Page 60 of All Our Nevers

“Yes.” His tone is sterner, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“How so?”

“Can we not talk about this right now?”

“You brought it up.”

“Did I?” he asks, voice rising.

“Just tell me,” I insist.

“No.”

“Owen, clearly you need to talk about it, so just spit it out. Why are you so against marriage?”

“Because he hit her, okay? Because our dad abused our mom. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The words are a lightning crack between us. I jerk backwards.

Fuck.

“Not that I think Andy would ever—he would never.” His expression is suddenly pleading, like he feels responsible for maintaining his brother’s character in my eyes. “But I don’t know. Kind of makes you lose faith in love.”

Pieces of information about Owen start to click together in my mind.

“You saw it?” I ask.

He nods.

“Did he… did he hit you and Andy?”

“Andy, no. I don’t think so. Me, not really.”

“What does that mean?”

Owen just shrugs, raising his glass to his lips and taking another big swig.

I know I shouldn’t push. This is already… a lot. And it’s not like I’m a person Owen would want to confide in. Even so, I see a cavern opening up in him that feels similar to one I know really well.

So I ask, “Is that why you volunteer at the DV shelter?”

He turns to me, one eyebrow cocked. “How do you know about that?”

“Andy told me this afternoon. I was getting ready to rip your balls off for being late, and he told me to stop being a bitch, in not so many words.”

Owen laughs dryly.

“I think it’s great that you do that. At the shelter, I mean.”

“Wow, a compliment from President Mercado herself. Call the presses.” His sarcasm doesn’t have its usual sparkle.

“Okay, okay. I know I seem like a ruthless misandrist.” I lift a shoulder. “Maybe I am.”

Then Owen looks at me. Really looks at me, with a critical eye that cuts through my hard shell like a diamond. And I don’t know what it is, but something he sees in my answer or my posture has him asking, “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Owen’s staring straight through me, the warm light of the chandeliers crackling along his piercing blue eyes and there’s rage there, on my behalf, simmering just below the surface. He’s not letting the question die. “Amelia, who hurt you?”