Page 74 of All Our Nevers

Eventually he says, “Look, I gotta be honest. I feel like I don’t know what I’m allowed to say. I don’t think it’s my story to tell, and I don’t even know the details, but just cut her some slack, okay? Reach back out. You know she’ll tell you if she doesn’t want to hear from you.” He looks up to me again as he asks, “You said she freaked out?”

I nod.

“If I had to guess, I’d bet it’s not about what you did and more that she was embarrassed you saw her like that.”

“How do you talk to her about stuff like this? How do you get her to lower the drawbridge?”

“It’s all in the timing, man,” he says. “I mean it’s different because she’s my sister, so usually I just say whatever’s on my mind and she tells me to fuck off. But sometimes she’s in the right mood to actually talk about her feelings. Like at the bachelorette party with her job stuff, remember? The real trick is, you just can’t be too grateful when she opens up. Just play it cool. She doesn’t like feeling… weak or… pitied or whatever.”

I squint, seeing Nolan in a new light. “I thought you said you don’t understand women.”

He laughs. “I don’t understand women. Lia’s my sister. She’s barely a person let alone a woman.”

“And you really don’t mind if we keep going out? I mean, you don’t mind that it’s me?”

“Honestly, dude, I think she would castrate us for even talking about it. So no, it’s none of my business who she goes out with, except that I like both of you and want you to be happy.”

It’s silly, even humiliating, that those words warm my chest. I must be more desperate for approval—for friendship—than I realized.

I say, “Thanks, man.”

One strike. One man on base. The Yankees throw a hell of a pitch but our batter smacks it hard, straight out of the park.

Home run.

I get home from the game exhausted but optimistic. Nolan is great company, with more energy than a freight train and a bit of secret wisdom that even he doesn’t realize is there. And the main thing I took away from our conversation: I have to reach back out to Amelia.

I type out a text. Then delete it. Try again. Delete. Again. Delete.

Hey, how are you?

Hey, I’m sorry about yesterday.

I screwed up yesterday. I’m sorry. Please tell me how to fix it.

SLDKJHFJKSDLJFDKS

In the end, when I’ve been drafting texts for so long that my brain is numb, I make arguably the stupidest possible choice: I call her.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and then… goes to voicemail.

Fuck.

I slam my finger on the red button. I don’t have anything intelligible to say anyway.

I toss my phone down on the kitchen island and start pulling off my shirt, ready to shower and call it a night, when I hear a vibrating sound behind me. I dart back to the phone and flip the screen over. She’s calling me back.

She’s calling me back!

“Hello?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Amelia says, “you called me first.”

I huff out a laugh that’s embarrassment and relief. “Yeah. I sure did.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“I uh…” I seriously doubt this is a good idea, but I’m already here. “I’m sorry about what I did last night. I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize that was… that that would make you uncomfortable. But before that I had a really great time, and I think you’re unbelievably fun and smart and gorgeous and I might need a few tries to get things right, but I really want to see you again, if you’ll let me.”