Page 61 of All Our Nevers

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Amel—”

“Please, Owen.”

And I don’t know whether it’s the expression on my face or the exhaustion in my tone or the weight he’s carrying on his own shoulders, but he mercifully drops it.

The song at the party below changes. “In My Life” by The Beatles. Sophie and Andy have yet to leave their spot on the dancefloor and I feel my heart swell for my friends, but especially for Andy.

Our poor Andy—who pined in silence for Sophie for all those years—is her husband now, and so happy he doesn’t even mind being the center of attention at a hundred-person party.

I’ve never needed romantic love to feel happy or fulfilled before. But seeing it before me now—that unadulterated, uncontrollable kind of love; a true partnership, one that helps you grow into the best version of yourself—a crack of longing slices through my bitter heart. The rarity of that kind of love. The unlikelihood of ever finding it.

God, this balcony needs a bar.

“What are you drinking?” I ask my now-silent companion.

“Old Fashioned,” he replies, holding it out to me in offer.

I take it from him and finish it in one long gulp. It pulls a laugh from him, which I confess does make me feel a little better.

“You a big whiskey drinker?” he asks, taking the glass back and setting it on the ledge.

“I’ve been known to dabble.”

“You’ve got a little…” He gestures to my lip.

I reach up to wipe whatever it is away, but it’s the wrong side.

“Here, let me.”

Owen takes a step toward me, and it’s slow enough that I could shift away if I wanted to. But right now? I don’t.

His hand drifts towards my face as he asks, “May I?”

My nod is a slow, measured thing.

The pad of his thumb comes to touch the corner of my lip, wiping away a drop of liquor. And when he steps back, nothing about the movement is disengaging. His eyes are locked on mine, like he’s reading an essay response about what he just did.

I flash back to the bachelorette party, when he picked me up and spun me around and I snapped. Bitch Lia in full force, no warning. I see now, in his eyes and his stance and the tension of each slow breath, just how sorry he is. And with what I now know about his parents… I suspect he never wants to be that kind of man. The kind that violates your autonomy, makes your body feel unprotected, like an object outside of your control. I suspect he’s spent more time thinking about that feeling than most men. Can maybe even relate to it.

And I suddenly—violently—hate that for him.

But I can’t say that. I can’t say I’m sorry life showed you those things so young, and I hope you’ve never been hurt the ways I have. So instead I say, “You know, you clean up okay.”

I reach up, giving him a moment to decide if he wants to shift away. When he doesn’t, I gently adjust the lapels that need no adjusting, letting my hands linger on the black of his suit.

“Like the view, Amelia?” he asks, a mischievous spark finally returning to his icy blue eyes. And I can’t let him know how happy that makes me.

“Don’t get cocky now.”

He chuckles. “You clean up okay, too.”

His hands lift towards my waist, but stop just before they make contact.

“Just okay, but not good enough to touch me, huh?”

“Do you want me to touch you, Amelia?”