Page 19 of All Our Nevers

He picks up a balloon shaped like the letter N as he asks, “Why not?”

“Well, you didn’t seem big on Andy’s graduation, for one.”

“His college graduation?”

I take my own balloon from the pile, a letter S, and stare at him. “What else?”

Calculation crosses his expression, his response weighed. Eventually he lands on, “You’re right. I didn’t.”

“Remorseless too. Classic.”

Owen has no response. Seconds tick by and I start inflating the balloon with hard, sharp breaths. It’s cathartic during this rage-inducing conversation.

Up this high, we can’t even hear traffic outside the windows. Only the crinkle of foil, the whoosh-and-wheeze of each inflating breath, the squeak to tie it off.

When so much time has passed that I almost forgot what we had been talking about, Owen asks, “He told you about that?”

“That you no-call no-showed your only brother’s graduation? No. Sophie did, because she used your ticket to the ceremony. You should really thank her for that someday, by the way. She says it’s the saddest she’d ever seen him. Not that Andy actually said anything about how he was feeling, of course, but you know how he is. Or… well, maybe you don’t.” The final words are a knife I intentionally twist.

And with either feigned or genuine sincerity, Owen asks, “Really? He was sad?”

When I look up at him, his head is tilted, brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you seriously surprised your brother was sad you skipped his graduation?”

“I didn’t do it to hurt him.”

“Then why did you do it?” I ask outright, because I’m over it.

“It’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you hurt my friend.”

“I didn’t—” he starts but cuts himself off. A hand scrubs down his face. “I didn’t think he would mind. We’d barely talked for years at that point. How was I supposed to know he cared?”

“Because he invited you,” I say, cold and blunt. “And because he’s your brother.”

“I’m sorry.” He spits the words like they’re burning his mouth. “Okay?”

And even with the bar as low as it is for Owen Walsh, I’m disappointed. Either he really thinks a single sorry is enough, or there’s something he’s still refusing to tell me. So I just say, “I’m not the one you have to apologize to.”

We don’t speak again for what feels like five full minutes, each one slow as the crawling of vine over brick. Our conversation has me on edge and the tactile sensation of the foil balloons is starting to grate under my skin. Eventually I give up, extending my last one towards Owen.

“Can you tie this?”

He takes the M from me, pinching the end and tying it off.

“I’m gonna switch to the posters. I can’t with my nails and the balloons anymore. I love the look of long nails, but they make some things so annoying.”

Owen is looking down at the next balloon as he says, “I love long nails too. There’s something hot about a woman who could claw me to ribbons with her bare hands.”

I’m about ninety percent sure he’s rage baiting me, but sensory overstimulation has me taking that bait.

“Why are you hitting on me right now? You hate me.”

“Amelia, I promise you, liking someone and wanting to sleep with them are two separate things. I can hate fuck with the best.”

An indignant huff of air escapes me. “Someone’s full of himself.”

“Yeah,” he replies in that too-low, syrupy voice he puts on. “And you could be too.”