13 #2
“Says the pot to the kettle,” I reply. “You don’t think marriages work out either.”
“Yeah, but…” His voice trails off, eyes still fixed on his brother on the dancefloor below.
“But what?”
“But my parents were fucked up,” he says. “I have an excuse.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like you would run out like your dad did. That much you can control.”
“That’s a grave oversimplification.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” His tone is sterner, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“How so?”
“Can we not talk about this right now?”
“You brought it up.”
“Did I?” he asks, voice rising.
“Just tell me,” I insist.
“No.”
“Owen, clearly you need to talk about it, so just spit it out. Why are you so against marriage?”
“Because he hit her, okay? Because our dad abused our mom. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
The words are a lightning crack between us. I jerk backwards.
Fuck.
“Not that I think Andy would ever—he would never.” His expression is suddenly pleading, like he feels responsible for maintaining his brother’s character in my eyes. “But I don’t know. Kind of makes you lose faith in love.”
Pieces of information about Owen start to click together in my mind.
“You saw it?” I ask.
He nods.
“Did he… did he hit you and Andy?”
“Andy, no. I don’t think so. Me, not really.”
“What does that mean?”
Owen just shrugs, raising his glass to his lips and taking another big swig.
I know I shouldn’t push. This is already… a lot. And it’s not like I’m a person Owen would want to confide in. Even so, I see a cavern opening up in him that feels similar to one I know really well.
So I ask, “Is that why you volunteer at the DV shelter?”
He turns to me, one eyebrow cocked. “How do you know about that?”
“Andy told me this afternoon. I was getting ready to rip your balls off for being late, and he told me to stop being a bitch, in not so many words.”
Owen laughs dryly.
“I think it’s great that you do that. At the shelter, I mean.”
“Wow, a compliment from President Mercado herself. Call the presses.” His sarcasm doesn’t have its usual sparkle.
“Okay, okay. I know I seem like a ruthless misandrist.” I lift a shoulder. “Maybe I am.”
Then Owen looks at me. Really looks at me, with a critical eye that cuts through my hard shell like a diamond. And I don’t know what it is, but something he sees in my answer or my posture has him asking, “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Owen’s staring straight through me, the warm light of the chandeliers crackling along his piercing blue eyes and there’s rage there, on my behalf, simmering just below the surface. He’s not letting the question die. “Amelia, who hurt you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Amel—”
“Please, Owen.”
And I don’t know whether it’s the expression on my face or the exhaustion in my tone or the weight he’s carrying on his own shoulders, but he mercifully drops it.
The song at the party below changes. “In My Life” by The Beatles. Sophie and Andy have yet to leave their spot on the dancefloor and I feel my heart swell for my friends, but especially for Andy.
Our poor Andy—who pined in silence for Sophie for all those years—is her husband now, and so happy he doesn’t even mind being the center of attention at a hundred-person party.
I’ve never needed romantic love to feel happy or fulfilled before.
But seeing it before me now—that unadulterated, uncontrollable kind of love; a true partnership, one that helps you grow into the best version of yourself—a crack of longing slices through my bitter heart.
The rarity of that kind of love. The unlikelihood of ever finding it.
God, this balcony needs a bar.
“What are you drinking?” I ask my now-silent companion.
“Old Fashioned,” he replies, holding it out to me in offer.
I take it from him and finish it in one long gulp. It pulls a laugh from him, which I confess does make me feel a little better.
“You a big whiskey drinker?” he asks, taking the glass back and setting it on the ledge.
“I’ve been known to dabble.”
“You’ve got a little…” He gestures to my lip.
I reach up to wipe whatever it is away, but it’s the wrong side.
“Here, let me.”
Owen takes a step toward me, and it’s slow enough that I could shift away if I wanted to. But right now? I don’t.
His hand drifts towards my face as he asks, “May I?”
My nod is a slow, measured thing.
The pad of his thumb comes to touch the corner of my lip, wiping away a drop of liquor. And when he steps back, nothing about the movement is disengaging. His eyes are locked on mine, like he’s reading an essay response about what he just did.
I flash back to the bachelorette party, when he picked me up and spun me around and I snapped.
Bitch Lia in full force, no warning. I see now, in his eyes and his stance and the tension of each slow breath, just how sorry he is.
And with what I now know about his parents…
I suspect he never wants to be that kind of man.
The kind that violates your autonomy, makes your body feel unprotected, like an object outside of your control.
I suspect he’s spent more time thinking about that feeling than most men. Can maybe even relate to it.
And I suddenly—violently—hate that for him.
But I can’t say that. I can’t say I’m sorry life showed you those things so young, and I hope you’ve never been hurt the ways I have. So instead I say, “You know, you clean up okay.”
I reach up, giving him a moment to decide if he wants to shift away. When he doesn’t, I gently adjust the lapels that need no adjusting, letting my hands linger on the black of his suit.
“Like the view, Amelia?” he asks, a mischievous spark finally returning to his icy blue eyes. And I can’t let him know how happy that makes me.
“Don’t get cocky now.”
He chuckles. “You clean up okay, too.”
His hands lift towards my waist, but stop just before they make contact.
“Just okay, but not good enough to touch me, huh?”
“Do you want me to touch you, Amelia?”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes. “If you dare. Fair warning, I bite.”
His chuckle is low and soft as his hands find my waist. My arms circle over his shoulders as the song switches again—“The Way You Look Tonight” by Frank Sinatra.
It starts as a sway, but by the end of the first verse we’re dancing.
Owen spins me out, under his arm, into a turn, and he’s surprisingly good.
I’ve never been great at following, but his motions are smooth and gentle and it feels natural to mirror his steps.
A conversation with our bodies—a give and a take.
I twist back into him, a bit off balance, and he manages to turn it into a sweeping dip. Then I’m laughing, loud and bright.
“You’re not bad,” I say once I’m back on my feet.
“A second compliment?” He grins. “This is a night for the record books.”
“Yeah well, enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Don’t get soft on me now,” he says. “I’d miss that vindictive spark too much.”
“You would, huh?”
“Mhm,” he says. “You might be the most challenging person I’ve ever met. You won’t let me get away with an ounce of bullshit. I need that.”
I’ve certainly been called challenging before.
Many times.
I don’t think it’s ever been a compliment until now.
As the final notes play, Owen spins me into another low dip, holding my entire body weight with one arm. Our faces are inches apart, and we create no distance as we right ourselves, his arm wrapped around my back, my hands cradling his neck.
We’re so close; breaths fanning across skin, bodies warming each other’s, cheeks pinked in the dim light. His expression shifts, from smiling and playful to something softer, more transparent. His gaze darts between my eyes, then down to my lips. It snags there—a knot in the thread.