Page 4 of All Our Nevers

I mean, I’m not a total idiot, I know most siblings fight and annoy each other. They don’t have to be best friends like me and Nolan are. But if your little brother saves you a ticket to his college graduation, the least you can do is show up. That’s all I’m saying.

In case you can’t tell, I hold grudges. And you know what? I like that about myself. Fuck forgiveness. Fuck achieving your own inner peace and letting the past go. I’m thriving inside my vindictive stew of inner turmoil, adding fresh stock to replace what I consume, never letting the pot run dry.

The bathroom line must be long, because Sophie still isn’t back by the time I’ve found a different bar than the one Owen and his date went towards, waited in line, and accepted two glasses of sauvignon blanc from the hot masc bartender with an undercut and double eyebrow piercing. But that’s fine. I can take this moment to make some content.

I’ve been doing the influencer thing for almost six years now, and I’ve really lost all sense of shame about it. Right in the middle of the room, I pull a mini tripod out of my black leather crossbody bag, pop my phone into the clip, position it on a nearby high top beside our two wine glasses, and press record.

I step back several paces for a fit check—front, side, back, side, ending with a wink-and-kiss to the camera. Then I watch it back, and it looks pretty good. The usually loose curls in my chestnut brown hair are full ringlets thanks to the mid-June humidity, and I absolutely love my dress.

It started as a thrift find—light cotton with small red and white flowers in a vintage pattern that’s giving hot 90’s mom—but I brought the hem up to mid-thigh and embroidered two bright white daisies across the chest, exactly where you’d think they should go. It’s my not-so-subtle fuck you to any respectability police lurking at today’s event. You know, the type to think feminism means a complete lack of sexual agency.

I like feeling hot, and I like getting paid to do it. If that doesn’t fit their definition of feminism then they can bite me.

I immediately post the video to my story, tagging the ICA and the stupid event facilitators and adding a bit of small white script in the corner that reads flowers & femmes. It’s corny enough to make me physically gag, but it’s literally what they’re paying me for.

That’s when a pair of hands squeezes my ribs, a high-pitched “Boo!” making me shriek and clutch my phone to my chest.

“Sophie, Jesus! You know I’m jumpy.”

“I couldn’t resist,” she laughs. “You were just so focused.”

“For you, madame,” I say, extending her wine glass towards her.

“Merci.” Her accent is horrible

“Ew. Never speak French again.”

“Would you prefer Italian?” she teases, poking at all my linguistic buttons today. “What’s ‘thank you’ in Italian? Prego!”

“Oh my God, no. That’s so wrong. I’m never taking you out of the house again.”

“I knew this event would be too cool for me.”

“Oh, speaking of this event,” I say, squeezing her bicep with urgency, “you’ll never guess who I just saw.”

“Who?”

“Owen.”

“Really?” Her head twists around, scanning for him in the slew of pastels. “That’s so weird. Where is he? I should say hi.”

“No. Please, not yet. I haven’t recovered.”

“I still don’t get why you hate him so much,” she says, innocent hazel eyes sparkling against the warm golds and greens of her dress.

“And I still don’t get how you’re just over the shit he did to Andy for the last, oh I don’t know, ten-plus years.”

I’m sure Sophie knows more about it than I do—the tension and cold silence between the brothers for years and years while Owen was living in New York. Even after Owen moved back to Boston a few years ago, Andy had to fight to break the ice with him, terrified of his rejection, even if he’d never admit that out loud. It was heartbreaking to witness, and a single year of Owen’s “good behavior” isn’t enough to make me forget

But Sophie shrugs. “Andy’s forgiven him. They’re working on it. It’s not my place to hold a grudge.”

“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “But it’s certainly mine.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Sophie says, rushing away from conflict like she always does. “Are there people here you’re supposed to network with? Or is there anything else specific you have to do while you’re here?”

“No,” I scoff. “Honestly fuck this event.”

“Lia…” She’s hesitating, so I know she’s about to say something painfully soft-hearted. My mental armor clicks into place. “If you hate stuff like this so much, why do you do it?”