Page 2 of All Our Nevers

On the surface, my friendship with Sophie might not make a ton of sense. She’s all sweetness and freckles and confrontation-aversion, with a science nerd heart and the PhD candidacy to back it up. I have decidedly less sweetness, fewer freckles, and vanishingly little confrontation-aversion, with a bachelor’s degree in visual arts and business, and an oversized social media following.

“Is this how these events usually go?” she asks as we walk past a wall of windows, Boston Harbor’s glistening blue expanse behind her. “Just a bunch of photo opps and spacey interviewers?”

“I wish I could say no.”

“You’re a saint,” she laughs.

“Literally no one has ever said that about me.”

“Well, okay,” she counters. “Maybe you save all your saintliness for this stuff, and then NASA gets your demonic side.”

My cheeks pull into a smile. “Must be.”

And yes, I also work for NASA.

Just kidding. Can you imagine? NASA hiring influencers would be some next-level CIA conspiracy shit. No, that’s just what we call our group of friends because it’s an acronym for our names: Nolan, Andy, Sophie, and Amelia (even though no one calls me Amelia, just Lia, but NASL is a bad acronym). We were drunk idiot college kids when we came up with it, almost a decade ago now, but if anyone ever disparaged it, I would punch them directly in the nutsack.

“Want to hit the bar?” I ask my ray-of-sunshine best friend. “I got two free drink tickets just for showing up.”

“Absolutely,” Sophie says. “But I also have to pee. Want to get in line now and I’ll meet you there?”

“Sounds good. If I order before you’re out—gin and tonic?”

“Or white wine, whatever you’re having.”

“You got it.”

When Sophie walks off towards the bathroom, I scan the main event space, looking for the bar and taking note of the attendees. They’re exactly who I would expect; a sea of floral polyester in blush, lilac, and cornflower. Mostly women, mostly in their twenties, mostly in groups of two to four, mostly paying more attention to the drinks in their hands than the art on the walls.

And you know what? That’s fair. This event sucks.

If I had put a bit more forethought into my schedule for the summer, this never would have happened. But between daily social media posts, bi-weekly social media lives, planning my art, making my art, going to vendor fairs, and going to abhorrent influencer events, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to plan my calendar with the level of intention I aspire toward.

And once my schedule is set, it’s set. I never deviate from it.

Why would I? Without a fixed salary to rely on, it sometimes feels like my schedule is the one predictable thing in my life. The one thing I can completely control. I won’t go experimentally deviating from that method now. Not when cash is so tight.

I turn a corner around a stark white wall, still looking for that damn bar, and that’s when my day turns from saccharine to hellish.

A hard body thuds against mine. An instinctual “Sorry” leaves my lips and “Whoops” leaves his. There’s a broad hand cupping my elbow, keeping both of us upright. And when I finally look up to his face, I find a horrible little smirk already planted there.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”

Owen Walsh is cocky, obnoxious, and profoundly self-centered. Just tall enough to be tall without being impressively so. Dark hair, a dark beard, and pale blue eyes that pierce like icicles, popping the bubble of calm professionalism I’ve been fighting to maintain since I arrived at this stupid fucking event. He’s an absolute know-it-all, a sellout corporate lawyer, and—most unfortunately—the other A in NASA’s older brother.

“Did I—” I feign confusion, looking around the room. “Did I take a wrong turn into hell? What are you doing here?”

And oh lord, there’s a woman with him. Some poor girl at least five years his junior, with fair skin and long black hair and a placid smile.

Owen bites out a laugh, then tucks his date under his arm. “I live in this neighborhood, Amelia. You’re in my territory.”

No one calls me by my full name. No one but Owen Walsh. The fuck is wrong with this guy?

I ignore him, turning instead to his companion. “You know you can do better than him, right?”

“I, um…” she stutters, “I think I’ll go get another drink. Do you want anything, Owen?”

“No thanks, babe. I’ll meet you there.” He sends her away with a slimy wink. I consider puking on his shoes.