Page 34 of All Our Almosts

In the wake of their departure, Andy immediately turns to his brother. “Great first impression.”

Owen shrugs. “Didn’t realize she’s gay.”

“She’s bi,” he replies curtly. “Try to keep it in your pants.”

“Oh sorry,” Owen returns with equal bite, “did you and Sophie want a monopoly on flirting at this event?”

“Owen.”

“What?”

“That’s not—”

“Oh, we weren’t—”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh shit…” Nolan says from the sidelines.

“You know we’re just friends,” I insist, more flustered than I should be. “And we should focus on Lia’s art anyway. She’ll want our thoughts when she gets back.”

Reluctantly—practically melting under the heat of the awkwardness—Andy, Nolan, Owen, and I turned to face the wall.

Before us are two sweaters, one mounted higher on the wall than the other. The top sweater is mostly light blue, except for the image of a woman’s eyes and forehead peeking up above the bottom edge—crocheted in amazing realism with darker shades of yarn. (Lia really is good at her craft.) The woman has on heavy makeup and long lashes, with small, shining white beads sewn on around her eyes.

Below that, the lower sweater depicts the woman’s shoulders and chest. The dark blue yarn shows her wearing a low-cut top, with the same shimmering white beads glittering across the top curves of her breasts. The negative space between the two sweaters stands in for her nose, lips, and neck. We stand in silent observation for a few minutes, until Lia and Rayna walk up holding bottles of beer and each other’s hands.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Lia says excitedly as she joins our line. “We’re going left to right. Andy, what do you think?”

“They’re great, Lia,” he says. “I haven’t seen you use beads before but it adds a lot.”

That’s about as verbose as Andy will ever be and Lia knows it. “I’ll take it. Soph?”

“I am obsessed,” I say, immediately pointing to specific areas of the work. “I don’t know if this was your intention, but she looks really sad to me. Something about the blues, coupled with the beads around her eyes that shine like they’re tears. It’s like she wants so badly to look beautiful, and puts so much effort into her appearance, but feels like it’s never enough. Maybe her self-image relies on external validation, but there’s self-loathing underneath that she’s not addressing. I even think you can see that in the shape of her brows. She looks determined, like she doesn’t want to cry. I also think the two pieces separately would tell a completely different story than they do together. Like the bottom sweater alone would be more of a blanket commentary on female objectification, while the top alone would give me almost a pop art feel.” I turn back to face Lia. “Am I anywhere close to right?”

“There’s no right and wrong, but this effusiveness is exactly why you’re my best friend.” Lia blows a kiss, which I catch in my hand and plant on my cheek with a smile. Then she asks, “Nolan?”

“I mean…” he exhales, “Yeah, it’s great, but you’re not going to actually wear them, are you? I don’t ever want to see the bottom one on my sister. That’s just nasty.” He’s blocking out the view of the lower sweater with his hands, which Lia bats downwards with a level of violence only siblings can get away with.

“Ma sei scemo? It’s art.”

I’m never sure exactly what the Mercado siblings say to each other in Italian, but I assume that one basically means you’re an idiot.

Finally, Lia pivots to face Owen. And honestly, it’s a tremendous show of good will on her part that she even asks, “And you?”

Owen’s hands are in his pockets. “It’s good I guess.”

I see Lia’s mouth open, and I just know whatever comes out of it is really going to dampen the vibe, so I jump in as quickly as I can. “Do you think you’ll do any more pieces in this style? With the vertical stacking? It’s such an interesting effect.”

Lia’s mouth closes, then she looks to Andy out of the side of her eye. His clenched jaw and heated face broadcast his stress, and—miraculously—it’s enough to make her drop the brewing fight. “I hope so,” she says, looking back at me, “but probably not until I have another exhibit space lined up that’s this big.”

Without looking at him, I reach to the side and take Andy’s hand in mine, squeezing once. Just to remind him I'm there.

9

Days pass in the comfort of our new routines. Andy—who I’ll remind you has been cooking dinner for me every single night since I moved in—has started making breakfast for both of us too. And look, I do feel bad. But also he’s just so good at it, and it’s so delicious, and he really doesn’t seem to mind cooking, and it’s not like I asked him to do it! It just became a pattern. Every morning I come out of my bedroom and comment about how good something smells, and every morning he says he made extra just in case, and every morning he looks genuinely happy as I take a seat across from him at the table. He eats with perfect etiquette as we plan our days and joke about our friends and even just enjoy each other’s quiet company.