Page 55 of All Our Nevers

“Of course not, you do it for the money.” It’s a joke, and he knows it, but neither of us is laughing.

“Yes, I do. I do it for the money.”

“You… don’t seem happy about that.”

He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair in a distinctly Andy gesture. It’s amazing how similar they are in their little instinctual tells.

Then, in a stormy attitude that’s also very Andy, he says, “I don’t really know you, Amelia. I don’t know if you grew up with a lot of money or a little money or what. But financial security is important. It can make or break your life—your entire life. And lots of people don’t have a safety net, and then what?”

“I know that, Owen. I’m literally going through it right now. Do you want me to stop teasing you about your job?”

“No it’s…” He shakes his head. “I’m trying to make a point.”

“Then make it.”

It’s 7:00 in the summer, which means we’re still in broad daylight on Beacon Street— tourists and teens and families rushing past. Horns honking and music blaring from a boombox down the block and a helicopter circling overhead. It’s all the chaos I would expect from a downtown Boston summer. But all of it fades to nothing when Owen decides to be honest with me.

“You know my dad left. When we were kids. And when he did our family was fucked. There were a lot of hard years, and a lot of years of my mom working overtime to provide for us and she still barely kept the house. I just want to make sure that if she ever needs anything, or if Andy ever needs anything, they can have it. And sometimes when I’m with them, everything is so… awkward. We’re so fucking awkward. And it feels like I’m doing all of this shit and throwing my life away for what? They don’t want anything from me. They barely know how to talk to me. So what am I even doing?”

It’s a shockingly personal confession, and one I know Andy would have strong feelings about. I find that I want to help—want to make this better for him—but I don’t quite know how.

I go with, “Your mom and brother love you.”

“I know.”

“And they’re doing fine. You don’t have to worry about them. They’re not your responsibility.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No, they’re not,” I insist. “They’re adults. I know for a fact Andy doesn’t want you to feel responsible for him, and I may not know your mom very well but I’m sure she doesn’t either.”

“No,” he says. “You don’t know her very well.”

He tries to start walking again, the restaurant a mere twenty feet away, but that’s not going to work.

“Okay, stop,” I say, stepping into his path once more. “You are not going in there like this. You’re not bringing down their nice dinner. Come on.” I grab his arm and pull him farther down the sidewalk. “We’re doing a lap.”

He pulls his arm out of my grasp. “I’m not a child, Amelia. You can’t tell me not to go to my brother’s rehearsal dinner because you don’t like my attitude.”

“Yes, I can.” I point a finger towards his face. “He may be your brother but they’re my best friends, and I will not have you doing anything that jeopardizes their happiness tonight. I will physically fight you before I let that happen. So stop being a little bitch and come on a walk with me.”

When he still doesn’t move, arms crossed and stolid, I reach into my purse and pull out a joint.

“I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

A smile fights against his will, curling the corner of his lip. “You—Drill Sergeant Mercado—are actually willing to smoke pot before this rehearsal dinner?”

I shrug. “The rehearsal part is done. And I don’t know if you heard, but smoking pot is actually very conducive to eating.”

He plucks it out of my hands. “Such a bad influence. Got a light?”

I pull one out of my purse, then nudge his shoulder to get him walking again. “Come on, let’s go around the corner at least, you delinquent.”

“So, be honest,” I say, shoulders pressing into the yellow brick of the restaurant’s side wall, freshly lit joint between my fingers. “What’s your deal now anyway?

I should be worried about scuffing up the back of my dress—lavender jacquard, corset top, pleated skirt, tea length, absolutely gorgeous—but it’s been a long day, and I’m too busy interrogating Owen to really care.

“What could you possibly mean by that?” Owen asks, shoulder barely touching mine where he leans too. I hold the joint out sideways and he takes it.