Page 12 of Heart So Hollow

“Exposure is exposure, Brett,” Tyler’s tone softens, “trust me, I completely get it. We have a lot of haters, too. I mean, just ask Sydney…” she snickers, “but we have way more fans, and that’s what matters, not some idiots with low self-esteem. What does the hubs think about it?”

God, I groan silently, just call him by his real name. And besides, we’re not even married. You know this…

“You know what he thinks about it,” I chuckle, “he’s the reason you even know who I am!”

“False! I would’ve found out on my own. But he is the reason you’ll be on our podcast before anyone else’s. He’s probably eating it up, cocky motherfucker…” she mutters.

I have to laugh at that one. She’s not wrong…

He can be a pillar of support and help me with a lot of things, but there’s not much he can do about the ugliness that sneaks through every so often, hidden between the words of affirmation brimming with kindness and excitement. Ugliness like the message that pops up this morning while I’m sifting through DMs, trying to find one I meant to respond to earlier.

mn44x.xx

you deserved all you got you cheating cunt. you should be rotting in those woods right now too.

It’s really easy to tell someone else not to worry; it’s only bots, internet trolls, basement dwellers, prudish keyboard warriors, just cowards who would crumble if they were ever forced to look me in the eye.

Maybe.

But this one is different, with its frequency, tone, and choice of words that anyone else might gloss over...

This is the one that lets me know that soon, all of them will know the truth.

Every. Last. One of them.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brett

One Year Ago

One time, I did an exercise where I wrote continuously for 10 minutes. It didn’t matter if it made sense, I just wrote whatever came to mind. Guzzling a cup of coffee, I type furiously, and from this fury pours forth a new character with dark brown eyes and jet-black hair, brooding mysteriously in the corner. Except, this time, I write continuously for an hour. Maybe he’ll be the murderer, a co-conspirator, maybe a hapless victim, or the twist I need at the very end.

Whoever he is, I can thank Bowen Garrison for the stream of consciousness spilling out onto my keyboard. But I won’t tell him that anytime soon.

By late afternoon, I’m spent. And by early evening, I’m standing in front of the mirror with my head tilted to the side, scrunching the cast of hair product out of my curls. As I do, they expand and lighten from dark copper to their normal strawberry blonde. I choose a pair of purple running shorts and a heather grey V-neck and pull them on, finishing with my Nikes. I pick up my phone to check the weather and then grab a black hoodie and tie it around my waist. I close my weather app and glance at the most recent text exchange.

ME (5:02PM): I’m done writing for the day

BOWEN (5:03PM): Meet you out front in 15

After waiting on the front steps for a few minutes, I recognize Bowen’s black hair as he crosses the parking lot. He catches sight of me and veers to the right, slowing as he approaches the steps.

He comes to a halt a few inches from my sneakers and cocks his head, “You clean up nice.”

He’s blunt. Another aspect I find appealing.

“I know, right?” I flash him a smile as I hop down onto the sidewalk, “So, what are we doing?”

“You’re coming camping,” Bowen grins and glances back across the parking lot, “with my family.”

I’m silent for a moment, contemplating this, “Your entire family?”

Coy is an understatement, he looks downright devious, “Yeah.”

Bowen turns and I follow as he starts heading for the road that leads to the lake. He did tell me he was camping with his family when we first met in the lobby. But when someone mentions their family, it can mean a lot of things. The Cleavers were a family. So were Charles Manson and his deranged followers.

We pass the cabins lining the hillside and continue beyond the RV site, following the road down a slope on the far end of the lake. Bowen walks mostly in silence until we come to a beige, wooden sign with “Bigfoot Ridge” painted in green lettering, marking the path to the campground. We descend into the woods down a dirt path before finally emerging from a tunnel of trees.

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