3 #3
“Because he invited you,” I say, cold and blunt. “And because he’s your brother.”
“I’m sorry.” He spits the words like they’re burning his mouth. “Okay?”
And even with the bar as low as it is for Owen Walsh, I’m disappointed. Either he really thinks a single sorry is enough, or there’s something he’s still refusing to tell me. So I just say, “I’m not the one you have to apologize to.”
We don’t speak again for what feels like five full minutes, each one slow as the crawling of vine over brick. Our conversation has me on edge and the tactile sensation of the foil balloons is starting to grate under my skin. Eventually I give up, extending my last one towards Owen.
“Can you tie this?”
He takes the M from me, pinching the end and tying it off.
“I’m gonna switch to the posters. I can’t with my nails and the balloons anymore. I love the look of long nails, but they make some things so annoying.”
Owen is looking down at the next balloon as he says, “I love long nails too. There’s something hot about a woman who could claw me to ribbons with her bare hands.”
I’m about ninety percent sure he’s rage baiting me, but sensory overstimulation has me taking that bait.
“Why are you hitting on me right now? You hate me.”
“Amelia, I promise you, liking someone and wanting to sleep with them are two separate things. I can hate fuck with the best.”
An indignant huff of air escapes me. “Someone’s full of himself.”
“Yeah,” he replies in that too-low, syrupy voice he puts on. “And you could be too.”
“Ugh, boo! Horrible wordplay. Try again, dickhead. Or even better, be quiet and blow up more balloons.”
“You could—”
“Owen. If you say I could blow your balloons or anything similar, I’m throat punching you and leaving. Now take one and shut up.”
He laughs, then grabs the letter T atop the balloon pile. “Yes, ma’am.”
I choose an amethyst pencil and start lightly outlining the words Andy Has Loved Sophie Since…
“So,” Owen says, “are you against all casual hook ups, or just a casual hook up with me?”
We’re back on this, I guess. “Why would you want to hook up with me, Owen? Seriously. I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re hot. It’s not that deep.”
I half-heartedly roll my eyes. “That’s what she said.”
My response surprises him enough that he lets out a genuine laugh—like he can’t believe I didn’t respond with physical violence.
“No, but actually I love casual hook ups. Not with you,” I emphasize, “but I much prefer them to relationships.”
“Why’s that?”
I switch to a navy blue pencil, adding curves of shadow under my bubble letters. “Most people in relationships don’t even like each other that much. They just want to feel wanted. It’s either transactional or it’s delusional.”
“Woah,” he says, leaning back with the force of his surprise. “That is so much more bitter than I expected you to be.”
I grab the sea foam green pencil just to chuck it at him. “It’s not bitter, it’s realistic.”
“Do you view friendships as ‘transactional or delusional’ too? Do I need to warn my brother?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. People genuinely like their friends. But with relationships, we start them for shitty reasons and stay in them for even shittier ones. Sex, power, external validation... it’s all selfish and, yeah, delusional.”
“So you never date?” he asks.
“I didn’t say that. I just like to keep things casual. Don’t need to pretend it’s more than it is.”
Owen ties the knot on another balloon. “I have to admit, I don’t totally see how this is an argument against the two of us hooking up. I am fantastic at casual.”
“You’re also my best friend’s brother.”
“So?”
“And a dickhead I can’t stand.”
He shrugs. “Touché.”
The navy pencil scratches over the paper. Owen’s balloons squeak and crinkle into shape.
“You know,” I say, “you’re acting like you disagree, but you’re the perfect case study. The laundry list of twenty-somethings you parade around Boston doesn’t exactly scream commitment-ready.”
“I mean, sure, I’m not looking for commitment right now,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean I think it’s impossible.”
That has me putting my pencil down and turning to face him.
“Just to make sure I’m hearing you right, you think it’s possible for people to have authentic, positive romantic relationships, but you at your big age of thirty-one just aren’t ready for that yet?
Then when will you be, Owen? You’re not some college kid anymore, my guy. ”
He tosses an eraser at me with a light-hearted, “Fuck off. You calling me old?”
“I’ve seen the insoles in those dress shoes of yours.”
My poster is almost done, text swirling in blues and purples. It’s a joke, slightly mocking, but also a memoir of Andy’s love for Sophie. It’s perfect.
Owen scoots next to me, admiring my work for a few beats. Then he adds, as if in conversation with the poster, the milestones of Sophie and Andy’s relationship, “I know I would be a shitty partner. But for other people, I still think it’s possible.”
It’s enough to have me wondering: What scars are under that cocky, polished exterior?
What’s really going on in Owen Walsh’s head?