Page 6 of All Our Nevers

Or at least, not completely.

I used to dream of having my own fashion line, even my own boutique. Where did that dream go to die? Would it even be worth digging up anymore?

I hate moods like this—all existential and cerebral and fucking pointless. What I need is a plan, and every plan starts somewhere. So without letting myself hesitate, I take out a spiral sketchpad from the shelves under my art table, flip to the first blank page, and pop the cap off a royal blue felt-tip pen. At the top of the page, I write the only goals I’m sure of anymore:

1.Make good art

2.Make good fashion

3.Make good money

The details will come later, but at least it’s a start.

2

Owen

I ’ve been staring at a pin drop in Google Maps for a full ten minutes, wondering if my brother actually had the balls to prank me with the wrong address.

I’m supposed to be meeting Andy and his friends at some dive bar called Marianne’s to plan his bachelor party. What I see here instead—on the corner of Comm. Ave. and Chestnut Hill, between the Dunkin and the CVS, exactly like he described—is an unmarked brick building with boarded-up windows.

Owen: Did you send me the right address

Owen: This place looks like a whitey bulger drug den

Andy: Yeah, that’s it.

Owen: You sure I’m not gonna catch a money laundering charge in there?

Owen: Conspiracy to commit something?

Owen: Surely at least racketeering

Andy: We’re in the back.

Bracing myself for a grimy and questionable experience, I pull open the dented metal door. It’s 9:00 PM and the bar is half-full, patrons split between Boston College students in ironed polo shirts and grizzled townies who’ve presumably been drunk since noon. My shoes stick to the floor as I walk past the chalkboard menu that reads:

Miller High Life - $2

PBR - $2

NO FOOD

Sure enough, my brother and his three best friends are seated at a long wooden high top in the far corner, backlit by the fluorescent glare of BIG BUCK HUNTER on a nearby game machine.

“It’s hard to plan something you’ll both like,” Amelia is saying loudly, the sounds of video game buckshot flickering overhead. “Unless we want to sit inside and read, which I refuse to do for your bachelorette party.”

From her position at the table, I know she can see me approaching and is choosing to ignore me. Amelia Mercado is probably the hottest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, but also the most willful and stubborn. Not bad things inherently, until they’re directed at you.

I really fucked myself when I made an enemy of her.

I’m still not sure exactly how that happened. I mean, I know she hated when I hit on her the day we met, but this seems like more than that. She loathes me. Every word that comes out of my mouth seems to claw under her skin.

Fortunately, I’m a petty enough asshole that part of me loves it—watching her get riled up. The shocking, caustic retorts that leave her perfect lips. I’ve never been one to back down from a fight. And fighting with Amelia? That’s the Olympic Games of repartee.

“You can’t just call it a bachelorette party,” Andy’s friend Nolan says before taking a swig from his beer. “Andy’s a person too.”

“Oh, shut up and go flirt with the bartender some more,” Amelia shoots back. “There’s a slash between bachelor and ette that you just can’t see when I’m talking. It’s inclusive.”