Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 17
He tugs his scuffed brown Redwing boot onto his right foot and lets it drop to the floor with a thud, “Damn,” he rests his elbows on his knees and looks up at me from the edge of the bed.
I stop in the bathroom doorway as I finish tying the knot of my light pink wrap top, “What?”
“If I’d known you were going to look like this, I’d have just kept you here for myself.”
I shoot him a playful look and adjust my jeans. He doesn’t look half bad, himself. Then again, he looks good even when he comes home covered in dirt clods and grass stains. I think it’s his dark hair and dark eyes. Even now, he’s not wearing anything special, just a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeve tee, but the sharp, clean contrast against his smooth skin gives him an air of timeless sophistication.
“We could just stay home,” I grin facetiously, making my way to my vanity across from the bed.
“I mean,” Bowen stands up and walks up behind me, looking at my reflection, “since you’re already dressed and all…” he leans over my shoulder and kisses me on the neck, then turns and disappears into the bathroom to splash water and product through his hair.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I reach back into the closet and pull out the folded photo, dropping it on the edge of the bathroom vanity.
Bowen picks it up and looks at it for a few moments, “Why do you have this really old picture of me?”
I cast him an amused look, “I found it on the closet floor.”
Bowen stares at me, perplexed, then he cracks a smile like he’s waiting for the punchline, “The closet? I didn’t even know this existed.” He flips the photo over again to examine both sides, then screws up his face, “I look like a prick.”
“I don’t know where it came from,” I snicker, “but I know who left it here.”
It’s subtle, but Bowen’s demeanor changes. The implication that someone other than he or I was in the bedroom closet puts him on alert.
“When I got home today, I came back to the bedroom and Hannah was here. She scared the hell out of me.” Bowen furrows his brow slightly as I continue, “She said Hildy and Jay were out of town, so she came by to feed Waylon. But she acted like he was in the bedroom when he was actually downstairs. She left pretty quickly after I ran into her. The whole thing was really weird.”
Bowen’s eyes wander across the bedroom in thought. Before, he acted like I was messing with him, but now, it looks like he’s trying to make sense of what happened.
“Yeah,” he finally says, “I don’t know what the fuck this is.” He tosses the photo back onto the bathroom counter with an exasperated sigh, “I’ll figure it out.”
Accepting his response for the time being, I return to my vanity and open the fourth drawer on the right. But when I look inside, I give pause.
“Bowen, have you seen my—” I stop myself, knowing he wouldn’t recognize anything in these drawers, so why am I asking?
I open and close each drawer, searching, but knowing the earrings I’m looking for won’t be there because I never put them anywhere else. Studs go in the second drawer down, hoops go in the third, and dangly ones go in the fourth. There are three pairs of dangly earrings, and now there are only two.
Bowen appears behind me, “Seen your what?”
I stare into the drawer, unable to make sense of it, “A pair of my earrings are gone.”
“Which ones?”
“The little gold hoops with the stars hanging off them.”
“Were they here after you moved in?”
“Yes, they were here,” I pause, “and now they’re not.”
“You could’ve put them somewhere else.”
I shoot him a side-eye, “Bowen, I only have nine pairs of earrings.”
I’m not excessive when it comes to accessories. I find what works and stick with it.
“Fair,” he smiles and then shakes his head, “I don’t know, babe.”
I let out a groan and shut the drawer. Maybe they fell out in a bag or suitcase. I’ll have to check all of them later to make sure. Meantime, I open the third drawer and take out a pair of thin gold hoops. I fasten them into my earlobes and step in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom.
This’ll have to do.
●●●
The teal sapphire on my engagement ring is the perfect size to spin around my finger with my thumb. That’s what I do, continuously, from the time we sit down at a coveted table in the middle of the bar until I finally shoot a look at Bowen. I cover my mouth with the side of my hand, when do we tell them? I mouth to him.
Everyone else at the table—Hildy, Jay, Hannah, and four other friends of Hildy’s—are blithely unaware of what lays in my lap beneath the lacquered wooden table gouged with years of intoxicated pummeling. Bowen glances around the table, the muscles in his cheeks twitching with amusement.
“Hildy!” Bowen suddenly calls across the table.
“What?” she shouts back obnoxiously, mimicking him.
“Brett and I are getting married!” he hollers back over the roar of the crowded bar.
That’ll do it.
Hildy jerks her head up. Her smile is gone and her mouth agape. Jay is still talking to the couple sitting next to him. Hannah, however, is staring at Bowen. Her mouth is half open and she’s so still that I can see each breath she takes as her chest rises and falls between the plunging neckline of her blue blouse.
Hildy slams her palm down and leans across the table, a wild look in her eyes, “What?”
I clasp my hands over my mouth as I stifle a laugh. Hildy studies my face for a moment before something catches her eye. Her jaw drops as she zeroes in on the teal sapphire with the gold band.
She smacks Jay in the arm, “She has a ring!” Hildy shouts at him.
Jay flinches and shoots her an annoyed look.
“She has a ring!” Hildy repeats, pointing across the table at me.
Jay follows her direction and slowly raises his eyebrows when he sees it.
“Oh my god!” Hildy shrieks and leaps from her seat. She runs around the table and throws her arms around me, collapsing onto my lap, “Let me see!”
I lift my hand and Hildy grabs it, jerking my finger up to her eye. She scoffs in surprise and goes silent. Her face relaxes as she examines the ring, rotating my finger from side to side. After a minute, she gently sets my hand back down, speechless. It’s not like her. Usually, she’s yelling something in a dramatic display—positive or negative doesn’t matter. Now, she’s looking at me like she has no clue what to say.
“Are you OK?” I chuckle.
“Yeah!” she chirps, finding her voice, “I’m just like…wow!” She rubs her fingers across her hairline, “Congratulations!”
Hildy throws her arms around my shoulders and it feels like I’m being squeezed by a python. She lingers there, not letting go, and when I glance at Bowen over Hildy’s shoulder, he just gives a shrug. Apparently, he also didn’t expect Hildy to be so overwhelmed with emotion.
Hildy reaches across the table for her glass and downs the rest of her beer. She suddenly straightens up, her eyebrows arching like she’s just thought of something. She smacks her palm on the table again to get everyone’s attention as she swallows.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on!” She waves her hands over the table, “So, when’s the big day?”
“Well…” I begin, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“She has to finish writing her book first,” Bowen interjects, “it’s a whole dowry thing. She sells the book, makes millions, and pays me back for helping her level up.”
“Yes,” I roll my eyes so far back I think they’re going to detach from my head, “exactly.”
Then I glance across the table at Hannah. She hasn’t said a word since Bowen made his announcement. She gazes around the bar, stone faced, for a few minutes before grabbing her coat and her purse. She stands up and leaves, making her way to the front and hurrying past the bouncers at the glass doors.
For a moment I think she left, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. I can see her through the front window, leaning against one of the columns under the overhang and lighting up a cigarette.
“Oh, hey!” I pat Hildy’s arm, “I was going to ask you something.”
Hildy looks relieved for me to change the subject, having finally composed herself.
“Did you ask Hannah to stop by the house today to take care of Waylon?”
“Mm, no,” Hildy shakes her head, “she came over and fed our dogs today because we stayed last night at Jay’s grandparents. But you all got back yesterday, right? Oh, God,” her eyes bug out in alarm, “was I supposed to come by today?”
“No, no, no!” I laugh, shaking my head, “We came back yesterday. I must’ve overheard her talking about your house and I just got confused.”
Relief washes over her face and she seems satisfied with that answer.
Bowen turns his attention back to us and smacks Hildy on the back, “What do you guys want—another beer? A shot? A Xanax?”
Hildy sniffs and takes a deep breath as she rises from my lap, “I’ll go with you,” she says as she shoves Bowen in the shoulder and follows him to the bar.
He and Hildy stand at the bar for a minute while the bartender sets down drinks in front of them. Bowen says something to Hildy and she starts gathering the bottles in her hands while he turns and heads in the other direction toward the restrooms. But instead of turning down the hallway, he veers to the right along the front windows and disappears out the glass doors. I scan the windows, following him until he stops in front of Hannah. She must be on her second cigarette by now. I crane my neck to see them through the crowd as Bowen says something to her and she looks up at him with a pained expression, one hand clasping the front of her long camel peacoat closed.
I stand up and walk in the same direction, weaving through the crowd until I get to the restrooms. I stop at the hallway, lingering next to the window, concealed by the crowd. Despite her frosty response, Hannah isn’t too offended to not stub out her cigarette on the concrete and follow Bowen across the parking lot. From my vantage point, I can see them walk between two cars and stop next to Hannah’s vehicle. Or, rather, I can see Bowen stop next to her vehicle. Hannah’s standing opposite Bowen, but she’s too short for me to see past the back hatch. It’s dim, but there’s enough residual light from the parking lot for me to see that Bowen is speaking.
It plays out like a silent movie; Hannah’s facing away from me and he’s standing opposite to her so I can see his face but not hers. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I see his mouth moving. The first minute, Bowen looks calm, but serious. However, with each passing second, his face changes, becoming more and more irate. It’s around this time I wish I could read lips.
Bowen glares at Hannah, his mouth moving faster and faster. He throws his head to the side, leans forward as he speaks, and furrows his brow in disdain. In a way, he doesn’t look like himself. I’ve never seen Bowen angry at anyone. Granted, I don’t mind so much right now because I hope he’s letting her have it for sneaking around our house. I don’t know what Hannah is saying, only that she’s shaking her head and seems to be brushing off his aggressive posture.
Finally, the conversation appears to wind down. Bowen scowls at her in silence for a few moments and then says something quickly, nodding toward the bar. When Hannah turns around, her face is a chaotic mixture of contempt and distress. She storms back across the parking lot, her hands shoved in her coat pockets. Bowen follows her at a distance, and as he gets closer, I notice his demeanor changes again. He strolls across the asphalt like nothing happened, looking the same as when he left our table.
I wait for both of them to sit back down before I return. When I sit down next to Bowen, he slides one of the beers in front of me and raises his glass. I pick it up and clink the edge of mine against his before he downs a quarter of the glass.
I raise my eyebrows and lean against his shoulder, “Are you OK?” I chuckle.
Bowen drapes his arm around my neck, pulling me closer, “Don’t I look OK?” He flashes a smile.
I glance across the table at Hannah, now immersed in conversation with Hildy, “You do now.”
Bowen knows immediately who I’m referring to, but he’s unaware I saw what happened in the parking lot.
He settles his sights on Hannah and he raises his voice, “She’s acting like a fucking baby and needs to grow up.” He’s looking at her, but speaking to me.
My muscles tense, anticipating an awkward moment that never comes. Even if Hannah did hear Bowen’s snipe, she doesn’t let it show.
Bowen turns back to me, his mouth curling into a half-smile, “I told you I’d figure it out.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brett
Present
“How was writing the book?” Judy flips through the pages in her lap, “This is a huge accomplishment.”
I promised her I’d bring her a copy. It’s not published, it’s only a manuscript, but I thought if she can read it, she’ll understand some things about me that I don’t know how to put into words—things I’m still discovering about myself. It’s technically fiction, but there are always kernels of truth hidden between the lines. Always…
“It actually didn’t take me as long to write as I thought it would. One day, it hit me like I just needed to do it. And once I started, I just kept writing as long as the words flowed.”
“How did it feel to finish it?” Judy glances up, “How does it feel now to see your story on actual pages in front of you?”
“I already know what it feels like to finish writing a book…” I trail off with a hint of sadness, “but now it feels weird, like I’m so happy it’s done, but I’m scared of what happens next.”
“Are you afraid of what will happen when people read it?”
“Yes…” I nod apprehensively, “this is what I’ve wanted my entire life, but it comes with a price. I can’t have my dream without the nightmare. And that…” I pause, scrunching my face up in frustration.
“Is really fucked up?” Judy finishes my sentence.
“Yes!” I explode in anger. “Why do I have to deal with all this shit after the fact? Why does that motherfucker get to wreck people’s lives and just go on like nothing happened?” I shout, flipping my hand through the air. “Why does he get to forget everything?”
“No, no, no, no…” Judy immediately drops the papers and raises one hand to stop me. Then she points her mauve fingernail straight at me, “He has not forgotten you,” her eyes bore into me from across the coffee table, “and he will never forget you.”
●●●
Episode 186: Brett Sorensen
The Spice Ghouls Pod
June 22 ∙ 42 min 41 sec
00:21:06
SYDNEY: So, we all know no matter how many fans you have, there will always be haters out there.
TYLER: Welcome to the club…
SYDNEY: What do you say to the people who think you’re romanticizing toxic masculinity and violence against women?
BRETT: Is that because Gage’s character is supposed to be hot?
SYDNEY: I’m sure.
TYLER: And then you immediately ruin their lives when he turns out to be the villain…
(LAUGHTER)
BRETT: I get it, it’s not fair. But I think it’s important to differentiate between romanticizing something and merely writing about it. Abusers romanticize themselves all the time. They don’t need help from me.
SYDNEY: Yes…
BRETT: For me, it’s all about intent. I have to show you why things happened the way they did. And the truth is, they wouldn’t have happened if Gage’s character wasn’t extremely appealing at first. I’d also ask the skeptics whether they’ve met anyone who’s endured narcissistic abuse. I think society still has this image of a villain that doesn’t jive with reality. Think about it—a serial killer doesn’t get away with their crimes because they look like Freddy with knives for fingers lurking in the bushes. They get away with it because they look like everyone else, maybe even better. They’re attractive, smart, charismatic, and they can blend in with their surroundings. But it’s hard to wrap our minds around it because we don’t want to believe we can be tricked.
TYLER: Hellooo, Ted Bundy, party of one…
SYDNEY: Isn’t that what frightens people—this concept that someone close to you can be so dark and you might never know it?
BRETT: And you know what’s worse? Sociopaths are notoriously good in bed.
(LAUGHTER)
SYDNEY: What?
TYLER: Seriously? Like, for real?
BRETT: Fact. It goes with the charade, to draw you in.
TYLER: Are you telling me I might’ve already slept with a serial killer?
BRETT: I didn’t say everyone who’s good in bed or even anyone who’s a sociopath is a serial killer!
TYLER: But how do I know? You have seriously complicated my life now.
SYDNEY: Let it be known that Brett Sorensen has single-handedly made Tyler reevaluate her entire personal life.
TYLER: You’re one to talk…
SYDNEY: Shhh-shut it! OK, we’re devolving—back on topic. Anyway, Brett, what you’re saying makes sense because if you could just pick out who’s dangerous and who’s not, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
BRETT: Exactly. So many abusers make it their mission to create this persona that the outside world sees, and it’s so carefully crafted that no one would believe otherwise! And it’s really hard to cut them loose because, when they sense you’re about to bounce, they can just flip the switch and be your best friend, the love of your life, or the best parent in the world, because that’s what you want to see. It’s psychological warfare. And it’s dirty.
SYDNEY: I think this is a good place to segue into my next question. I’ve heard from a few listeners that say this story sounds like it was written by someone who experienced it firsthand.
BRETT: Really?
TYLER: Based on a true story, one might say?
(LAUGHTER)
TYLER: Sorry, you knew what this was.
BRETT: I know, I know. Well, I think a lot of people can relate to these characters, whether they’ve seen it play out with loved ones or they themselves are survivors. The names are fictitious, but the events are real. This story can be written a million times over. I’m not the first, and I certainly won’t be the last.
