Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 41
Barrett casts me a faint smile, “Are you aware of how much emotional labor you do for this guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Years ago, you accepted him for all his flaws—and believe me, they’re major flaws—and now, after trying to move on with your life after his…episode, he shows up out of nowhere and you give him a lot of leeway with tamping down your emotions, acting like everything is normal at work, giving him a chance to be a normal person when he finally does speak to you, and now you’re stressing about what you should do to maintain the status quo after he has the audacity to throw a wrench in everything and do this. That’s pretty manipulative of him, don’t you think?”
“Which part?”
Barrett sets down her drink, “All of it! I’m talking about how he only says or does things he knows will upset you when you literally can’t walk away. Like all that stuff he told you in the car, how he chose to chronicle his entire stalking history while he was balls-deep inside you, and then doing whatever the hell that was in your office today.”
“He’s totally manipulative. And what the hell kind of basis is that for any relationship?” I sit back in my chair, twisting my beige hair tie through my fingers, “You know what’s funny? Sometimes I think Bowen and Colson are the same person.”
“Really?” Barrett scrunches up her face, “How?”
“Tangible things like how they both have one sister—now, at least—they both carry guns every day for work, which is maddening, they’re both surly, tatted up, and they both even used to street race.”
Barrett gives a laugh, “I think that just means you have a type.”
“But it’s other things, too,” I continue, “they have the same mannerisms and talk in similar terms, with this decisiveness and hyper loyalty that borders on possessiveness. And it seems like they’re both constantly one step ahead of everyone, like they both live or die by anticipating and planning their next move.”
“OK, well that is fucking weird,” Barrett shrugs, “but after you’ve explained everything, it makes total sense why you’re with Bowen,” Barrett ponders while gazing into the fading sunlight, “you found all the qualities you liked in Colson when you met Bowen. Except Bowen does it better. He’s just unhinged enough not to be boring, but he’s also stable with a career, a house, and a dog on 50 acres he wants to share with you. He buys you a car, he’s supportive of your writing, and he embodies everything you wanted in Colson, except he doesn’t have a history of stalking and hasn’t tried to murder you. And that’s why when Bowen asked you to marry him after only a few months, you said yes because you found a better, socially acceptable version of Colson.”
Her observations hit me like a freight train. I always had the feeling, but I didn’t realize I was on a subconscious search for the uncanny characteristics that embody Colson Lutz.
“You’re right. You’re right about all of it. But here’s the thing,” I hesitate for a moment, deciding whether to even elaborate, “Colson’s honest to a fault.”
“Honest-ish,” Barrett echoes into her wine glass.
“He says and does whatever he’s thinking, even if it’s incredibly inappropriate or downright creepy. Bowen doesn’t do anything like that, but—” I pause and then think better of it, “nothing.”
“It’s never nothing, it’s always something,” Barrett chirps.
I’ve heard these words come out of her mouth more times than I care to admit, usually when I’m trying to avoid a difficult conversation.
“Colson might not come right out and say he’s fucking with me, but he also doesn’t try to hide it. But with Bowen, I feel like there are still parts of him that I don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“That shit with Hannah,” I say immediately, “you heard her at the Rickhouse. I don’t know what her fixation is with him, but it has something to do with their friend, Evie, that was murdered in high school. Then Hannah shows up at Jay’s birthday with these weird bruises while actively avoiding Bowen, and when Hildy tells me about Evie—”
“Wait, wait, wait—” Barrett waves her hand across the table, “Hannah showed up with bruises and acted afraid of Bowen?”
I hesitate, realizing exactly how it sounds. And if it sounds the same way to Barrett, then maybe I’m not misinterpreting things, after all.
I nod, “When I asked Hannah about them, she said something like, you’ve made your point, and then told me to leave her alone. Like I sicced him on her or something.”
Barrett is silent for a few moments, “OK, go ahead.” But I know she won’t let this go; she’s filed it away to marinate on for a while.
“Anyway, Hildy told me she doesn’t even know how Evie died. But she has to, because Bowen told me. It’s like they’re all telling different stories about the same thing. I don’t know,” I shake my head, “it’s just a weird vibe.”
“Like you’re an outsider in their shared trauma?” Barrett guesses.
I shoot her a grin, “You would know all about that.”
“Geez, Brett,” she laughs, “when did you become such a trauma sponge? But seriously, do you ever wonder—” Barrett tips her head up and gazes off into the distance, “if you’re so comfortable with Colson, even when he pulls shit like this, because you and he share trauma? Think about it—his sister died, he has PTSD, he forms a super unhealthy attachment to you, he has some violent, semi-conscious event, assaults you, and now you’re part of his story. What if you’ve normalized his behavior now because you want to believe he can still be a normal part of your life?”
My leg bounces under the table as I let her words sink in, “Maybe…”
I don’t want to hear any of this. I don’t want to hear Barrett tell me that Colson is too broken and he’ll only ever be a nightmare, except she would never say anyone’s too broken, at least out loud. She would also never tell anyone what to think. She’s smart like that, she asks certain questions and before you know it, you have your own epiphanies and inconvenient realizations that make you question reality.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing next to Barrett’s black Jeep in the parking lot, no closer to a solution.
“What the hell do I do? Just tell me what to do!” I plead with her.
Barrett lets out an exasperated breath and looks deep in thought, tapping her fingernail on her door handle.
After a minute, she turns to me, “You’ve never been one to rush into anything. Usually, you’re paralyzed with indecision and research everything to death. But with Bowen you were all in immediately, no questions asked,” she raises her hands to her chest, “not that he’s not great, I’m just saying...”
I look down at the pavement, nodding. I know she’s right. I never rush into anything, no matter how great it seems. Regardless, I should be avoiding Colson, but being around him is dulling the pain he caused and transforming him from a monster into something else.
And I am wholly unprepared for it.
“If someone like you came in and told me the story you just did,” Barrett muses, “I would tell them they did the right thing by talking to a professional because there are a lot of emotions that need processing and trauma symptoms being triggered by Colson’s antics…” Barrett emphasizes the last word in her best friend tone, “I would suggest putting safety measures in place, like talking to HR because of your past and maybe involving the police because of his history and the fact that he’s batshit. But I’ll leave that part up to your comfort and discretion, because you know me,” she gives a shrug, “I’d light his ass up.”
Batshit…I can’t help but laugh.
“That gives me somewhere to start, I guess,” I spin my key ring on my finger and hit the button for my Tahoe further down the lot, “at least I have a few days to think about it.”
“You know, sometimes the best thing to do is nothing,” Barrett opens her door and tosses her purse across the console into the passenger seat, “I don’t think anyone would blame you if you decided to press pause on the wedding and talk to a professional about all of this first. There’s a lot to unpack, and it doesn’t sound like Bowen would be opposed to that since he already knows about Colson and the gun. You wouldn’t have to disclose anything else to justify taking care of yourself.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” That, I know.
If I told Bowen I wanted to step back and scrub Colson Lutz from my psyche, he’d probably throw down for the best trauma therapist in the eastern United States and make sure I could live in a cabana on a beach while I did it. The man hates Colson for what he did to me.
“And I think you’re right, I was going to encourage you to be straight up and tell Bowen what happened, but—” Barrett takes a deep breath, a troubled look on her face, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea now.”
Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing.
On my way across the asphalt to my vehicle, my biggest concern is that I don’t like the idea of rocking the boat and doing anything to change my comfortable routine. Anything involving HR or law enforcement would undoubtedly turn my life into a goddamn headache.
Which is better—deal with Colson’s bullying and stalking on my own or potentially die of professional embarrassment?
I don’t get a chance to consider it further because as soon as I open my door, climb into my driver’s seat, and lock the doors, I do a doubletake and slam my head back against the headrest in terror.
There’s a black leather belt neatly looped over my rearview mirror.
No, no, no…
I don’t recognize it. But who recognizes a black belt—don’t they all pretty much look the same? Not too new, not too worn, silver buckle and leather with the perfect amount of flex…an upside-down noose hanging a foot from my face.
I jerk my head around, my heart racing as I search my backseat for an intruder. Then I peer through my windows, scanning for anyone in the parking lot. There’s no sign of anyone except for the patio buzzing across the asphalt. And worse, Barrett is already gone, leaving me alone to deal with whatever fresh hell this is.
But as soon as I turn around to start the ignition, I feel my phone vibrate. I reach back and tear it from my pocket, ready to shoot off a text to Barrett about what’s just happened. Instead, my stomach drops and my hand flies to my mouth when I see the text.
UNKNOWN (7:42PM): What did Barrett think of all the fun you’ve had?
How…
I stare at the text message, listening to my heart pound against my chest. I remind myself that I’m alone, and whoever put this on my mirror is long gone. Or I just can’t see them.
I can’t see him…
CHAPTER FORTY
Brett
Present
“I know you’ve expressed fear that you’ll see him again,” Judy draws her leg up under one knee, “but have you thought about what you would do if you did?”
Sometimes I want to ask Judy what other people tell her, because whenever she’s talking to me, she acts like what I’m saying is completely normal. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know…
One side of my mouth curls and I actually smile, “You mean when I see him again?”
“Do you think you actually will?”
“I already do.”
Judy arches her brow with intrigue, “Really?”
I nod and take a sip from my water bottle, running my fingertip over the collage of stickers from all the places I’ve been since arriving here, a record of my journey to safety—for the time being, anyway, “I see him everywhere. Around every corner and in every reflection behind me.” It feels weird to say it out loud, “He’s part of me now.”
“Have you told your boyfriend this?”
“He already knows,” I say with a nod, “he’s the one who told me that he’ll never let go, that he’ll never stop hunting me because I got away.” I glance around Judy’s office, “It’s why I ended up here, in your office, right now.”
“Alright, then what are you going to do when that day comes?” she tips her chin and peers across the coffee table at me, “What are you going to do when you see him again?”
I think back to that night, the subsequent nights, the long road—literally and figuratively—that brought me to this moment. Then I think about all the fear and anxiety and panic attacks and my own attempts at exorcising my attacker who embedded himself in my head like a cancer.
I wanted to know what it felt like to be a predator.
Now, I have to become that predator—for real—and this is how I do it.
“That’s part of the reason I’m here,” I raise my head with resolve, “I need to make sure when it happens that I’m not afraid. I need to look past the fear, and I need you to teach me how.”
●●●
“When’s he coming back?” my mom asks.
“In a couple days,” I reply, wandering down the hall to my office.
“How are you feeling? I could’ve come stayed with you—or Jo! Especially since you don’t have a car…”
Apparently, the dealership is fresh out of bumpers for my 4Runner. My car won’t be ready to pick up today, maybe not even tomorrow. But it’s not a crisis, there are two additional vehicles down the hill in the pole building that replaced the old, collapsing shed. Well, maybe one additional vehicle, because one’s a stick and I hate driving stick, almost as much as I hate not having my car.
“Mom, it’s a 10-hour flight and he’s only going to be gone for a few days. It’s not like I’m cut off from everyone.” She knows it sounds ridiculous, but she feels like she has to say it anyway. She worries about me more than she used to; because of the baby, and because of what happened last year…
I also don’t have any plans to go anywhere specific. I just cleaned my office, a bright, pastel coral corner of the house with large windows that face the woods out back and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that are finally full again. There are spider plants and fronds and succulents, and gilded gold frames on the walls splashing color into each corner of the room. And, best of all, there’s an oversized cream chair and ottoman nestled in the corner between the shelves and the window, which is the most perfect reading chair on the planet. It’s also Sodapop’s favorite place to nap when the sun hits it just right in the afternoon.
“I know, I know,” she tries to reassure herself, “his sister is close by, isn’t she? I’m sure she’s keeping an eye on you.” She makes me sound like a ticking time bomb.
“Yes, I talk to her all the time. Besides, we’ve been busy with PR for the book and I just did a podcast episode with some friends, so I’m keeping busy.”
“That’s great!” she finally sounds relieved, “I’m sorry I sound so high-strung. I think you’ve handled everything much better than I ever could have.”
In a sense…
“It would be better if you and Jo came after the baby’s born anyway.”
I don’t want either of you here yet…
My mom feels better by the end of our conversation, but I wish I could just focus enough to finish reading my current book. I’d love to get lost in one of the thousands of books on my reading list. It’s the best way to get inspired. But I’m on edge, alert, and I have to stay that way, at least for the time being—while he’s gone.
All the same, I don’t like for my routine to be thrown off too much, which is what this fender-bender has caused. But I’ve also gotten a lot better at dealing with unexpected events. I find comfort in my routines, but now I’m learning to reframe and try to find the opportunities in the unexpected.
To adapt and use them to my advantage…
Exhibit A: Valerie. I met her because she slammed into the back of my car. She might just be a random person to anyone else, but now she’s part of my story. This is how I view things now; good or bad, there are no coincidences. Everyone has a part to play.
Of course, that’s what a writer would say…
Speaking of which, I should text Valerie and let her know about my car. She offered to give me a ride back into town while he’s gone on the hunting trip. I’ve been so busy with the book release and running social media PR campaigns, it’s been refreshing to meet someone new—in person.
But before I can, my phone starts ringing. I glance at the caller ID as I stir some cream into my iced coffee and answer it.
“Did you see the texts I sent you?” the familiar, bubbly voice asks immediately.
“Yeah, a bunch of links? But I haven’t had a chance to look at them yet.”
The two guys left the house around lunch time, quads loaded with enough equipment to last them for days. Maybe it’s how prepared they were, or maybe how confident they are in general, especially together, but it quelled my worry by the time they left.
They always carry a satellite phone, too, but it’s for emergencies. We’re not that far from civilization, but depending on the weather and terrain, their cell signals might be spotty at best. Not that it matters, his sister isn’t that far away. I was going to call her to go over my plans for the next couple of days, but she beats me to it.
“Look at them now,” she says with urgency.
I put her on speaker and open my texts, unable to tell whether she’s excited or terrified.
LARA CROFT (10:13AM): Look at these. Right now.
Her name isn’t really Lara Croft. It’s a nickname from high school. She hates it, her husband pretends he hates it just because she does, and her brother refuses to let it die. I secretly love it, too, and when she saw I made it her contact ID, she didn’t speak to me for an hour.
Because an hour is all she could manage.
There are no less than 10 links, most of which are links to news sites and the remaining being a smattering of TikTok videos. As soon as I click on the first article, it immediately gives me pause, “No way,” I murmur in awe, “are you…are you serious?”
“Plot twist!” she shrieks in delight, her voice echoing through the kitchen’s vaulted ceiling.
