Page 21 of All Our Nevers

My poster is almost done, text swirling in blues and purples. It’s a joke, slightly mocking, but also a memoir of Andy’s love for Sophie. It’s perfect.

Owen scoots next to me, admiring my work for a few beats. Then he adds, as if in conversation with the poster, the milestones of Sophie and Andy’s relationship, “I know I would be a shitty partner. But for other people, I still think it’s possible.”

It’s enough to have me wondering: What scars are under that cocky, polished exterior?

What’s really going on in Owen Walsh’s head?

4

Lia

Igo to Haymarket almost every Saturday that it’s open. It’s this outdoor weekend food market where prices are low and produce is questionable, and it’s not convenient to get to at all, but with my grocery budget set at a firm two hundred dollars a month I really can’t afford to pass it up.

As usual, it’s chaos amidst the stark white vendor tents. Heads of blonde and brown and black and gray bob around each other through the streets of downtown Boston. Berries and radishes smile pinkly from their piles. There’s slimy fish on ice and split-open tomatoes and summer squash by the pound. And I’m in the middle of it, lost in thought, picturing the notebook of goals I finally started to flesh out this morning:

1.Make good art

2.Make good fashion

3.Make good money

Each item with its bullets and sub-bullets. Associated events and posts and collaborations and exhibitions. Months of pre-set schedules that I’ve clung to with bloody fingernails—because when I let go everything falls apart—suddenly needing to be rewritten. But all of this planning and effort will be worth it when my career finally takes off.

It has to be.

I pick up a pear from the stall next to me, turning it over and noting a hidden bruise.

“Can I help you?” the vendor asks, round belly peeking out from his white cotton shirt.

“No, just looking, thanks.”

And I don’t know if it’s the stress of reworking all my goals, or the idle thought of bruises, or simply the summer heat, but my eye catches on something in the crowd.

A flash of red hair.

My heart pinches, a sudden squeeze that’s completely disproportionate to the situation.

Fucking embarrassing, that my body still does this so many years later.

I move in the opposite direction—not because I’m scared. I’m not scared. I was going to go that way anyway.

The stall to my right has apricots that look wonderful, so I focus on that. Beautiful color and not too big, the skin like velvet against my fingers. They’re four for a dollar because it’s Haymarket, and I’m picking the perfect ones when a flash of red catches my eye again.

It’s him.

I swear to God it’s him. Suddenly every cell in my body is absolutely sure.

He’s walking on the opposite side of the stall, eyes fixed on his path. He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t know I’m near. Still, my adrenaline is a metal spike through my chest.

The apricots tumble back into their pile as I spin on my heel, darting in the opposite direction until I find a fishmonger tent with walls I can duck behind. My breathing is fast and shallow. What the fuck is wrong with me?

What is wrong with me?

This is stupid. It probably wasn’t really him. I’m just paranoid.

Get over yourself.

I know what I have to do. I have to find that stranger in the crowd again and look at him straight on. Then I’ll see it’s definitely not Connor and can keep shopping in peace.