Page 3 of All Our Nevers

“I see you’ve got a new flavor of the week,” I say once the girl has disappeared into the crowd.

“Are you objectifying my date, Amelia?”

“Oh no, I think you’re doing plenty of that for the both of us.”

“What are you even doing here?” he asks.

“Excuse me, you’re the one out of place. Floral Feminism, Owen? Really? What would possibly compel you to go to a Floral Feminism event at the ICA?”

“I actually didn’t know about the event before we got here, but this is my go-to first date spot.”

My head bobs backwards in shock. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Makes me look cultured. And if I buy a membership I get free dates for the year.”

My laugh is rough and dry in my throat. “How thoughtful. Your dates must really feel cherished.”

“They do.” He winks again, and I roll my eyes with exaggerated slowness—lingering at the top of the circle like a ramshackle carnival ride.

“Okay. I’ve had enough of this interaction.” I’m already turning to go as I say, “Bye, Owen.”

But then he grabs my wrist. “Wait—”

“Don’t—” I yank it free with a violent tug “—grab me.”

“Sorry,” he says, and if I didn’t know what a shitty person he was I might think he looked sincere. “I just wanted to know if you’ve been planning the bachelor and bachelorette party yet. I need to be involved in that.”

Yes, you heard that right. Owen and I are co-planning a bachelor/ette party. It’s a joint celebration for Sophie and Andy, who were “just friends” for almost a decade until they finally confessed their love last year in a big dramatic saga that actually melted my cold dead heart a little bit.

They’re getting married in just a few short months. I am, of course, the maid of honor. Owen is, unfortunately, the best man.

I stare at Owen, scavenging for an excuse or lie. I would give almost anything to keep his grubby paws out of my bachelor/ette party planning process, but the moment stretches like brittle elastic and his head twitches to ask Well? and I’m still excuse-less, so I admit, “We’re getting drinks this Friday to talk about it.”

“Okay. When and where?”

“To be determined.”

“Should I give you my number, so you can let me know?”

“I’ll have Andy text you.”

Owen takes a deep breath, in and out. “Great. Pleasure as always, Amelia.”

He’s visibly frustrated and I’m glowing—giddy with the ease of rankling him.

He retreats into the crowd without another word. I still call “Right back atchya!” after him because I’m an insolent child.

And look, I’m sure my reaction to Owen seems unnecessary and overdramatic, but I assure you, it’s not unfounded. In fact, in the maybe ten interactions I’ve had with Owen since first meeting him last year, he has done every single thing that annoys me most.

Strike One: The very first time we met, he tried to make a move. I’m talking a full, lingering, up-and-down stare, voice melted an octave too low, honeyed words like gorgeous on his tongue—as though I should be grateful he noticed I’m attractive. And he did it directly in front of my then-girlfriend, at an art show (aka my job), surrounded by my close friends and professional colleagues and potential future clients.

Strike Two: He’s an unrepentant control freak. And not just over his own life, which I could begrudgingly understand, but over other people’s decisions too. He thinks he knows best about everything—like a JD from Columbia qualifies him to weigh in on how Sophie does her taxes, or where Andy should have his birthday dinner, or the validity of my hybrid influencer-artist career path. I swear, one more “suggestion” from him about my life choices and I’m hurling both of us off the top of the Prudential Center.

Strike Three (read: Strike Zero, because it happened before any of the rest of them): He’s been an absolutely shit brother to Andy.

This is, for obvious reasons, the most important strike. Andy may have a hardened, stoic shell on the outside, but he also has a profoundly sensitive ball of goop on the inside.

For as long as I’ve known Andy—since I first went to visit my older brother in college and met his aloof but endearing roommate, through joining them at Ashmore University a year later and becoming friends in our own right—he has never gotten the kind of unconditional support that a brother is supposed to provide. And I would know, because my own brother is one of my best friends.