Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 12
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.
“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?”
He turns back around and continues through the kitchen into the laundry room where I hear the dryer open and slam shut.
Bowen reappears in the doorway with a clean, grey t-shirt hanging from his fist, “Do you have enough vacation time?”
Maybe? I don’t know…I still don’t know what he’s getting at. I’m also distracted by the block of black script curving around his ribcage. I never actually found out what it said. I reach out for his wrist and raise his arm slowly, tilting my head to read it.
My spirit’s sleeping somewhere cold, until you find it there and lead it back home
“Why does that sound familiar?” I gently bring his arm back down.
“It’s from an Evanescence song.”
I arch my eyebrows in surprise, “Big Amy Lee fan?”
Bowen chuckles, “Are you?”
“Who isn’t?” I grin.
It’s not a lie, I do love Amy Lee’s voice.
“I had a friend who was. She was obsessed.” Bowen glances down at his ribs and smiles, each cursive letter filling the space above and below it like puzzle pieces, “She died when we were in high school and I got it a couple years later.”
“Wow,” I say as I run my fingers down his skin, examining the intricate script.
I don’t ask any more questions. I figure if he wants to say any more about it, he will. Instead, I look up and take a deep breath, leaning back against the countertop. I should be ecstatic that Bowen, the guy who completely wrecked me and has consumed my thoughts for the past week, is standing in front of me after showing up out of nowhere at Thursday Dinner.
But I’m not.
“What’s wrong?” Bowen asks, sensing my lingering irritation. “Are you still mad at me?”
I’m thinking it, so I might as well just say it, “Where the fuck were you?” I raise my head and look him in the eye, “Who goes radio silent for almost a week after…all that?”
“I should’ve just called you,” he speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully, “but I just wanted to see your face when you turned around.” He takes a step toward me, “And it was better than I ever imagined.”
I suppress the muscles in the corners of my mouth because, as much as I want to, I refuse to let him get off that easy, “Why?”
“Because,” he scoffs like I should already know, “you have this energy that’s fucking intoxicating. You carry yourself like you’re on your way somewhere and everyone else just has to keep up.”
The irony is that I can describe Bowen with the same exact words. And maybe that’s why I’m so annoyed—with him and myself—because he has an overwhelming energy that makes me feel like I’m part of something much bigger than myself. And when he abruptly left, I wasn’t anymore.
“And, tonight,” Bowen continues, “when you turned around and saw it was me, the look on your face was like—” he hesitates, shaking his head, “nothing I’ve ever seen.”
I reach out to Bowen and pull him in close, wrapping my arms around his neck. He holds me tightly, one arm around my waist while his other squeezes the back of my neck.
“I also made you a promise,” he murmurs into my hair.
Resting my ear against his chest, I can feel and hear his heartbeat. “What promise?”
“I told you if you asked me to stay, I wouldn’t leave. I didn’t just mean your hotel room.”
I snicker, releasing him, “Fair enough.”
“So,” he plants his hands on either side of me, getting back to his original thought, “do you have time off or not?”
“Yes…” Wolfsson is surprisingly generous with their vacation time, probably to make up for other shortcomings, but I’m still confused, “what about it?”
“I’m taking you on a real vacation,” he replies, “to some real mountains, just you and me. And you can write if you want, or not write if you want. All you have to do is walk out your door on Sunday and get in my truck.”
My eyebrows shoot up, “Sunday?” I croak.
Bowen tosses his t-shirt on the counter and reaches for his phone. He starts swiping and tapping until finally he turns his screen toward me and I see my name next to a seat number on a Delta flight from Columbus to Montrose, Colorado.
My eyes dart back and forth between Bowen and the phone. My mind is filled with everything and nothing all at once. Just like when he showed up out of nowhere, I want to say a million things, but nothing comes out. He’s grinning, watching me like he’s waiting for me to get over myself and just agree.
“Black Canyon of the Gunnison.” Bowen closes the screen and sets the phone down. “I didn’t bother with the bigger parks. It’s too late to even get in now.”
I feel a small jolt in my chest.
Gunnison.
I’ve never been there, but I recognize the name…what are the odds? I try to suppress the slow drip of adrenaline pooling in the pit of my stomach.
Stop it! This is exciting. Don’t ruin it with your stupid memories.
“This one’s smaller and a lot less crowded,” Bowen continues. “It’s no Glacier or Yosemite, but I bet you’ll still like it. There are still woods to tramp around in,” he says with a wink.
I tamp down the intrusive thoughts and focus on Bowen’s face in an effort to quell the mental assault.
“What?” he smirks, “Got nothing to say now?”
“I…” I try to form words, but all I can manage is, “are you serious?”
