Page 66 of All Our Nevers

“I know but…” I dare another look over my shoulder. “Don’t you ever see an old dog looking happy and it just makes you so sad that dogs can die? They’re just so sweet and I wish I could protect them from the world.”

He stops walking, a knowing smile creeping up under his beard. “You’re a softie.”

“Pfft. I am not. Here look, I’ll turn around.”

I spin to face the dog again, but Owen moves around me to block my line of sight.

“You are!” He pokes my sternum, the black slip dress with silver embroidery that I definitely didn’t spend too much time picking out this morning. “You’ve got a gooey center under there.”

I swat at his hand. “Did you forget I went to art school? They practically waterboard us into emotional vulnerability.”

He laughs and follows when I push past him, his brown loafers stepping in time with my black Mary Janes.

“Did you always want to be an artist?” he asks.

“Sort of. When I was a kid I was into drawing, but almost everything I drew was pretty women in pretty dresses. Eventually I realized the dresses were the part I liked best, so my mom got me a sewing machine and a crochet hook. The rest is history.”

“Do you still draw?”

“Not really.” I shrug. “Just doodles.”

“Okay,” he says, holding his event map towards me. “Doodle me something.”

I side-eye him. “Is this a test?”

He digs one of the Porchfest-branded pens out of his pants pocket and brandishes that in my direction too. “Why? You chicken?”

And he knows I can’t resist a challenge. I grab the paper and pen, starting to sketch against the flat of my palm as we walk on.

There are about ten houses in a row without any musicians, but the crowd still buzzes around the block. Sparrows sit in a happy line on the telephone wire, teens sit in a happy line on the curb.

“Do you like sewing or crocheting more?” he asks, and his interest seems genuine, which is… kind of weird. I’m so used to thinking of him as a self-centered prick. A hot one, but still.

I like this new side of him.

“I really love both, but for the last few years I’ve been focusing on crochet, so I’m better at executing complicated designs that way. Though I’ll need to keep up my sewing if I’m ever going to break into mainstream fashion work. It’s on the to-do list.”

An unskilled cover of “Super Freak” grows in volume until we reach the back of a loose semi-circle in the street. The keyboardist is riffing violently, so I almost think I mishear Owen when he says, “I really do like your art.”

I snort without looking up at him, still doodling against my palm. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Owen. I remember how you were at my show last year.”

“What? At the brewery? With the blue sweaters?” He sidles up closer to me, wrapping a hand around my waist so he can rumble into my ear under the music, “If I remember correctly, I said they were nice.”

“A roaring endorsement.”

“Did you really want a long-winded opinion from me?” he asks, barely loud enough to make out over the bass and drums. “You already hated me, and it’s not like your art is made for the male gaze.”

I drop the paper to my side, spinning to face him but never losing contact with the warmth of his palm. “Did Andy tell you to say that?”

He rolls his eyes. “You really give me no credit. Trust me. I like your work.”

But I still smell bullshit and decide to push the issue. “Oh yeah? Well, I have another show in a couple weeks, on the thirteenth. Want to come?”

“Our first date isn’t even over yet, Amelia. Already greedy for more?”

I analyze the expression on his face, then lean in close, closer, until our mouths are millimeters apart. My breath fans across his lips as I say, “You wish.”

Then I take a sharp step back.