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Fingers interlock with mine, big and warm. He says, “My work is boring. It's literally corporate mergers.”
“But you're up for partner right?” I ask. “That's... impressive.”
He lets out a single, staccato laugh. “You sound like you're not sure.”
“Should I be?” I ask. “Impress me.”
“I’m not gonna brag about my job. I make a lot of money and am semi-miserable while I do it.”
“Okay fine,” I say, pausing us at the first piece in the knit and crochet section—a beautiful black cardigan with a white ouroboros curling across the back, devouring itself endlessly. “So you're not passionate about work. That's fine. I once talked to this guy on the Cape who said he'd rather be boring than broke.”
He knows I’m talking about him, and replies with a teasing lilt, “That guy sounds like an asshole.” His eyes are fixed on the cardigan, head tilted slightly, considering.
“He's really not,” I say, “when you get to know him.”
He doesn’t respond. The edge of his playful mouth tilts down, a furrow between his brows. Like this piece in particular resonates—pain, self-destruction, unbroken cycles.
I can almost hear his thoughts out loud, and it’s enough to make me ask, “What about hobbies? What do you do on evenings and weekends? Besides the volunteer stuff, I mean.”
“Well, I guess I'm a runner now.” He lets me take his hand and guide him farther down the hall as we talk.
“You guess?”
“I kind of hate running. I just do it because it's an excuse to make Andy hang out with me.”
“Aww. You pushover.”
“And I don't know,” he says. “My other hobbies have pretty much been subsumed by work at this point.”
“What did you used to do?”
“Sports.”
I roll my eyes.
“Soccer and football were the big ones.”
I say, “You have the aura of a football guy.”
“Is that an insult?” he asks, and I say it is, and he laughs.
“Come on,” I insist, “there has to be something you still do just for you. Even if it’s a little thing. Even if it’s embarrassing.”
A guilty smile lights up the corner of his lips. “Okay, there is one thing. But it’s definitely embarrassing.”
“Please tell me. I can’t wait to make fun of you.”
He’s looking at the ground as he says, “It’s really not interesting. I just like… puzzle games.”
“What do you mean, puzzle games?” I ask.
“Like… crosswords and sudokus. Stuff like that. The New York Times puzzles are huge. I’m not big on Wordle, but Spelling Bee is my shit. I demolish that thing every single day.”
My face cracks into a disbelieving, open-mouthed smile as I weave this information into my quilt of Owen Walsh tidbits. “So what you’re saying is you’re a huge nerd.”
“I went to law school, Amelia. Of course I’m a huge nerd. Logic puzzles are like the whole point of law school.”
“No but you’re like an Andy-level nerd. Do you secretly have reading glasses? Please, for the love of God, tell me you have a slutty little pair of reading glasses.”
