Page 94 of All Our Nevers

My side-eye scorches between us. “Yeah, I’ll do that with the seventeen dollars in my bank account.”

Nolan calls across the room, “Are you guys gonna do a weird flirt-huddle all night or are you gonna come hang out with us?” He’s standing in front of a dart board, fistful of mismatched yellow and black darts high in the air.

“Come on,” I say, pulling Owen out of his seat and making the Paris conversation a problem for Future Lia. “Let’s kick their asses.”

“You know, I’m kind of in the mood for a crossword puzzle," I say as we turn the corner onto my block.

“Mmm, talk dirty to me, baby,” Owen says, pulling a laugh from me as he laces his fingers with mine.

The air is still humid, even after sunset. The Green Line screeches past us through the middle of the four-lane street, a brutal scrape on its rusted track. A dog barks in the distance. My cheeks are warm from the weather and the alcohol.

I say, “Hey wait, can you get a few shots of my outfit before we go inside? I haven’t posted any pictures of it yet.” I’m in a short denim skirt, white tank, oversized black leather jacket, deliberately ripped tights, combat boots with chunky silver zippers—all wardrobe staples but just edgy enough to be interesting.

“Sure, gorgeous.” He takes the phone from me as stand beneath a streetlight, hoping the yellowy glow will slant into the frame just right—moody and nostalgic.

But before Owen can take the picture, I watch a furrow form in his brow. He squints down at the screen, pulling it closer to his face.

“Lia, what the fuck is this?”

A sinking feeling in my gut. I know exactly what it must be, but fuck—I didn’t want him to see it.

I march towards him. “Give me that.”

He lets me snatch the phone back but absolutely isn’t dropping the issue. “Was that him? The ex we talked about? Is he bothering you again?”

Sure enough, a string of unanswered texts is open on the screen, all from an unknown number, with the most concerning one anchored at the bottom:

Did you have fun at Hopewell tonight?

My chest tightens, breaths shallow, face flushing hot. I’m frozen in place, but Owen’s inquest isn’t over. “You were getting weird texts at the bachelor/ette party too. Was that him? Has he been bothering you this whole time and you didn’t say anything?”

“It’s none of your business who’s texting me,” I say, but it’s meek and bloodless. I shove the panic down, clicking the screen black and continuing towards home.

“Amel—” he starts, then switches to, “Lia, he knew where you were tonight. Is he stalking you? Have you filed—”

“He’s not stalking me. He probably saw it on my Instagram story.” I shove open the front door of my building and Owen stomps behind me.

“You tagged your location?”

“That’s how social media works.” The rusted key scrapes into the lock on my door and sticks. I jiggle it angrily but it won’t fucking budge.

“Are you insane?” he asks.

“Excuse me?” I twist, push, twist at the lock and it still won’t budge.

“You’ve been getting threatening messages and you’re tagging your location to make yourself easier to find? Are you out of your mind?”

The latch finally gives way and I shove the door open. “Go fuck yourself, dude. You don’t own me.”

He follows me in, but shuts the door with care—deliberately not letting it slam, like my body was bracing for.

“No, but I do care about you and your safety.” His tone is paternalistic, scolding, like I’m a child who should know better. “You can’t do stuff like that. Not anymore. Not with this guy out there clearly trying to find you.”

“You know what,” I say, lowering my voice to a deadly simmer. “I think you should leave.”

“Because I’m telling you the truth?”

“Because you’re telling me how to live my life!” I spit the words, confident he’ll cut his losses and run away from this raging, corrosive mess.