Page 68 of All Our Nevers

But that’s not gonna happen. I place a hand square in the center of his chest, recognizing this for what it is, and say, “Stop. You’re not doing that with me.”

“Doing what? Kissing you? That ship has already sailed, baby.”

“No, ew. I mean your whole—” I wave a hand in front of his face. “—casanova thing.”

“My casanova thing?”

We’ve stopped directly in the middle of the street, gaggles of preteens and elderly locals and parents with snot-nosed babies around us, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“Yeah, that’s what we call it behind your back. The weird thing you do where you switch to this horrible, fake personality with the women you’re dating. What the hell is up with that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.” My index finger finds the center of his chest. “Every time we’ve seen you with a date you’re acting like a brainless, sleazy prick. I don’t know if it’s a defense mechanism or just a bad habit, but it’s not gonna work with me.”

His expression is still flat, uncannily so, as he asks, “Have you considered I might really be a brainless, sleazy prick?”

“Believe me,” I say, “I’ve considered it. But you’re not. It’s a mask you put on, and it’s an ugly one, so stop doing it.”

His cocky posture loosens a notch as frustration gets the better of him. “Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?”

“No. If you want someone easy, then go find her. But if you want me—” I step closer to him, locking his gaze on mine, “—and I think you do, then you’re going to be yourself around me. You don’t have to tell me all your secrets or your family trauma or whatever, but you’re not gonna lie and you’re not gonna fake it. Ever. Okay?”

And finally—finally—his eyes melt back to life.

The words he says to me next are, “You’re such a pill,” but there’s a sparkle behind it—sincerity and appreciation just under the icy surface.

I say, “You love it.”

He says, “Something must be seriously wrong with me.”

“Mmm. I could name a few things.”

His hands find my hips again, but this time the desire is genuine. It’s not a pivot and it’s not a mask. It’s heat and tension and admiration. “Why does that make me want to kiss you even more?”

I lean closer, hovering just below his lips as I say, “Guess you’re fucked in the head.” Then I push off his chest, putting a foot of space between us. “Anticipation is an art, Owen. Now come here.”

He groans as he lets me take his hand and drag him down the next block.

By mid-afternoon, we’ve realized that everyone here—and I mean everyone—is drinking. Massachusetts isn’t a state where you can open-carry alcohol, but when I see a uniformed state trooper accept a can of Yuengling from a kid in braces, all bets are off. We pop into a hole-in-the-wall liquor store with a check-out line curling through the perimeter, and twenty minutes later we’re cracking open a case of hard seltzers, descending another steep hill as I spot the best thing I’ve seen all day.

“Oh my God, wait, come here.” I drag him towards a loud, wheezing twang.

“Big fan of the accordion?” he laughs.

“No, hang on. I have to send a video to Andy.” I reach the back of the crowd, take out my phone, tuck my drink into my elbow, and start recording, fighting for my life not to laugh and ruin it.

“Why?” Owen whispers.

I don’t answer until I’m happy with my footage, then I grab the rolled-up sleeve of his button-up and drag him a respectful distance away before letting myself laugh out loud.

“Right after college,” I wheeze, “Andy dated this girl who played the accordion and we called them Mr. and Mrs. Accordion for like two years after they broke up.”

“Andy, no…”

“One time we all went to a party at her house…” I can barely get the words out between gasping bursts of laughter, “...and she literally came out with it after dinner and played for us all.”

“Christ above. Was she at least good?”