Page 58 of Heart So Hollow

Bowen stretches and clasps his hands behind his head, “We bring solutions to the table.”

“For the record, I wouldn’t usually endorse something like this, but,” Jo leans back against the edge of the sink, “you’re an amazing writer and someone is going to want to publish it, so,” she glances to the side, “they might have a point…”

Claps and shouts erupt from the table as Jo shrugs, reluctantly taking their side.

“You all are ridiculous—especially you, Captain Sensible,” I narrow my eyes at her, “I am not talking about this right now!” I exclaim through the cacophony of laughter. “Moving on. Christmas Eve—what’s the plan for today?”

Jo crosses her arms and looks up at the ceiling in thought, “Dinner at seven,” then she lets her eyes fall to me, “I told Bowen he has to take you to the Christmas market in the Distillery District because you’ve never been and it’s amazing. But prime rib will be done by seven, so don’t be late.”

“You guys aren’t coming?” I ask.

“Not this time,” Jo replies with a shake of her head, “we still have Christmas stuff to do around here,” she glances at Bowen and Omar with a slight smile, “so, get out.”

Omar lets us borrow his Audi to take to the Distillery District, but I don’t know how to drive a stick. However, Bowen can, which he makes known by drifting out of their neighborhood and shooting down the highway like a NASCAR driver. Speeding past every other car on the road, Hildy’s voice pops into my head and I immediately remember her talking about how Bowen and Jay used to street race in high school.

My eyes dart between him and the dashboard, the speedometer climbing rapidly until it reaches 90 mph. Bowen doesn’t say anything, he just watches me out of the corner of his eye, glancing back at the road every few seconds as everything whips by at warp speed. I let out a startled gasp when he suddenly swerves into the right lane, smoothly passing the car in front of us. A few moments later, he takes the off-ramp so fast that he drifts around the curve, but he never crosses the line onto the shoulder.

When he turns the next corner into a straightaway, he jerks the gearshift and slingshots over the undulating pavement into a tunnel of pines, sending a wave of butterflies through my stomach. At the next curve, I raise my arms over my head and close my eyes, harkening back to summer trips to Cedar Point with my friends back in middle school. We’d ride the rollercoasters over and over again, all day long, daring each other to keep our arms raised the entire time.

I don’t lower my arms or open my eyes until I feel Bowen let off the gas. The Audi coasts to a legal speed as we approach a traffic light in the distance, bringing the rollercoaster to an end. A sharp heat hits my nostrils, the faint smell of acrid rubber and brake rotors drifting through the vents. Then I notice he’s watching me from the driver’s seat with an expression I’ve never seen before. His mouth is slightly ajar and he’s looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.

I give a faint laugh, “What?”

“Nothing,” he replies softly, shaking his head.

“Oh, sorry,” I say sarcastically, “was that not the reaction you were expecting?”

Bowen smiles, “Something like that,” then he reaches over the console and slides his hand over the inside of my thigh, “you would’ve been my shotgun back in the day.”

Once we’re in the Distillery District, it seems like Bowen knows where he’s going. We weave through the crowd, immersing ourselves in the balsam and cedar and sticky aromas of cinnamon and vanilla. I stroll at a glacial pace past the booths filled with Christmas ornaments, perusing the porcelain turtle doves and pine silhouettes covered in glitter and holly berries.

Bowen Garrison never claimed to be a sentimental person, but I suspect he does have some shred of nostalgia based on the box of photos and tragic memories in his basement. Granted, he doesn’t know I’ve seen the box and I’m not about to tell him. But in spite of my lack of urgency, he waits for me to sift through the racks and racks of Christmas ornaments to pick the perfect one.

“I didn’t know you were so hardcore about Christmas ornaments. You don’t have many of them,” he says while perusing a rack of postcards against the wall.

“That’s why I have to pick the perfect one—because I only pick one each Christmas.”

He doesn’t argue with this logic. However, he stands behind me acting like he doesn’t care, but comments on each one I consider until, finally, I pick up a glazed figurine of the yeti from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I feel Bowen’s cheek against my temple as he leans over my shoulder, “That one.”

“I’m still disappointed I didn’t see one at Salt Fork,” I reply, lamenting being in the Big Foot capital of Ohio and not catching a glimpse of any cryptids.

He leans into my ear, “You must’ve been distracted,” he murmurs and kisses my cheek.

Minutes later, ornament in hand, Bowen is leading me by the hand toward a brick building with a sign suspended from the wood beams of its massive patio, El Bandido Destileria. I follow him through a set of doors into a dim Mexican restaurant with high ceilings and dramatic lighting that accentuate the murals of neon sugar skulls. We make our way to the bar, a floor to ceiling redwood catacomb of every bottle imaginable that spans the length of the restaurant.

Bowen stops near the end of the bar, still sparse due to the early hour, and pulls one of the black leather high top chairs out for me. A minute later, a middle-aged man appears in my field of view. He has olive-skin with a shaved head and he’s wearing a royal blue button-down shirt rolled up at the elbows.

“What’s up, man?” He looks at Bowen, nods, then turns at me, “I’m Joaquín. You ever been here before?”

“No, never,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap in preparation to hear a spiel about specials and house drinks.

“See all this?” Joaquín motions to the colossal wall of bottles behind him, “It’s the largest collection of tequila and mezcal in the country. If that’s what you’re into, you’re in the right place.”

“Oh, God,” I sigh, dreading having to make a decision, “what do you recommend?”

Joaquín leans over, resting his elbows on the bar top opposite me, “Don’t worry, I can help you.” He glances to the side and points at Bowen, “You’re a whiskey guy, straight up.”

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