Page 13 of All Our Nevers

“My first year of law school.” I grin towards her, then try to lean my elbow on the table. It slips off the edge.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re making it home tonight, Uber or no,” Andy says, then looks towards his fiancé with a question in his eyes.

Sophie squeezes his arm, then says to me, “Yeah, just crash at our place tonight, Owen.”

“Okay,” Nolan announces, “down the hatch in three… two… one…”

I obediently raise the glass, accept my fate for the night, then toss it back just as they all shout, “Liftoff!”

And honestly? Even packed into this grimy corner of this filthy bar, I can’t remember a time I’ve felt happier.

I’m so glad my brother has this. That, even though he’s shy and stern and bookish, he’s found people who truly love and understand him. That, even though I could never be that for him, he found the people who could.

Then a traitorous thought needles into my brain. It’s unfair and petty and I hate myself for it, but I can’t help but wonder: What’s so wrong with me, that Andy deserves friends like this and I don’t?

But who am I kidding. I already know the answer.

3

Lia

Ihad hoped Owen blacked out at Marianne’s last weekend. More specifically, I hoped he had blacked out and forgotten the conversation about him joining me to shop for bachelor/ette party supplies. But when he texted me a few days ago—with all the formality of a sociopath—I realized I had no such luck.

Owen: Hello Amelia. This is Owen Walsh.

Lia: sorry who

Owen: Ha

Owen: Funny

Owen: When are we getting the party supplies?

Lia: saturday

Lia: pick me up at noon

Owen: I’m picking you up?

Lia: you have a car right

Owen: Yes…

I followed his message with a pin showing my apartment location. He gave it a thumbs up because he’s a pushover. And that brings us to today, a blaring car horn outside my window signaling the start of this afternoon’s katabasis. It’s scorching hot and painfully bright as I exit my building and approach the horn-honking Hades himself.

“Cool it, asshole,” I call towards Owen’s car. “I have neighbors.”

“Amelia,” he says, leaning out the driver’s side window. “Looking hot and annoying, as usual.”

I’m in a green pleather skirt and white baby tee, a thin strip of midriff exposed to the humid June air, hair off my neck in a large black clip. The knee-high snakeskin boots are really too warm for this weather, but they’re so cunt I couldn't resist. Meanwhile, Owen is in a heather gray button-up like a weird, stuffy try-hard despite the eighty-eight degrees of Boston summer heat.

“Ew,” I respond to his half-assed flirting. “And are you kidding me with this car?”

Before me is a huge, climate-destroying pick-up truck. It shimmers blackly in the midday sun like he drove it off the lot this morning. Or—more likely—like he maintains it through a carefully negotiated deal with Satan.

“What? Your dates usually pick you up in Beemers and Porches?”

I cross in front of the car, calling, “This is not a date.”