Page 76 of All Our Nevers

“Good luck. When I get to castrating, there’s nothing that can get in my way.”

We talk for an hour and a half more. She tells me about the horrible craft fair she went to, and the rancid, sticky children she had to put up with. We both hate kids, and I’m more convinced than ever that she’s my ideal woman. I assure her that she’s perfect and did nothing wrong and deserves better than some dingy craft fair. I’m prepared to go on at length, but then she says Archie is scratching at the door for his night walk and she has to go.

“Wait,” I say. “What if I don’t want to wait until your show next weekend to see you?”

There’s a pause—brief but present—before she says, “You know this is casual, right? We’re just having fun until we get sick of each other. I can’t do something serious, especially not right now when I’m focusing on my career.”

“No, yeah, of course,” I say, though it’s starting to feel like a lie. “But can I casually take you out to dinner tomorrow? You have to eat dinner, right?”

I wait for her response, the seconds stretching like a cat in the sun, until eventually she says, “Okay.”

The word is relief. A gasp of air after diving underwater. Another chance to be surprised by her mordant wit, challenged by her cutting analysis, tempted by her soft mouth. I already know I’ll be counting the hours until then.

But you know what they say about best laid plans.

18

Lia

Lia: i have to cancel

Owen: Our date?

Lia: yeah

A telling dot-dot-dot appears on my screen. Then disappears. Does that about three more times before I see a call come through. I try to clear my throat a bit before I answer.

“Hi,” I feebly force out, then clear my throat again.

“Is something wrong?” Owen asks.

“No, I just can’t make it anymore.”

“Jesus, Amelia. Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what,” I croak.

“Like a ninety-year-old chain smoker with emphysema.”

“I’ll give you three guesses.” I roll over, pulling the comforter over my head like it might end this conversation faster. “God damn middle schoolers…”

“What about middle schoolers?”

“They’re Satan.” I breathe in a long, phlegmy sniff. The air hits the back of my throat like a hand grenade, triggering an explosive coughing fit, wet and ragged. I swear that craft fair eleven-year-old didn’t seem this sick.

“You need to see a doctor,” Owen says.

“I’m fine. I have Tylenol.”

“Do you have food? Are you drinking water and juice? Who’s taking care of Archie?”

“Okay, Dad. This has been fun but I’m going to sleep now.”

“Wait Amel—”

I hang up, roll over, and fall asleep.

When I wake up, fourteen hours later, groggy and scratchy but alive, I’m amazed that Archie hasn’t peed in the apartment despite missing his night walk entirely.