Page 151 of Heart So Hollow

I finally break the silence, “Say something.”

She leans back in her chair and looks away with a devious smile. Her poker face might be stellar with her clients at work, but she’s never been good at holding one with me.

“Fuuuuck, dude!” she exclaims, tugging at the collar of her cream blouse like she’s burning up, “I’m having palpitations over here.”

I let my head collapse into my palms with a groan, but a tiny laugh sneaks out.

“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate—best friend response,” Barrett thrusts her arm into the air, waving at the closest server on the patio, “I need another glass of wine, please!”

Now I think I might need another drink, “Yeah, so that’s the story,” I exhale, dragging my hands down my face,

“The whole story?”

“The whole story.”

“How could you not tell me any of this? Holy shit!”

I shoot her a look.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Gun to the head, I know,” Barrett nods, “you’ve just never been the controversial one, you know? It’s usually me coming to you with stuff only seen on Bravo TV.” After a moment, she looks away, grinning to herself, “Colson fucking Lutz,” she sneers.

“So, I guess wherever I go, he goes. Even after all this time, even after what he did…”

“You talk about this with such pragmatism,” she eyes me from across the table, “like it’s just the way it is.”

I shrug, “That’s what Bowen said when I told him what Colson did with the gun.”

“Can you tell Bowen what happened,” she asks, “I mean, what happened today?”

“No.” It’s such a small but loaded word, and what trails behind it is a litany of reasons I never can. “Bowen warned me about him from the start. He told me I’d see him again, and he was right. Then, after Colson showed up at work, Bowen told me I needed to be careful and not get too close to him. But I blew it off because Colson seemed so mellow, like he grew up. He was nice. And now look...”

“You’re worried Bowen’s going to blame you,” Barrett says.

“Of course, he will! And what would I say to him?” I scrunch up my face and hitch my voice up an octave, “I have this really complicated and fucked up relationship with my stalker who I haven’t seen in three years because he put a gun to my head, but it’s OK because he didn’t really mean it. And today, he came into my office, acted like a psychopath, and his dick accidentally ended up in my mouth.” I furrow my brow at Barrett, who can’t even hide her laughter now, “I can’t tell him.”

“Well, we can debate who decided to do what and under how much duress later,” Barrett rolls her eyes.

Both of us abruptly pause when the server approaches and sets down another glass of wine in front of Barrett.

Once he leaves, Barrett takes a deep breath to compose herself, “Are you afraid Bowen will end the relationship or that he’ll do something else?”

We both know what something else is, that underlying meaning that dwells between the lines that no one wants to admit. But Barrett doesn’t have a problem asking about it. She’s seen people choose violence too often and she’s not naïve enough to believe anyone is an exception. And Bowen is far from an exception.

I see Hildy on the front porch of the country club, telling me about how much Bowen used to fight anyone and everyone. And then I see Hannah and her suspicious bruises, and all of a sudden, I’m not sure what to think. If he chose violence, I’m not sure who would be on the receiving end. And then I realize that in itself should also be concerning.

But still, I’ve never seen him say or do anything hostile except for giving Hannah nasty looks…

Barrett leans across the table, “I want to preface this by saying I’m not going to judge you, but I need to ask you this to get a better idea of where you’re at.”

“You don’t have to preface anything. I know why you’re asking the things you’re asking, so just say it.”

Barrett glances down at the table and then lowers her voice, “Did you like what Colson did today?”

I knew she was bound to ask something like this, it was inevitable. I know the answer, but saying it out loud is a different story. However, if I can’t say it to Barrett—someone who’s trained to respond to the most fucked up shit in the world—who can I say it to?

“Some of it,” I mumble, crinkling a shred of napkin in my fingers.

“I’m not here to kink-shame you, you know that. But it would help me understand why you’re talking about Colson the same way you talk about a flat tire making you late for work instead of curled up in a corner, crying hysterically.”

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