Page 67 of All Our Nevers

He stumbles forward, chasing the kiss I’ve denied him. I’m smirking as I spin on my heel, proceeding down the block until he pads up behind me, not unlike a well-trained labrador.

“Well, since you’re clearly desperate for my company,” he says, trying to recover ground as “Super Freak” fades to nothing. “I’ll come, on the condition that you show me what you just drew.”

I offer the Porchfest map to him with a flick of my wrist. On the back, I’ve sketched a woman’s hands playing a piano. It’s loose and looping and I honestly really like it. The lines are fluid, like music, more expressive than exact.

He studies it for the time it takes us to approach the next porch—a light blue Colonial-style duplex. There’s a soloist there, playing guitar and singing a folk song I don’t recognize. Long, mousy brown hair, jeans and a t-shirt, casual and comfortable.

“I don’t really know how to compliment art,” he says, “but you know this is damn good, right?”

I smile. “Yeah. I know.”

His laugh is staccato and sharp. “Good.” Then, a few measures later, “And yeah, I’d like to come to your show, if you’re serious.”

I offer an echoed, “Good.”

The song ends, but we make no move to leave. The next one is slower, more somber, a delicate tune that has Owen’s voice lowering to a murmur to say, “My mom used to play piano.”

“Not anymore?”

He shakes his head. “Bad wrist.”

I think about how that must feel—to have your art taken from you by your own body. I roll my own wrist on instinct.

“Injury?” I ask.

Owen pretends he didn’t hear me, and it tells me everything I need to know.

“Your dad?”

Again he doesn’t answer, just nods sideways to set us walking down the block again. I fall into step, but I’m not ready to drop it yet.

I take a guess. “You were there, weren’t you?”

He scoffs a laugh, pace never slowing. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“You’re such a know-it-all.”

The sounds of the folk song fade as our feet move across the cracked roadway, turning onto a steep downward slope.

“Tell me about him,” I say.

“About my dad?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“No?” I look sideways at him.

He’s shaking his head but smiling. “I’m not gonna talk about my abusive dad on our first date. No.”

“Okay,” I allow. “You don’t have to. But I really am here to listen if you want to talk about it.”

I’m going for sincerity, but it really doesn’t work. Suddenly, he’s stopping in his tracks and turning to me—a complete shift in demeanor. His smile is teasing but his eyes are flat, posture tense, hands audaciously grabbing hold of my hips.

He says, “Well, maybe there are other things I’d rather use my mouth for.”