myself.
I’m looking forward to another solitary workday at home. Granted, I’ll probably still end up talking to Abby over Zoom for an inordinate amount of time. After pouring the milk, I open the refrigerator and replace it on the first shelf in the door. And, when I do, I stop short.
Next to the space where the milk always sits is a small, rectangular bottle with a purple cap. I don’t even have to look at the label to know what it is—a Naked Mango Madness smoothie.
But I didn’t put it there. I know I didn’t put it there.
I forget everything I’ve tried to carefully bury to avoid dealing with the low-key sense of doom simmering for months and snatch the bottle from the refrigerator door. Throwing the door shut, I pass the island to the living room.
I hold up the smoothie, “What is this?”
Bowen looks over his shoulder and squints at the bottle, “What is that?” he repeats, tossing his phone onto the coffee table.
“It’s a smoothie,” I sit down on the cushion next to Bowen, “but I didn’t buy it.”
He continues munching his cereal, unconcerned, “Then where’d it come from?”
I stare at the bottle and then quickly set it down on the coffee table like it’s burning my hand, “I don’t know,” I say in a dumbfounded whisper.
“Did you bring it home from work?”
I shake my head and look at the bottle again like I’m expecting it to sprout legs and jump off the table. I don’t just buy smoothies and forget about them.
“How long’s it been in there?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “this is the first time I’ve seen it.”
Shit.
Once he sees the look on my face, Bowen stops eating, “Are you OK? Why are you bugging out about a smoothie?”
Because I didn’t do this, but I know who did…
But I’m still afraid to tell him, because then he would ask who, and I don’t want to open that can of worms when I don’t even have any proof. I can’t just say that someone came into our house, deposited an unopened smoothie in the fridge, and then left.
“I just don’t remember,” I say quietly.
Even now, I’m racking my brain, second-guessing myself. I know I didn’t put it there, but it’s easier to think that than the likelihood that something more insidious is happening.
“It happens,” Bowen weaves his fingers through mine and brings my hand up to kiss it, “it’s a smoothie, not a goddamn head in the fridge.”
Yet…
But I nod, accepting Bowen’s explanation out of necessity, because I can’t sit here and think about the alternative. Not when in a half hour, Bowen will leave for work and the sound of the gravel under his tires will fade into the distance. Then I’ll be alone in this house for the rest of the day with the silence and my own thoughts, trying not to fixate on things that appear when I don’t want them to.
Like a polar bear lurking in the snow.
After deciding not to dwell on it further, at least for now, I abandon my soggy cereal on the island and guzzle coffee instead. Trying to focus on my breathing and keeping the adrenaline at bay, I let my eyes wander over the room. Finally, they settle on Waylon, chewing on a deer antler in the middle of the floor.
I wish dogs could talk, because I would only ask Waylon one thing.
Who have you seen walk through this house?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Brett
