Page 22 of All Our Nevers

With newfound determination, I step out from behind the fishmonger’s tent, looking to where I last saw him.

It’s a hoard. Parents and children and couples and groups. Tourist families planted right in the middle of the street, phone cameras raised to document people just fucking grocery shopping because tourists are assholes. Everyone’s stopped or rushed or idly ambling and I don’t see him anywhere, so I walk farther down the block.

One stand. Then another. Then another. Until—there.

He’s somewhat tall, and the red hair is hard to miss, but he’s facing away from me. I have to get closer.

I glance down at the produce as I take an anchoring breath. Zucchini. Eggplants. Tomatoes. I pick one up just to put it back down. The tips of my fingers feel cold despite the summer heat. I’m two stands away from him now and this is where my courage goes to die.

Then he turns, and it’s unmistakable.

Connor Berrens.

My chest is an ocean of water and my heart is crushed by the pressure. The world tilts. I’m lightheaded. I lean against the table in front of me but it’s not enough so I duck down, leaning forward on my knees to drain the pressure swelling in my head—and to hide. I need to hide. I need to go.

The world stops spinning long enough for me to move, and I do. I dash down the path in the direction I came, not running but shoving rudely through the crowd, no excuse me’s, just instinct.

I don’t think he saw me. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. He would’ve come up and said something, especially after all the texts.

But he could still see me leave.

Normally I would head right back to the T stop and rush home, but what if he sees me and comes to talk to me and I’m cornered down there, in the station, on the train, nowhere to go. It’s irrational—I know it’s irrational—but I won’t risk it. I can’t make myself vulnerable like that. I need control over my surroundings.

I’m still moving, pounding through the financial district, looking over my shoulder, coming up with a plan, when I see a completely unexpected salvation walking out of the T stop on the other side of the street.

“Andy!”

He looks up at me with a deep crease between his brows. “Lia?”

I jaywalk—jayrun—across to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to Owen’s. We’re going on a run.”

He’s in black athletic shorts and an old Ashmore University t-shirt, high-performance running shoes laced in bright orange.

“Great. I’m coming.”

“You’re coming… on the run,” Andy asks without a question mark.

“Yup. Let’s go.”

One thing I can always count on Andy for is not asking questions. Often infuriating, occasionally ideal. He lets me fall into step beside him and that’s that.

When we get to Owen’s building, he’s waiting out front with an expression both confused and bemused.

“Amelia. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Charmed I’m sure.” I still feel sweaty. Hopefully he thinks it’s from the summer sun. Or that I’m a degenerate who doesn’t shower. Either option would be better than the truth.

Owen looks to his brother. “I thought we were going on a run?”

“Yup,” Andy replies. “Lia’s coming.” The raise of his brows and shrug of his shoulders say he doesn’t understand what’s happening either but isn’t willing to fight me on it.

For a moment, I consider changing my mind and backing down. We’re far enough from the market now that I’m sure no one followed me. I could just go home. I mean, I don’t run. I’ve got my keys and phone and T pass with me. What am I gonna do—shove them into my leggings pockets and go on a long-ass run with Andy and Owen?

But then Owen asks, “You’re gonna come on this run?” with a disbelieving quirk in his brow. He’s in a brand name workout set. Vuori, stark black, probably cost a third of my monthly rent. And honestly? Fuck him. Fuck him for not believing me. Fuck any man who thinks he can control what I do.

I lock onto his gaze as I say, “I guess so.”