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“Sorry,” he says, and if I didn’t know what a shitty person he was I might think he looked sincere. “I just wanted to know if you’ve been planning the bachelor and bachelorette party yet. I need to be involved in that.”
Yes, you heard that right. Owen and I are co-planning a bachelor/ette party. It’s a joint celebration for Sophie and Andy, who were “just friends” for almost a decade until they finally confessed their love last year in a big dramatic saga that actually melted my cold dead heart a little bit.
They’re getting married in just a few short months. I am, of course, the maid of honor. Owen is, unfortunately, the best man.
I stare at Owen, scavenging for an excuse or lie.
I would give almost anything to keep his grubby paws out of my bachelor/ette party planning process, but the moment stretches like brittle elastic and his head twitches to ask Well?
and I’m still excuse-less, so I admit, “We’re getting drinks this Friday to talk about it. ”
“Okay. When and where?”
“To be determined.”
“Should I give you my number, so you can let me know?”
“I’ll have Andy text you.”
Owen takes a deep breath, in and out. “Great. Pleasure as always, Amelia.”
He’s visibly frustrated and I’m glowing—giddy with the ease of rankling him.
He retreats into the crowd without another word. I still call “Right back atchya!” after him because I’m an insolent child.
And look, I’m sure my reaction to Owen seems unnecessary and overdramatic, but I assure you, it’s not unfounded. In fact, in the maybe ten interactions I’ve had with Owen since first meeting him last year, he has done every single thing that annoys me most.
Strike One: The very first time we met, he tried to make a move.
I’m talking a full, lingering, up-and-down stare, voice melted an octave too low, honeyed words like gorgeous on his tongue—as though I should be grateful he noticed I’m attractive.
And he did it directly in front of my then-girlfriend, at an art show (aka my job), surrounded by my close friends and professional colleagues and potential future clients.
Strike Two: He’s an unrepentant control freak.
And not just over his own life, which I could begrudgingly understand, but over other people’s decisions too.
He thinks he knows best about everything—like a JD from Columbia qualifies him to weigh in on how Sophie does her taxes, or where Andy should have his birthday dinner, or the validity of my hybrid influencer-artist career path.
I swear, one more “suggestion” from him about my life choices and I’m hurling both of us off the top of the Prudential Center.
Strike Three (read: Strike Zero, because it happened before any of the rest of them): He’s been an absolutely shit brother to Andy.
This is, for obvious reasons, the most important strike. Andy may have a hardened, stoic shell on the outside, but he also has a profoundly sensitive ball of goop on the inside.
For as long as I’ve known Andy—since I first went to visit my older brother in college and met his aloof but endearing roommate, through joining them at Ashmore University a year later and becoming friends in our own right—he has never gotten the kind of unconditional support that a brother is supposed to provide.
And I would know, because my own brother is one of my best friends.
I mean, I’m not a total idiot, I know most siblings fight and annoy each other. They don’t have to be best friends like me and Nolan are. But if your little brother saves you a ticket to his college graduation, the least you can do is show up. That’s all I’m saying.
In case you can’t tell, I hold grudges. And you know what? I like that about myself. Fuck forgiveness. Fuck achieving your own inner peace and letting the past go. I’m thriving inside my vindictive stew of inner turmoil, adding fresh stock to replace what I consume, never letting the pot run dry.
The bathroom line must be long, because Sophie still isn’t back by the time I’ve found a different bar than the one Owen and his date went towards, waited in line, and accepted two glasses of sauvignon blanc from the hot masc bartender with an undercut and double eyebrow piercing.
But that’s fine. I can take this moment to make some content.
I’ve been doing the influencer thing for almost six years now, and I’ve really lost all sense of shame about it.
Right in the middle of the room, I pull a mini tripod out of my black leather crossbody bag, pop my phone into the clip, position it on a nearby high top beside our two wine glasses, and press record.
I step back several paces for a fit check—front, side, back, side, ending with a wink-and-kiss to the camera. Then I watch it back, and it looks pretty good. The usually loose curls in my chestnut brown hair are full ringlets thanks to the mid-June humidity, and I absolutely love my dress.
It started as a thrift find—light cotton with small red and white flowers in a vintage pattern that’s giving hot 90’s mom—but I brought the hem up to mid-thigh and embroidered two bright white daisies across the chest, exactly where you’d think they should go.
It’s my not-so-subtle fuck you to any respectability police lurking at today’s event.
You know, the type to think feminism means a complete lack of sexual agency.
I like feeling hot, and I like getting paid to do it. If that doesn’t fit their definition of feminism then they can bite me.
I immediately post the video to my story, tagging the ICA and the stupid event facilitators and adding a bit of small white script in the corner that reads flowers Red Line to Park Street, Green Line into the Allston neighborhood, Sophie getting off two stops before me.
I’m still thinking about it as I press my rusted key into my front door, employing the old jiggle-twist maneuver until it creaks open onto my studio apartment.
Do I like what I’m doing?
Do I like where I am?
I look around the single room of my apartment like it might answer the question for me.
When I first rented this place, about two years ago now, it felt Exciting and Adult.
I’d never lived on my own before—having lived with my parents and brother for eighteen years, then with Sophie in college for four years, then with Sophie out of college for four years before she moved in with her piece-of-shit boyfriend at the time.
I hated that guy and hated them together, but it still felt like a great chance to finally be independent.