Page 90 of All Our Nevers

“Jesus.”

“I also feel guilty because…” I take a second to breathe, willing the tight knot of muscles in my throat to relax. “I feel guilty because while I was with him, I was so angry that my friends didn’t realize what was happening. That they never tried to stop him or break us up. Even though what could they have done? It was my relationship. But I was so self-centered that I thought they should know. They should know me well enough to just figure it out on their own and help me. But, of course, they didn’t. And it felt like telling them would’ve… made it real, somehow? Like, they would see me differently in this unchangeable way? And then we broke up, and I just felt pathetic. It was like… all the things I like about myself—that I’m tough and confident and stand up for myself—when it came down to it I wasn’t any of that. I was weak. And I wanted someone to blame. I wanted to blame my friends, anyone, but it was just me.”

“So no one else knew?”

“Not really. Nolan knew something was off by the end, I think, because he was friends with the guy too. And I actually think all of NASA suspected it wasn’t a great relationship, but Sophie and Andy probably figured if it was actually bad I would’ve just handled it.”

“You did handle it. You survived, and you’re here.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“I don’t think so.”

I take a deep breath, then say, “I think that's why I get so pushy with my friends, too. Why I'm always aggressively in their business. Maybe it's overcompensating, but I just want them to know that someone cares about everything going on with them. Someone would do anything—make a scene, be a bitch—it if meant being there for them.”

Part of me hopes he won’t respond. I’m exhausted and raw, willfully narrowing my attention to the warmth of his skin on mine, the smattering of dark hair on his chest.

But part of me is glad when I hear him say, “Lia.”

I look up to his eyes.

“I think you should tell me what he did. You don’t have to bear it on your own anymore. Someone else should know.”

So, I do. I tell him everything. The start of my relationship with Connor, superficial and flirty and carefree. The first time I said I didn’t want to, and he said come on and his hands kept moving until I gave up, unsure afterwards why my body felt like a circuit miswired, sparking danger at the least touch. His coercion, manipulation, participating in my interests only with the veiled threat that he better get his tonight. Then the night I finally refused, outright, pushing him away only for his hand to end up around my neck. The neck I can’t bear for others to touch—not anymore.

How a few months later he ended things, and how I fought so hard to keep the relief from my face when he did it. Then the embarrassment of crying to Sophie when I got home. Having to receive her comfort over the breakup, when my tears weren’t for the relationship but for the woman I’d become and the girl I wasn’t anymore.

My hair has dried by the time I’m done. Misshapen waves untamed by product. I never let anyone see me like this.

Owen reaches up, taking one of the unruly curls between his fingers, tucking it behind my ear again with tender attention as he says, “I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

“If that was your takeaway from that story then you weren’t listening.”

“Yes, I was. I heard every word, and I’m so proud of you. You are the most confident, assertive, pushy—” I bark a laugh of surprise, but he keeps going “—arrogant woman I’ve ever met. You know exactly what you’re worth and never let anyone forget it. You’re vain and demanding and brilliant and nothing that prick did changed any of those parts of you. All the best parts, my favorite parts. That’s what strength is, Lia, and you’ve got it. You never lost yourself, even if it might have felt like you did.”

I turn, burying my face against his chest. It occurs to me that not only was he willing to listen to my story, but he believed it. Unquestioningly. Every bit of my perspective admitted into evidence without contest.

I didn’t realize how scared I was until this moment; scared that he would be like my college deans and RAs and everyone else I tried to talk to back then. My body was bracing for impact, but he cushioned the fall.

“Have you seen him since college?” Owen asks.

And that gives me pause. This conversation is going so well and I’m too tired to ruin it. So I just say, “He moved to D.C. after graduation.”

It’s not an answer and we both know it, but I’ve opened my wounds enough for today, and Owen recognizes it’s his turn.

“With my parents,” he says, stroking a thumb over my bare shoulder, “I started seeing signs when I was maybe ten. My bedroom was next to theirs, and sometimes I could hear them fighting late at night through the wall, even when they tried to keep their voices down. I thought it was normal for a while, until my mom started acting different. I mean, I was a kid, so maybe I don’t remember it right. But she just seemed nervous about everything. Not having dinner ready on time, spending too much money, even on basic things like food or laundry detergent. It was nonsense, but there was always something she worried she’d done wrong. I thought maybe I’d noticed bruises on her arms, too, but she said it was nothing and I just believed her. I didn’t want anything to be wrong, so I… I ignored it. It lasted for years, and I did nothing.”

He sounds so angry at himself. I want to stop him there, tell him it’s not his fault, that he was a child. But I can’t break his momentum.

“Then there was this one night,” he continues. “I was… thirteen, I think. And the fighting on the other side of the wall was louder than usual, and I heard this big thud, so I went over.”

His voice catches on the last word and I wonder if he’s ever said this out loud before, whether Andy’s heard this version of the story.

“When I came into their room, my mom was pushed up against the wall. He was twisting her arm, and she was crying.” His voice cracks again and I splay a warm hand over his chest, over the caterpillar tattoo he got for her.

“I, um…” He clears his throat. “I tried to get him off of her, but he wouldn’t let go and then he… he broke her wrist. And then he got even more mad because I was in the way, and anyway… I ended up with a concussion.”

I flinch. I try to cover it, but he notices. The air around us stills. I can feel Owen preparing to lock back up, and I can’t have that. Not now.