Page 32 of All Our Nevers

“Wait what?” Sophie’s gaze whips towards Amelia. “Is it Con—”

“Give me that.” Amelia snatches the phone back, then quickly slides her finger over the text thread and hits Delete.

“He said he really wants to see her,” Nolan tells them, and they all seem to know exactly who and what he’s referring to.

“Okay, this was a dumb idea,” Amelia says. “I’m gonna take the shot.”

“What’s happening right now?” I ask.

Amelia pointedly doesn’t answer, just pours the shot and throws it back remorselessly.

Nolan’s the one who explains, “He’s one of her exes from college and they were horrible together. Please tell me you’re not starting something with him again, Lia.”

She reaches for her wine and takes a big swig like it’s a chaser, then says, “Nope. Won’t be a problem.”

And then it’s back, that fake smile of hers. It’s muted and constrained and everything Amelia isn’t.

Dammit if I don’t miss the real one.

7

Lia

My system for hangovers is simple: lean into the pain. In my experience, if you make yourself as miserable as possible right when you wake up, then you can push through the worst of it in a few hours and have a relatively normal day.

For that reason, I let my alarm drag me out of bed at 7:00 AM on Saturday morning. Eyes half open, I pull on leggings, a sports bra, and a loose tank top before clawing my dizzy, nauseous ass out onto the front porch.

I fall mindlessly into my go-to pilates routine. Mostly core and legs, with only minimal and unintentional arm work. It fucking blows, but between the hangover I need to beat, the alcohol calories I’m consuming this weekend, and the low, low balance in my bank account that says “get more social media sponsors, Lia, for the love of God,” this workout really needs to happen.

Halfway through my routine I hear the front door creak open. I expect to see Andy leaving for a morning jog. What I see instead is much worse.

“Good morning, Amelia.”

I tilt my gaze up, holding my body in a rigid plank.

“Good morning, skidmark.”

Owen stands a few feet away, rotating his ankles and shaking out his arms. The vantage point inspires him to say, “You’re looking hot and annoying, as always.”

“Eat my ass.”

“I will if you beg.”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so.” I shift backwards into a downward-facing dog position, aforementioned ass high in the air as I stretch through my back and legs. “I think we both know you’d be the one begging.”

He doesn’t respond, just shakes his head, puts his ear buds in, and takes off.

Thirty minutes later, I’m chugging a second glass of water in the kitchen and fantasizing about a long, cool shower. I’m objectively disgusting—body drenched in mist from the salty ocean air and sweat made of last night’s liquor. That’s exactly when the front door opens again.

Owen marches in, carving a path straight for the only bathroom. I halt him with a call of, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

He stops in his tracks, rotating slowly to face me. “Shower.”

My glass of water clinks against the granite. “No you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. Me first. I’m disgusting.”