Page 89 of All Our Almosts

Ghosts of our past selves stand on every corner. I run past Allston Liquors where I see us as college kids, buying beer where we knew the cashier wouldn’t card. I turn onto Comm Ave and see us as adults, moving our friends into new apartments. I see us in the summer, lying in the grass by the reservoir. In the fall, crunching reddened leaves beneath weatherproof boots.

Sophie is so central to my life here that I can’t imagine Boston without her. The road arches like the curve of her smile. The Green Line screeches along its track like a shriek of her laugh. I can’t even escape her in the sky, as my traitorous mind draws up an image of her in a light blue dress—the one she wore to the Gardner Museum last month.

I know I’m torturing myself, but I stop in my tracks and take out my phone, opening the photos app. My last two pictures are of her. First, her in that blue dress at the museum. It’s candid. I don’t think I even showed it to her. But she was looking so earnestly at a horrible painting, trying her hardest to find the good in it like she always does, and it was just so her. Her body leaning forward, head tilted to one side, open and sincere.

The next picture is worse. The two of us, that night. My eyes are closed, face half-buried in her hair, yet it’s so obviously the happiest I’ve ever been. And Sophie, there in my bed, beaming and bright, the smooth skin of her shoulder, the freckles on her throat, the trust in the way she’s leaning against me…

I click off the screen, feeling myself getting lightheaded, chest constricting. I close my eyes and breathe, focusing on the feeling of the ground beneath my feet. I can hear cars driving past and I try to count them. One. Two. Three. Four. I feel the cut of the wind on my face, wishing it would slice me open and let out this heavy grief.

How did I screw things up so badly?

I need help. I know I do. I’m no good at this. But the person who always gives me perspective isn’t talking to me, and I definitely can’t go to Lia or Nolan. I’ve been ignoring their texts since last night for a reason. I can’t bear their sadness when I’m drowning in my own.

That leaves one option.

Without giving myself time to think, I click on Owen’s contact. He picks up after only a few rings.

“Andy? Is everything okay?”

No. “Yeah. Um…what are you doing right now?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is a terrible idea.

“Nothing. I’m working from home but it’s a pretty easy day. Do you need something?” Owen is audibly concerned, and of course he is. We don’t do this.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I ask, “Could I come over? Now?”

“Of course. Yes. I’ll text you my address.”

“Thanks.” I end the call without a goodbye.

The 45-minute T ride to Owen’s apartment could not feel longer. Still trying to think about anything but Sophie, I’m left thinking about Owen. I don’t know what compelled me to do this. Maybe some part of my lizard brain still feels like my big brother will look out for me, fix things.

I transfer from the Green Line to the Red Line then walk from South Station. The front desk of Owen’s luxury high rise buzzes me in and I take the elevator up, finding his door and knocking twice.

Owen greets me with a simple “Hey, come on in” as I enter his home for the first time since he moved back to Massachusetts.

Owen lives on the 24th floor, with windows directly overlooking the water. It’s spacious, if sparsely decorated, with all new appliances. Sparkling hardwood floors, huge kitchen island, flat screen TV the size of my couch. I knew my brother made good money, but this borders on absurdity.

“Nice place,” I say, looking anywhere but at Owen.

“Yeah, I got really lucky. There’s a balcony too, here check it out.”

Owen leads the way through a sliding glass door, and we step out into the late-winter air. The balcony has two patio chairs and a small glass table. I sit in one chair and Owen takes the other.

There’s an awkward moment of limbo—neither of us knowing how to talk to each other anymore—before I give up and pick somewhere to start.

“I hooked up with Sophie.”

Owen’s eyes shoot to me with obvious excitement. It’s not like I’ve ever explicitly told him how I feel about her, but evidently it wasn’t hard to figure out. He’s been rooting for us—often obnoxiously—since the first time he met Sophie last year. Despite this, something he sees in my body language must tip him off that the story doesn’t end well.

“It was bad?” he asks. And I should have known this was pointless.

“Honestly Owen, fuck you.” I stand to leave, but he jumps up between me and the balcony door.

“No, Andy, wait.” His hands are up in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to be a dick. Really. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re upset. I’m sorry.”

I stare him down. It’s obvious how hard he’s trying to help, he’s just shit at it. So, with no other choice, I retake my seat. He does the same.