Page 42 of Heart So Hollow

That’s inappropriate…I throw my phone onto the bed in frustration, but it bounces onto the floor. Then, in a total Brett Sorensen move, I rush over to pick it up and make sure the screen didn’t crack.

When I saw Bowen’s text, the first thing I felt was rage followed by a sick sense of abandonment, which feels ridiculous because I’ve only known Bowen for about 48 hours. But now all I feel is insult and betrayal. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.

Maybe it’s because Bowen is the first guy to make me feel this way since…Colson.

And fuck him for doing what he did. Fuck both of them.

But none of it matters, Bowen’s still gone, and it infuriates me that I’m so put off by it.

Angry and motivated, I resist the urge to text him back, telling myself I won’t until I finish another chapter. I do it, too. Room service breakfast burritos give way to two pots of coffee and a room service club sandwich with kettle chips. After typing the final word of my next chapter, I glance at the clock on the side table.

5:46.

I wish I’d brought my bike. I didn’t realize the loop around the lake would be a perfect way to break up the day. I grab my phone off the bed and type furiously into the Google search bar. There’s one Chinese restaurant within delivery range—barely. Food before man, always.

Once that’s done, I return to Bowen’s text and start typing.

ME: Fuck you. Lying asshole.

Then, I think better of it, and delete the message.

ME (5:48PM): No worries. I got a lot written today.

And then I immediately wish Barrett was here. She’s so much better at dealing with these kinds of things.

Just like last time…

???

“Juicy Lucyyy!” Barrett sings as a plate of three sliders and a pile of fries appears in front of her.

The same exact plate appears in front of me a few seconds later. I’m feeling substantially better after being back home for a few days. Plus, it’s Thursday night, which means Thursday Dinner at Calhoun’s.

It’s the little things.

Barrett and I sit among the young professionals sucking down their bourbons and craft beers after the hustle and grind while the old money sips their house chardonnay and top shelf Scotch. As it is, neither of us live for the hustle or come from old money. We just eat our Juicy Lucys and talk shit about whoever or whatever is getting on our nerves that particular day.

Tonight, the conversation is about one thing—Salt Fork.

“I sound like an absolute sap,” I mumble, still admonishing myself for having feelings.

Barrett swirls a fry around in her plastic cup of ketchup, “Shock of shocks,” she quips, “I try to hook you up with eligible men all the time, with no success, but you run off into the wilderness and come back with your soulmate. I’d sound like an absolute sap, too, if that’s the kind of micro-vacation I had.”

“Well, I didn’t come back with him, now did I?” I lament.

She shrugs and then cracks a smile, “I still can’t believe you went to some rando state park in Ohio and found a sex god.”

I stare off into space while images and soundbites flash through my mind, “Did I tell you about his tattoos?” I glance up, trying to focus on something more superficial.

“No,” Barrett shoots me a devious look.

I flash my eyes at her, “He has a tattoo of the three-headed dog, Cerberus—” I slice my hand horizontally toward my pelvis, “right here.”

“What?” Barrett leans across the table, “Did you take a picture? Can I see?”

“Oh, sure,” I shrug, “when I tore off his pants, my first thought was to crawl across the floor, dig my phone out of my shorts, and snap a photo of his dick.”

“Clearly, you need to get your priorities straight,” Barrett mutters, popping a fry in her mouth. “But he never responded to your text?” Barrett raises an eyebrow.

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