Page 115 of All Our Nevers

I wouldn’t forgive me either.

Yet every time I pick up my phone to type a text, I freeze.

Rationalization is a coward’s voice in my head, telling me the fact that he hasn’t reached out means he must really be done with me. And after he’s made such Herculean efforts to respect my boundaries, even the unreasonable ones… what if this is his boundary? Should I respect it in turn?

My next instinct is to ask Sophie what to do, but I can’t do that either. She doesn’t even know the truth about my situation with Connor, let alone the truth of my feelings for Owen. How they’d grown against my will, ungovernable as wildfire, warming me and consuming me and scorching the bitterness straight out of my heart, leaving nothing but raw, charred earth and the horrifying vulnerability of falling in love.

And what good would it do to tell her that now?

So instead, I settle for talking to Sophie about other things. Anything else. Allowing myself a few more days. Bracing myself for the possibility that Owen won’t accept my apology. That this is the end.

I don’t want to be at home. Connor’s letter has me peeking around corners, clutching keys between knuckles, existing with the lights off to give nothing away. I’ve never been scared of my own home before.

All this goes to say, when Sophie and Andy invite me over for dinner, it’s an immediate yes. I figure hey, maybe I can get drunk enough that they’ll have to let me crash. I can avoid the darkest parts of the night and return home for Archie’s morning walk without explaining a thing.

Nolan is already at their apartment when I arrive. Andy is making a coconut curry. I embroider at their kitchen table, sublimating into the rhythm of the stitches as the smell of caramelized onions wafts around us. Sophie chatters about the new surveys her research group is using and it’s interesting. Really. Normally, I’m genuinely intrigued by this stuff—the way her brain works, how kindly and thoughtfully she approaches science education—but tonight I can barely focus.

When the food is ready, Sophie lights candles and Andy serves, and for the first hour Owen doesn’t come up at all, yet somehow my mind keeps snagging on loose threads of conversation, tying them back to him.

I wonder what he’d think of the cheap wine we’re drinking, what biting quip he would make about our frat-house-basement taste.

When Nolan checks the score on the Sox game, I think of their burgeoning friendship. How much it meant to Owen. How much more lonely he is than he would ever admit.

Even Andy’s mannerisms, the ones I used to consider so uniquely him—his straight posture, the tick in his jaw, the fingers he runs through his hair when he’s uncomfortable with a turn in the conversation—I realize how many of them are more nature than nurture, shared with someone older, more sarcastic, more playful.

When only the final few bites of curry are left in each of our bowls, milky amber swirls of chicken and coconut, Andy finally speaks up.

“So is there a reason you don’t want to talk about Paris?” he asks. “Did you end it with my brother already or something?”

End it.

It’s ridiculous to feel sad about those words.

End what? It wasn’t supposed to be serious between us. We were both very clear about that from the start. Even after Paris. Even after he called me his girlfriend and I briefly, hypothetically, glimpsed a chance at something lasting—at love—I knew that neither of us wanted to make the unforced error of twisting our life around someone else’s.

All the same, the thought of not seeing him anymore, of facing my life and my job and my fears without him, is needle-sharp in my chest.

When everything happened with Connor, I swore off serious relationships. Too much risk and not enough reward. But I can admit that things had felt different with Owen. I trusted him with parts of myself that no one else knew, and he did the same. That had to mean something, right?

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all we could ever be to each other. A vault locked tight, key tossed to the ocean, never to be opened again. A finite row of stitches with a neat knot at the end.

I scoop another spoonful of rice into my bowl, stirring it left then right before answering Andy’s question.

“Maybe. We’re fighting again.”

“What about?” Sophie asks, all doe-eyes and open concern. She’s already in pajamas—red cotton tee, gray cotton shorts, hair piled high atop her head. Andy, meanwhile, is in business casual despite having an entirely remote job. I guess the overdressed thing is Walsh nature, too.

“Oh, you know,” I say. “Nothing. Everything. Connor stuff.”

“Connor stuff?” Sophie’s voice skyrockets.

“Did he contact you again?” Nolan asks.

“I don’t like this, Lia,” Andy says. “He’s always been a creep.”

“Has he done anything besides text you?” Sophie asks, not knowing the half of it.

“No, no,” I say, lying to my best friend’s face. “It’s not a big deal.”