Page 91 of All Our Nevers

Before he has a chance to withdraw, I crawl bodily on top of him, both of us still naked, my knees on either side of his hips and my arms wrapped under his neck. I hold him tightly in the silence, until eventually his warm arms wrap around my back in return.

His chest rises with deep, slow inhales. I sync my breaths to his, waiting for him to be ready, telling him without words: I’m here with you.

With my cheek pressed to his, Owen’s next words are barely above a whisper. “I was out cold, but my mom got us to the hospital in the middle of the night, somehow, even with her broken wrist. So for all my great attempt to help her, I just ended up making things worse.” He squeezes me tighter, taking comfort in the physical, just like I do. “I woke up in the hospital and mom begged me not to tell Andy. She told me she kicked dad out, but she wasn’t pressing charges because she didn’t want Andy to know. She just wanted dad gone from our life, and she didn’t want Andy to see her differently.”

“She asked you to keep it from your brother?”

He nods, and his beard scratches against my cheek. “That was the first time I really saw her as a person, instead of just my mom, you know?”

“And you did it? You kept it from him?”

He nods again.

“When did he end up finding out?”

“He didn’t.”

I sit up. My hands pressing down into the muscles of his shoulders as our eyes connect. “He still doesn’t know?”

Owen shakes his head, looking away. “She really did kick dad out that night, and she did it for me. It seemed like the least I could do for her. She’s my mom.”

“Owen,” I breathe.

And now that the gates are open, the rest of his story tumbles out. Like he wants to share it, wants to finally explain himself to someone, even if he can’t explain it to Andy.

“After dad left, Andy missed him so much. I mean, of course he did, he was a little kid. But he was always asking about him and talking about how much he wanted him to come home and it just… made me mad. It made me so fucking mad. I know that’s not fair. He was a kid and he didn’t know. But every time he asked about dad, it felt like he was choosing him over us. And I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take lying to him, and I couldn’t take his nostalgia for the days when our father was beating our mother behind closed doors. So I shut him out. And I know that’s my fault. One hundred percent. I’m the older brother here, and I’m the reason we spent years not talking to each other. It’s just more proof that I have part of dad in me. I fuck things up.”

It’s like he’s convincing himself as he speaks, body tensing tighter and tighter until he’s urging me off of his chest, standing abruptly from the bed and reaching to pull on his pants with rough movements.

“So yeah, that’s why I don’t do this stuff. I’m not good at it. I’m not good at relationships. I don’t like people and they definitely don’t like me. Flirting and sex are great but at the end of the day, the real me is not someone anyone would want to get involved with. I don’t know why I thought—”

“Owen.” This time my voice holds no tenderness. It’s a command, an angry one, and it startles him enough to force his gaze up to mine. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“That’s why you do the casanova thing?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The sleaziest, cockiest version of yourself that you’re always sliding into with your dates.” I can’t help but scoff out loud. “I’m an idiot. I should have known…”

“Whatever. I can’t do this.”

I can feel the anger radiating off of him, and I take a moment to check my own reaction: no racing heart, no sweating palms.

Angry men are usually a trigger for me. But even trapped alone in this room with Owen, bigger than me and angry at my words, I know in my gut that I’m safe. And that emboldens me towards honesty.

“Oh my God. Come here.”

I stand and grab his hands, urging him to sit on the edge of the bed. Before he can stand again, I straddle his lap, running my fingers through his hair and ignoring the way he tried to push me away moments before, because I think I finally get it—all the threads in the tapestry of Owen’s life weaving together into a cohesive picture.

Still naked, I anchor us in the feeling of his bare chest against mine.

“I see you, Owen,” I say, trailing my hands from his hair down to his jaw, locking our gazes together. “I see your fear of opening up, because what if that person doesn’t like what they see underneath? What if they hurt you? And you know why I see it? Because I’m that way too. You’re like me. You are nothing—nothing—like your dad. I’ve never even met him and I’ve still never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He tries to look away but I won’t let him, a hand on either side of his face.

“I can tell you don’t believe me and I could kill you for that.”