Page 112 of All Our Nevers

“Ciao, bellissimo. Come stai?”

“Who’s the best guy? Who’s the best guy?”

His face is to me and his butt is to Owen, happily giving licks and receiving scritches.

“Why do you speak Italian to your dog?” Owen asks.

“I don’t know,” I muse, kissing the top of Archie’s head. “Maybe because my Nonna spoke Italian to us when we were little. In my brain it’s the language you use to speak to cute, little things.”

He shrugs. “Makes sense. Any good mail?”

The pile of paper sits abandoned on the floor, tossed aside in my haste to get to the dog.

“Oh yeah, all riveting,” I say about the predatory loan advertisements and magazines I never subscribed to. “Wanna have a look?”

He reaches over and reads aloud. “Capital One, boring. Ashmore alumni newsletter, want to keep that one?”

I shake my head. “Garbage.”

“Comcast flyer, RCN flyer, and… hey, this one might be actual mail.”

He holds up the white letter-sized envelope with my information on the front and no return address.

“I’ll bet you twenty dollars it’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” I say, standing and putting my outfit to rights, then reaching for Archie’s leash. “They sent me a handwritten letter a few months ago about how morally corrupt I am but—good news!—it’s not too late to save my soul. Sei pronto, mio caro?” Archie’s tail wags as I clip the leash to his collar.

“Oh I’ve gotta see this. Can I open it?” Owen asks.

“Sure, I just have to take him out real quick. Be prepared for beatific enlightenment while I’m gone. And please order us some food. If I don’t eat soon, I will kill myself and then you.”

“Suicide then murder? Always the unexpected with you. And hey, are you okay walking him alone? I can come with, if you want.”

I give him a look of extreme incredulity, too tired and hungry for this. “I can take him out front for thirty seconds by myself, Dad.”

He relents, bending to scratch Archie’s ear again. “Okay, have fun buddy. You’ll be a good guard dog, won’t you?”

I snort as we leave through the apartment door.

The walk is perfectly uneventful—a pee and a sniff and several barks at my neighbor’s poodle—but when I walk back in, Owen’s tone is anger and fear.

“Lia, what the fuck is this?”

I unclip Archie’s leash, tossing it onto my bed before walking over and grabbing the paper in his hands. From the first four words, I can feel my pulse accelerating, pounding in my chest—harder, harder, harder. My hands are sweating and the muscles in my arms lock up as I force myself not to stop.

Read it. Read all of it. Face it and then fix it.

“Did he—”

“Wait,” I snap. I need to finish. I need to see it all.

“Amel—”

“Stop!” I shout, pulling away from his gentle touch on my arm and storming across the room, the final sentences like a shot of adrenaline and I can’t control it, can’t stop my body. My hands are shaking—so visible, so vulnerable—and I hate it as I slam the letter down on the table and walk back to the door.

Owen steps in front of me, blocking my path, saying, “Lia, tell me what—”

“Get out of my way right now.” I stare straight through him, straight through those ice blue eyes to whatever part of him fears me, commanding it to back down.

He does, stepping aside, letting me swing open the door and barge out.