Page 103 of All Our Nevers

We come to a stop at a red light, and immediately Owen’s face is down in his hands. He rubs disbelieving circles there as he says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

“Baby, it’s green.”

He looks up and starts driving again, an almost uncanny focus on the road, like his eyes have to stay locked ahead or he’ll crumble completely.

The rush of the rain grows louder. I can barely see out my window anymore and it feels other-worldly, liminal enough for me to admit, “I never want to see him again.”

“Of course not. And you won’t have to. I’ll do whatever it takes. He will never, ever come near you again. Even if I have to—”

“No, I mean…” I cut him off, hands clenching the turquoise silk of my dress, grounding myself in the smoothness of the fabric. “I feel like I should want to—to confront him or something.” A sad laugh bubbles from me. “When have I ever backed down from a fight? I should want to spit in his face and hit him and scare him like he scared me. But the thought of it just takes me right back there and I just… I never want to put myself through it again. It’s not forgiveness,” I emphasize. “I will never forgive him. But I don’t want closure as much as I never want to see him again.” I drag my gaze from the dark city to Owen’s face, whispering, “Does that make me weak?”

His eyes press closed for half a second, chest rising and falling before he says, “No, Lia. That doesn’t make you weak.”

One of his hands leaves the steering wheel, reaching for mine, compromising his rigid ten-and-two position.

I guess this conversation is undoing us both.

With his broad hand covering mine, he says, “I wouldn't want to face my dad again either, if I could. It wouldn't feel like closure. It would feel like prying open a wound I’ve worked really hard to close. So no, you’re not weak for choosing your own comfort and safety. I think that takes a lot of strength, actually.”

“But then how will I ever get him to go away? If I don’t trust the authorities, and I can’t do it myself, how will I ever make it stop?”

Owen’s voice is raw anguish as he says, “I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out. I swear.”

The rain is a roar now, a humming rush on all sides. It feels like momentum, like the universe pushing me forward, clouds unloading as I do.

I say, “I want to explain something else too, but maybe I should wait until we’re out of the car.”

“I can pull over.”

“Okay.”

He pulls off of Storrow Drive onto a side street in Kenmore, parking with his hazards in a reserved accessible spot because nothing matters but this conversation. Now that he can face me fully, he repeats, “Lia, I’m so sorry about all of this. I had no idea—”

I lean towards the driver’s seat, taking his face in my hands and kissing him because I need him to shut up. The kiss is a deep press, melting his tension until I pull away to say, “You did nothing wrong. But I want to explain one more thing.”

“Okay.”

I can’t see out the windows at all anymore, water sluicing in long smudges that afford us the feeling of privacy as I start my admission.

“I have these really bad reactions to things that remind me of him. Some of them make sense—like not wanting people to touch my neck—but some of them don’t really. I just remember, on that worst night… I remember looking into his eyes while he held me there. He had these blue eyes. And I think…” I swallow, then look up to face him. “I think when we first met you reminded me of him.”

Owen looks utterly wounded, sorrow pressing bone-deep.

I quickly add, “Just you know… you’re a similar size and… your eyes. They’re so blue. They looked like his. And you were doing that fake, sleazy personality thing and I just… I think that might be why I had such a bad reaction to you at first. I think I wanted to hate you because… of him. I wanted to see the worst in you. And it took me a long time to unsee it. So… I’m sorry.”

Owen’s eyes are closed, fingers pressing over them as he tries to process my words.

“Owen, are you—”

A car honks blares angrily from behind us. We have to go.

He pulls out of the parking spot, wipers cranked to high, their mechanical whir cutting through the air and the static of the rain. And I think he’s just focusing, trying to get us home safe—that’s why he isn’t saying anything.

When we’re back on Storrow Drive, rain falling in sheets, he finally says, “If it makes you feel better, I hate my eyes too.” His voice is scraping heartbreak. “Andy got our mom’s brown eyes. Mine are my dad’s.”

“Owen, I don’t hate your eyes anymore. I love your eyes.”

“It’s okay. It’s not news that he’s half my genes. And sorry—I didn’t mean to make this about me.”