15
Lia
The air is thick with sticky late-July humidity as we walk down Green Street. Banjos on the left, dad rock on the right, and a cloudless sky overhead.
Porchfest is exactly what the name suggests: a music fest played on people’s porches.
I’ve been to the one in Somerville before, but this one’s in Jamaica Plain—an old Boston neighborhood full of classic New England three-family homes, rows of paneled facades and wooden decks out front.
It’s a real community event, too. College-aged kids barely concealing their open tall boys, parents pushing toddlers in strollers, small dogs and big dogs and even one cat on a hot pink leash.
A beagle with a gray face walks past us, tongue lolling out with each bouncy step, and I have to turn away to keep my cool.
“Ugh, God,” I say, walking backwards and facing Owen. “I can’t look at that dog. It’s gonna make me sad.”
“Why? He’s having a great time.”
Owen’s more relaxed than usual today, though still overdressed in his white button down and khakis. Such a try-hard.
“I know but…” I dare another look over my shoulder. “Don’t you ever see an old dog looking happy and it just makes you so sad that dogs can die? They’re just so sweet and I wish I could protect them from the world.”
He stops walking, a knowing smile creeping up under his beard. “You’re a softie.”
“Pfft. I am not. Here look, I’ll turn around.”
I spin to face the dog again, but Owen moves around me to block my line of sight.
“You are!” He pokes my sternum, the black slip dress with silver embroidery that I definitely didn’t spend too much time picking out this morning. “You’ve got a gooey center under there.”
I swat at his hand. “Did you forget I went to art school? They practically waterboard us into emotional vulnerability.”
He laughs and follows when I push past him, his brown loafers stepping in time with my black Mary Janes.
“Did you always want to be an artist?” he asks.
“Sort of. When I was a kid I was into drawing, but almost everything I drew was pretty women in pretty dresses. Eventually I realized the dresses were the part I liked best, so my mom got me a sewing machine and a crochet hook. The rest is history.”
“Do you still draw?”
“Not really.” I shrug. “Just doodles.”
“Okay,” he says, holding his event map towards me. “Doodle me something.”
I side-eye him. “Is this a test?”
He digs one of the Porchfest-branded pens out of his pants pocket and brandishes that in my direction too. “Why? You chicken?”
And he knows I can’t resist a challenge. I grab the paper and pen, starting to sketch against the flat of my palm as we walk on.
There are about ten houses in a row without any musicians, but the crowd still buzzes around the block. Sparrows sit in a happy line on the telephone wire, teens sit in a happy line on the curb.
“Do you like sewing or crocheting more?” he asks, and his interest seems genuine, which is… kind of weird. I’m so used to thinking of him as a self-centered prick. A hot one, but still.
I like this new side of him.
“I really love both, but for the last few years I’ve been focusing on crochet, so I’m better at executing complicated designs that way. Though I’ll need to keep up my sewing if I’m ever going to break into mainstream fashion work. It’s on the to-do list.”
An unskilled cover of “Super Freak” grows in volume until we reach the back of a loose semi-circle in the street. The keyboardist is riffing violently, so I almost think I mishear Owen when he says, “I really do like your art.”
I snort without looking up at him, still doodling against my palm. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Owen. I remember how you were at my show last year.”
“What? At the brewery? With the blue sweaters?” He sidles up closer to me, wrapping a hand around my waist so he can rumble into my ear under the music, “If I remember correctly, I said they were nice.”
“A roaring endorsement.”
“Did you really want a long-winded opinion from me?” he asks, barely loud enough to make out over the bass and drums. “You already hated me, and it’s not like your art is made for the male gaze.”
I drop the paper to my side, spinning to face him but never losing contact with the warmth of his palm. “Did Andy tell you to say that?”
He rolls his eyes. “You really give me no credit. Trust me. I like your work.”
But I still smell bullshit and decide to push the issue. “Oh yeah? Well, I have another show in a couple weeks, on the thirteenth. Want to come?”
“Our first date isn’t even over yet, Amelia. Already greedy for more?”
I analyze the expression on his face, then lean in close, closer, until our mouths are millimeters apart. My breath fans across his lips as I say, “You wish.”
Then I take a sharp step back.
He stumbles forward, chasing the kiss I’ve denied him. I’m smirking as I spin on my heel, proceeding down the block until he pads up behind me, not unlike a well-trained labrador.
“Well, since you’re clearly desperate for my company,” he says, trying to recover ground as “Super Freak” fades to nothing. “I’ll come, on the condition that you show me what you just drew.”
I offer the Porchfest map to him with a flick of my wrist. On the back, I’ve sketched a woman’s hands playing a piano. It’s loose and looping and I honestly really like it. The lines are fluid, like music, more expressive than exact.
He studies it for the time it takes us to approach the next porch—a light blue Colonial-style duplex. There’s a soloist there, playing guitar and singing a folk song I don’t recognize. Long, mousy brown hair, jeans and a t-shirt, casual and comfortable.
“I don’t really know how to compliment art,” he says, “but you know this is damn good, right?”
I smile. “Yeah. I know.”
His laugh is staccato and sharp. “Good.” Then, a few measures later, “And yeah, I’d like to come to your show, if you’re serious.”
I offer an echoed, “Good.”
The song ends, but we make no move to leave. The next one is slower, more somber, a delicate tune that has Owen’s voice lowering to a murmur to say, “My mom used to play piano.”
“Not anymore?”
He shakes his head. “Bad wrist.”
I think about how that must feel—to have your art taken from you by your own body. I roll my own wrist on instinct.
“Injury?” I ask.
Owen pretends he didn’t hear me, and it tells me everything I need to know.
“Your dad?”
Again he doesn’t answer, just nods sideways to set us walking down the block again. I fall into step, but I’m not ready to drop it yet.
I take a guess. “You were there, weren’t you?”
He scoffs a laugh, pace never slowing. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“You’re such a know-it-all.”
The sounds of the folk song fade as our feet move across the cracked roadway, turning onto a steep downward slope.
“Tell me about him,” I say.
“About my dad?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“No?” I look sideways at him.
He’s shaking his head but smiling. “I’m not gonna talk about my abusive dad on our first date. No.”
“Okay,” I allow. “You don’t have to. But I really am here to listen if you want to talk about it.”
I’m going for sincerity, but it really doesn’t work. Suddenly, he’s stopping in his tracks and turning to me—a complete shift in demeanor. His smile is teasing but his eyes are flat, posture tense, hands audaciously grabbing hold of my hips.
He says, “Well, maybe there are other things I’d rather use my mouth for.”
But that’s not gonna happen. I place a hand square in the center of his chest, recognizing this for what it is, and say, “Stop. You’re not doing that with me.”
“Doing what? Kissing you? That ship has already sailed, baby.”
“No, ew. I mean your whole—” I wave a hand in front of his face. “—casanova thing.”
“My casanova thing?”
We’ve stopped directly in the middle of the street, gaggles of preteens and elderly locals and parents with snot-nosed babies around us, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“Yeah, that’s what we call it behind your back. The weird thing you do where you switch to this horrible, fake personality with the women you’re dating. What the hell is up with that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do.” My index finger finds the center of his chest. “Every time we’ve seen you with a date you’re acting like a brainless, sleazy prick. I don’t know if it’s a defense mechanism or just a bad habit, but it’s not gonna work with me.”
His expression is still flat, uncannily so, as he asks, “Have you considered I might really be a brainless, sleazy prick?”
“Believe me,” I say, “I’ve considered it. But you’re not. It’s a mask you put on, and it’s an ugly one, so stop doing it.”
His cocky posture loosens a notch as frustration gets the better of him. “Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?”
“No. If you want someone easy, then go find her. But if you want me—” I step closer to him, locking his gaze on mine, “—and I think you do, then you’re going to be yourself around me.
You don’t have to tell me all your secrets or your family trauma or whatever, but you’re not gonna lie and you’re not gonna fake it. Ever. Okay?”
And finally—finally—his eyes melt back to life.
The words he says to me next are, “You’re such a pill,” but there’s a sparkle behind it—sincerity and appreciation just under the icy surface.
I say, “You love it.”
He says, “Something must be seriously wrong with me.”
“Mmm. I could name a few things.”
His hands find my hips again, but this time the desire is genuine. It’s not a pivot and it’s not a mask. It’s heat and tension and admiration. “Why does that make me want to kiss you even more?”
I lean closer, hovering just below his lips as I say, “Guess you’re fucked in the head.” Then I push off his chest, putting a foot of space between us. “Anticipation is an art, Owen. Now come here.”
He groans as he lets me take his hand and drag him down the next block.