Page 79 of All Our Nevers

I’m asleep before Ed and Lorraine set foot in the haunted house.

When I wake again, the sun is shining brightly through my west-facing windows and Owen’s thumb is gently grazing my cheek.

“Amelia,” he says, and my eyes crack open. “Pill time.”

And it feels so much better than I thought it would—being taken care of.

19

Lia

He checks on me all week—the fussy mother hen—but we don’t see each other in-person again until Saturday. I’m feeling much better, which is a relief because Lunasa Fair is my absolute favorite art event of the year and I didn’t want to miss it.

The indoor/outdoor venue is refreshingly cheerful and unpretentious, and only a half-mile from my apartment. Most of the summer this place is a beer garden, and most of the winter it’s used as some kind of obnoxious collaborative work space for “entrepreneurs” (heavy eyeroll on that). The outside of the building has a mural of deliberately ugly cartoon faces that I’m obsessed with, and there are moody, oversized string lights hanging from fence posts around the perimeter. A live band is playing bluegrass in the far corner, with a semi-circle of benches set up for the audience.

Attendees are standing, mingling, leaning against walls, commenting on the scattered art pieces with their mental pinkies raised. Having been at this event for four summers now, I know what to expect; same food, same drinks, same crowd. With only one noteworthy difference this year: Owen Walsh.

“I like that one,” he says, stopping by a piece that’s probably eight feet in either dimension, ribbons of sunset pinks and deep sea purples swirling together.

“The quilt?” I ask.

“That’s a quilt?” He leans in, squinting and craning his neck. He’s totally uncomposed and it’s somehow endearing. “No, I mean this one.” He waves an arm at the wall we’re both looking at.

“That’s a quilt. Go up closer.” I shoo him forward.

He’s a scant foot from the wall when his head snaps back to me. “Holy shit. That’s a quilt! Have you seen this shit? That’s incredible. The detail… I thought it was a painting! Amelia, I literally thought it was a painting.”

“I know,” I laugh. “That’s B.T. Jules. She’s been quilting for like fifty years. She’s a master of her generation.”

“Have you seen—? Did you see the—? Wow.” He exhales, posture melting as he gazes back towards the piece again. “I am really flabbergasted.”

“Wait ‘til you see the rest of the show,” I say, looping my arm through his. “The embroiderers are insane too. But first, alcohol.”

Owen, to my surprise, stops to look at several more installations before we even make it to the bar. I consider telling him it’s not all that serious and he can just relax, but it’s a fun test—to see what he’ll do without direction. Is he trying to show the artists genuine respect? Is he pretending to care about art just to get in my pants? Is he trying to blend in as much as he can, the way Andy would?

When we reach the front of the bar line, I order for both of us: two shots of Fireball and two Old Fashioneds. The bartender turns away and Owen wraps an arm around my waist, lips grazing the shell of my ear as he asks, “And what if I don’t like Old Fashioneds?”

“You do,” I reply without turning my head. “It’s what you were drinking at the wedding.”

“You remember that? Must be pretty obsessed with me,” he jokes, a second arm wrapping around my waist. “But I do hate Fireball. You’re on your own with those, hot stuff.”

I turn in his arms, our noses inches apart, my hands perched on his chest. “What if I make it worth your while?”

“I’m listening.”

“You do these shots with me…” I lean forward to whisper in his ear, our cheeks barely touching. “...and I’ll invite you back to my place tonight.”

“Here you go,” the bartender says, setting down the plastic cups and forcing us to separate. We pick up a drink in each hand and step aside.

“Now, Amelia,” he says, placing his cup on a nearby high top, but notably keeping the Fireball shot in hand. “I’m far too much of a gentleman to assume that being invited to your apartment would lead to anything the Good Lord wouldn’t condone before marriage.”

“Good,” I reply, my own shot glass mirroring his, halfway raised to my lips. “I can show you my rosary collection while we’re there.”

“Sounds perfect.” He clinks his plastic shot glass against mine, then we both throw them back. He winces like an absolute wuss. And yeah, it’s pretty horrible, but my amusement is far greater than my pain.

“Oh my God,” I say, grabbing his shoulder and lowering my voice. “You see the guy in the corner? Be subtle, be subtle!”

He half-turns in an excellent show of subtlety, like he’s looking for someone specific, doesn’t see them, then decides to turn back towards me. “You mean the guy with the goatee?”