Page 72 of Heart So Hollow

“That’s messed up,” he mutters between chews.

The pasta falls off the prongs and I stab at my plate again, this time harder. Why is it so hard for me to get a forkful of spaghetti right now? As if I haven’t been eating the damn pasta since I was two years old.

“And what can I even do about it?” I stab my fork into a different section of the spaghetti pile, “Nothing.”

Bowen finishes chewing and slides his fork onto his empty plate, “So, he’s just—” he still looks confused, “there now?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I finally manage to wrap enough spaghetti around my fork for a decent bite, “just working like everyone else.”

“Let me process this,” Bowen leans back and slings his arm over the back of his chair, “the last time you were with him, he put a gun to your head. And, now, he walks around the same building as you, carrying a gun, because it’s his job?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, staring down at my water, the condensation dripping into a puddle beneath the glass.

Bowen doesn’t say anything at first, but then his expression changes from contemplation to agitation.

He scoots his chair back and picks up his plate, “Maybe if you’d told someone about him back then, he wouldn’t be allowed to carry now,” he snaps and heads for the sink.

Wait…what?

I blink, unsure how to respond. The only sound comes from Bowen’s heavy footsteps followed by the clank of his dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. A steady anger begins to rise in my stomach.

“Are you saying this is my fault?” I spin around in my chair, “My fault he did what he did?”

Bowen looks up at me and shuts the dishwasher, “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

I look down at my plate, my fork full of spaghetti hell-bent on thwarting me tonight. Now I don’t feel like eating anymore, and that only makes me angrier because this is one of my favorite comfort foods. I scoot my chair back, pick up my plate, storm over to the sink, and set it down on the counter.

Bowen glances down at my plate, and then at me, “What are you doing?”

“I’m done,” I say, my voice thick with irritation.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, as if correcting a simple mistake.

I shove the plate over the edge of the sink and send it crashing to the bottom. The plate doesn’t break, but the spaghetti is done for. A moment later, while glaring at the mess of ruined pasta, I feel Bowen’s hand around my wrist, turning me towards him.

“Hey,” his voice softens, returning to its normal tone, “you can’t act like this.”

I turned to face him, my muscles rigid, “Then what do you mean—”

“I’m not blaming you,” Bowen starts shaking his head adamantly, “I just want to keep you safe. You called me and told me this asshole is in the same building as you and there was nothing I could do. Let me just sit with it and figure it out.”

I’m still in shock that I went to work this morning and, in a few short hours, my life was turned completely upside down. And then Bowen judging my choices back then feels like a knife through my chest. It’s unexpected and gut-wrenching. I clench my jaw as soon as I feel my chin tremble and the heat of the tears in my eyes. I don’t want to cry—I refuse to cry about this anymore.

“Come here,” Bowen tugs at my waist, pulling me to his chest.

I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of his skin, sweet and comforting, “I don’t know what to do,” I sniff, trying to resorb all the tears threatening to flow out of my face.

Bowen runs his hand up and down the length of my back, “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to talk to him. What’s he going to do while you’re there, surrounded by everyone else?”

He has a point. It’s hard enough getting actual work done on any given day without someone popping into my office or stopping me in the hallway to talk about nothing. Why should I be afraid? After a year, I’m finally known and respected there. Why should I change my daily routine just because Colson Lutz shows up out of nowhere? I shouldn’t be afraid.

But I am afraid. I feel like I’m being hunted.

Again.

???

Two weeks.

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