3
Lia
Ihad hoped Owen blacked out at Marianne’s last weekend.
More specifically, I hoped he had blacked out and forgotten the conversation about him joining me to shop for bachelor/ette party supplies.
But when he texted me a few days ago—with all the formality of a sociopath—I realized I had no such luck.
Owen: Hello Amelia. This is Owen Walsh.
Lia: sorry who
Owen: Ha
Owen: Funny
Owen: When are we getting the party supplies?
Lia: saturday
Lia: pick me up at noon
Owen: I’m picking you up?
Lia: you have a car right
Owen: Yes…
I followed his message with a pin showing my apartment location.
He gave it a thumbs up because he’s a pushover.
And that brings us to today, a blaring car horn outside my window signaling the start of this afternoon’s katabasis.
It’s scorching hot and painfully bright as I exit my building and approach the horn-honking Hades himself.
“Cool it, asshole,” I call towards Owen’s car. “I have neighbors.”
“Amelia,” he says, leaning out the driver’s side window. “Looking hot and annoying, as usual.”
I’m in a green pleather skirt and white baby tee, a thin strip of midriff exposed to the humid June air, hair off my neck in a large black clip.
The knee-high snakeskin boots are really too warm for this weather, but they’re so cunt I couldn't resist. Meanwhile, Owen is in a heather gray button-up like a weird, stuffy try-hard despite the eighty-eight degrees of Boston summer heat.
“Ew,” I respond to his half-assed flirting. “And are you kidding me with this car?”
Before me is a huge, climate-destroying pick-up truck. It shimmers blackly in the midday sun like he drove it off the lot this morning. Or—more likely—like he maintains it through a carefully negotiated deal with Satan.
“What? Your dates usually pick you up in Beemers and Porches?”
I cross in front of the car, calling, “This is not a date.”
He calls back, “Believe me, I know.”
I pull open the car door and haul myself into the seat—an unladylike groan followed by a dull thump of the door shutting. “Seriously, what’s with the planet-killing penis substitute?”
“It’s electric, Amelia. And it wouldn’t make a very good penis substitute. Mine may be big but it’s not black.”
“Ew. Jesus, how were you and Andy raised by the same people?”
He shifts the car into gear, then signals to pull into traffic. “Andy takes after mom. Guess I take after dad.”
“The dad who left when you were kids? So you acknowledge you’re a real winner, huh?”
“And you’re a real sweetheart. Guess we make a good pair.”
He winks at me across the center console. I bite back, “Dream on, nutsack.”
And then, we say nothing.
Boston traffic is horrendous as usual; winding roads and surprise lane shifts and jaywalkers with obvious death wishes.
Trains that criss-cross over narrow lanes of traffic, double parked cars and teens who almost certainly don’t have valid driver’s licenses turning the wrong way down one-way streets.
Even that can’t distract me from the silence screaming between me and Owen. There isn’t even music on. Seriously, is he a monk or something? Who drives in silence?
Ten minutes in, when I truly can’t stand it anymore, I reach for his phone, which is clipped to the dash vent.
“What’s your passcode?”
He side-eyes me, driving posture rigid, hands on ten and two. “I’m not going to tell you, arguably my arch nemesis, my phone passcode.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could prank call my boss, you could post to my Instagram story, you co—”
“Ooh keep going, these are great ideas.”
“Here gimme the—” He tries to reach for the phone but I jerk it away.
“No. You’re driving. Just type it in at the next red light, you big baby.”
“And why should I do that?”
“I want to put on music.”
“Fine.”
Two more blocks, then a red light hits. Owen obediently leans over and enters his passcode.
“Your passcode is 5555?” I scream. “Are you kidding me!?”
“You weren’t supposed to look!”
My laugh is genuine, because it’s so ridiculous. “You can’t act like you’re worried about cybersecurity with a passcode like 5555.”
“Just play the damn music.”
I open his Spotify and start snooping. “Your playlist names are all just dates? Am I reading this right?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“It’s the music I was in the mood for that day.”
“That’s… so insane,” I reply. “That’s the worst system I’ve ever heard of. How do you keep track of what’s in what?”
“I can just open it and look.”
My mouth is literally gaping open. “I don’t even have the words to express what a shit system that is. What if you’re in the mood for sad music right now and you don’t want to look through all the past dates to figure out when you were last sad?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I can more or less remember. I think there’s sad music in the January 10th playlist.”
I scroll through the list until I find one labelled 1/10 and read through the tracklist. Phoebe Bridgers, Hozier, Noah Kahan…
“Weird…”
“What?”
“You’re actually smart, you just use it for evil.”
He laughs out loud at that—one short, bright burst.
“What about something upbeat?” I ask. “Like pop rock or 2000’s hits or something?”
“Try May 28th.”
I scroll as directed, but don’t tamp down my commentary. “God, this is the worst system in the world. I can’t even sort the playlists so they’re in date order, I just have to scroll through this endless list of unsorted da—oh, here it is.”
Fall Out Boy starts playing through the car speakers, loud and rhythmic and exactly what I was looking for.
“Yes! This is perfect.” I turn towards him again. “I’m begrudgingly impressed.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Thank you.”
More silence falls, but at least there’s music behind it now. Ten seconds. Then thirty. Then a full minute passes. The song ends and a new one is slow to start.
“So… have you ever been in a wedding before?” Owen asks.
I practically sprain my neck looking sideways at him. “We’re doing small talk now?”
“Would you rather sit awkwardly the whole time?” he asks defensively. “Or do big talk? What’s your opinion on the two-party system?”
I laugh despite myself. “It’s shit. Next question.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Big question or small question?”
“Oh, I like ‘em big.”
Now it’s my turn to wink, eliciting his eyeroll right on cue.
“Thoughts on… astrology?” he asks.
“Well, I’m not super knowledgeable about it,” I say. “But I’ve never heard an astrological stereotype that wasn’t spot on. And before you weigh in—don’t. No one cares what you think. Let women have fun. Jesus.”
“Woah there, Captain Defensive. Who says I’m not into astrology?”
“Are you into astrology, Owen?”
“No,” he relents. “But the way incels on Reddit talk about it kind of makes me want to like it.”
I squint at him, piecing this new information into the Owen puzzle that’s about twenty percent solved. “What’s your sun sign?”
“Is that the main one?”
“Yeah.”
“Capricorn.”
I nod. “That tracks.”
“What does that mean?” He signals a lane change, checks his mirrors, then his blind spot, then moves over. The sun shines hotly along my right side through the passenger window, the car AC overcompensating with frigid jets along my legs.
“Well, Capricorns are usually ambitious and achievement-oriented, Mr. Ivy League.”
He shakes his head in a feeble play at humility, but I can see the edges of that cocky smile creeping up.
“Bit of a workaholic,” I continue, “that’s very Capricorn. And they’re loyal, which, to be honest, seems very unlikely given your history with Andy. Though now that you live in Boston and are actually spending time with him I guess the jury’s still out.”
“Thanks for translating it to lawyer-speak for me.” It’s a joking response, but a muscle ticks in his jaw all the same. Guess the loyalty thing hit a bit of a nerve. “And what do you know about my relationship with my brother, anyway?”
“I know a lot,” I reply bluntly. “Because I was there all the years you weren’t.”
I picture nineteen-year-old Andy, all long limbs and downcast eyes and overwhelming fear of rejection.
The way Owen’s silence sliced through every aspect of Andy’s life, the safety he found in inaction and solitude, waiting for others to come to him, never brave enough to put himself out there first.
How, in the years after college, Andy was so nervous to go home for Christmas because he would have to find something to say to Owen.
How he responded to texts that read “happy birthday” with a simple “thanks.” Then finally, when Owen moved back to Boston two years ago, how Andy had to fight to work up the courage to invite him out with us.
His brother. Older than him by only two years.
How does a relationship fracture that badly?
I can think of only a few ways, and they’re all unforgivable.
I skip through a few more songs on the phone, placing it back in the holder once I’ve found one I like. The silence aches until I say, “Not that you asked, but I’m a Virgo.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Well, Virgo suns are usually very smart and hardworking and just overall perfectionists.”
A huff of air leaves his nose. “Congratulations.”
“We can also be overly critical.”
This time he responds with a real, resonant laugh before saying, “Well in that case, yup, hit the nail on the head.”
I shove his shoulder with both hands, barely hard enough to have an effect, but he immediately barks, “Hey! Don’t shove me while I’m driving, harpy.”
“Don’t mock me, toad.”
He turns left onto Route 9 and I stare out the window, watching the clear blue of the Brookline Reservoir move past. Our silence swells over the music again.
“Right,” he says. “Back to big talk then.”
He’s the opposite of Andy in so many ways and clearly this is one: his inability to let a conversation just die.
“How about this,” I offer. “Is there a God?”
I expect a joke, a sly quip, but he flatly responds, “No.”
I’m momentarily taken aback. “You seem pretty sure about that.”
“Yup.”