19
Lia
He checks on me all week—the fussy mother hen—but we don’t see each other in-person again until Saturday. I’m feeling much better, which is a relief because Lunasa Fair is my absolute favorite art event of the year and I didn’t want to miss it.
The indoor/outdoor venue is refreshingly cheerful and unpretentious, and only a half-mile from my apartment.
Most of the summer this place is a beer garden, and most of the winter it’s used as some kind of obnoxious collaborative work space for “entrepreneurs” (heavy eyeroll on that).
The outside of the building has a mural of deliberately ugly cartoon faces that I’m obsessed with, and there are moody, oversized string lights hanging from fence posts around the perimeter.
A live band is playing bluegrass in the far corner, with a semi-circle of benches set up for the audience.
Attendees are standing, mingling, leaning against walls, commenting on the scattered art pieces with their mental pinkies raised. Having been at this event for four summers now, I know what to expect; same food, same drinks, same crowd. With only one noteworthy difference this year: Owen Walsh.
“I like that one,” he says, stopping by a piece that’s probably eight feet in either dimension, ribbons of sunset pinks and deep sea purples swirling together.
“The quilt?” I ask.
“That’s a quilt?” He leans in, squinting and craning his neck. He’s totally uncomposed and it’s somehow endearing. “No, I mean this one.” He waves an arm at the wall we’re both looking at.
“That’s a quilt. Go up closer.” I shoo him forward.
He’s a scant foot from the wall when his head snaps back to me. “Holy shit. That’s a quilt! Have you seen this shit? That’s incredible. The detail… I thought it was a painting! Amelia, I literally thought it was a painting.”
“I know,” I laugh. “That’s B.T. Jules. She’s been quilting for like fifty years. She’s a master of her generation.”
“Have you seen—? Did you see the—? Wow.” He exhales, posture melting as he gazes back towards the piece again. “I am really flabbergasted.”
“Wait ‘til you see the rest of the show,” I say, looping my arm through his. “The embroiderers are insane too. But first, alcohol.”
Owen, to my surprise, stops to look at several more installations before we even make it to the bar.
I consider telling him it’s not all that serious and he can just relax, but it’s a fun test—to see what he’ll do without direction.
Is he trying to show the artists genuine respect?
Is he pretending to care about art just to get in my pants?
Is he trying to blend in as much as he can, the way Andy would?
When we reach the front of the bar line, I order for both of us: two shots of Fireball and two Old Fashioneds. The bartender turns away and Owen wraps an arm around my waist, lips grazing the shell of my ear as he asks, “And what if I don’t like Old Fashioneds?”
“You do,” I reply without turning my head. “It’s what you were drinking at the wedding.”
“You remember that? Must be pretty obsessed with me,” he jokes, a second arm wrapping around my waist. “But I do hate Fireball. You’re on your own with those, hot stuff.”
I turn in his arms, our noses inches apart, my hands perched on his chest. “What if I make it worth your while?”
“I’m listening.”
“You do these shots with me…” I lean forward to whisper in his ear, our cheeks barely touching. “...and I’ll invite you back to my place tonight.”
“Here you go,” the bartender says, setting down the plastic cups and forcing us to separate. We pick up a drink in each hand and step aside.
“Now, Amelia,” he says, placing his cup on a nearby high top, but notably keeping the Fireball shot in hand. “I’m far too much of a gentleman to assume that being invited to your apartment would lead to anything the Good Lord wouldn’t condone before marriage.”
“Good,” I reply, my own shot glass mirroring his, halfway raised to my lips. “I can show you my rosary collection while we’re there.”
“Sounds perfect.” He clinks his plastic shot glass against mine, then we both throw them back. He winces like an absolute wuss. And yeah, it’s pretty horrible, but my amusement is far greater than my pain.
“Oh my God,” I say, grabbing his shoulder and lowering my voice. “You see the guy in the corner? Be subtle, be subtle!”
He half-turns in an excellent show of subtlety, like he’s looking for someone specific, doesn’t see them, then decides to turn back towards me. “You mean the guy with the goatee?”
The quirk of his brow tells me we’re in complete agreement about that particular feature.
“He owns this place. Everyone in the Boston art scene kisses his ass, even though he’s really a prick with more money than taste.”
Owen flashes another glance over his shoulder—less subtle this time—then whispers to me, “He looks like a fish and a thumb had a baby.”
And I can’t help it—I laugh out loud. My hand claps over my mouth a beat too late and I hiss, “I know! His eyes are so far apart it looks like he has 360-degree vision.”
“And the goatee? Are you fucking kidding me, dude? What year is it?”
“But Owen.” I put on my innocent doe-eyes to deliver my next joke as dryly as possible. “If he didn’t have a goatee, how would his fellow pedophiles know he also likes building model trains?”
Owen snorts so hard the Old Fashioned comes out of his nose, dribbling onto his light blue button-up, and that sends me through the stratosphere. I’m doubled over laughing until he pulls me around the corner to give us more distance from our victim.
“We’re going to hell,” Owen says as he catches his breath, wiping a drop of liquor from the corner of his mouth.
“Then we might as well make ourselves comfortable,” I reply. “You know who else I hate in this room?”
“Please tell me.”
“Okay, there’s a couple at my seven o’clock—don’t look! Be subtle about it. Their names are both Pat. Pat and Pat.”
His eyes slowly shift behind me, focusing on the middle distance before flashing back in alarm. “Amelia. They look like siblings.”
“I know!” My claws dig into his arm. “And they didn’t always! Since they started dating, Pat O. cut their hair really short and Pat G. switched from glasses to contacts and now they’re basically identical.”
“You did not just call them Pat O. and Pat G. like we’re in first grade.”
“How else am I supposed to distinguish them?”
He glances over my shoulder again, then suggests, “Balding Pat and Nose Ring Pat?”
My laugh is rough and bright. “They actually both have nose rings, Pat O. must just have it out today.”
Owen shakes his head. “Horrible. Maybe you should just publicly declare one your favorite, and that can be Pat Number One and the other will be Pat Number Two.”
“And what if I hate both of them equally?”
Owen takes a half step closer to me, and the prickling at the back of my neck suggests it’s because Pat and Pat are getting closer. I hope they are. I hope they get so close that he has to hold me and whisper straight in my ear, lick the words down my neck before we make our escape.
“Mmmm,” he muses, hand on my hip. “This game would be a lot easier if I could stare openly at them.”
“Stare at your own risk, my guy. It’s like Medusa. Anyone who makes direct eye contact with Pat O. will smell like patchouli for the rest of time.”
A spark of amusement flickers in his eyes. “Pat-chouli? Get it?”
My laugh pulls me forward, forehead falling against his shoulder. “Okay Pat O. is Patchouli from now on.”
“And I’m sorry but I still think you should call Pat G. Balding Pat.”
“That’s not nearly as punny.” My hands keep finding their way to his chest, the broad strength of it through his neatly ironed shirt.
“Maybe just Patchy? Like Pat-chy?” he suggests.
My eyes are locked on his. “You are so mean.”
“So are you.” His hand moves to my lower back. “Now will you please show me where your art is, so I can tell you that you’re also hot and talented?”
I nod to the left and he follows obediently. I note as we walk, “It’s weird that you know all about my hobbies and work but I barely know anything about yours.”
Fingers interlock with mine, big and warm. He says, “My work is boring. It's literally corporate mergers.”
“But you're up for partner right?” I ask. “That's... impressive.”
He lets out a single, staccato laugh. “You sound like you're not sure.”
“Should I be?” I ask. “Impress me.”
“I’m not gonna brag about my job. I make a lot of money and am semi-miserable while I do it.”
“Okay fine,” I say, pausing us at the first piece in the knit and crochet section—a beautiful black cardigan with a white ouroboros curling across the back, devouring itself endlessly.
“So you're not passionate about work. That's fine.
I once talked to this guy on the Cape who said he'd rather be boring than broke.”
He knows I’m talking about him, and replies with a teasing lilt, “That guy sounds like an asshole.” His eyes are fixed on the cardigan, head tilted slightly, considering.
“He's really not,” I say, “when you get to know him.”
He doesn’t respond. The edge of his playful mouth tilts down, a furrow between his brows. Like this piece in particular resonates—pain, self-destruction, unbroken cycles.
I can almost hear his thoughts out loud, and it’s enough to make me ask, “What about hobbies? What do you do on evenings and weekends? Besides the volunteer stuff, I mean.”
“Well, I guess I'm a runner now.” He lets me take his hand and guide him farther down the hall as we talk.
“You guess?”
“I kind of hate running. I just do it because it's an excuse to make Andy hang out with me.”
“Aww. You pushover.”
“And I don't know,” he says. “My other hobbies have pretty much been subsumed by work at this point.”
“What did you used to do?”
“Sports.”
I roll my eyes.
“Soccer and football were the big ones.”
I say, “You have the aura of a football guy.”
“Is that an insult?” he asks, and I say it is, and he laughs.
“Come on,” I insist, “there has to be something you still do just for you. Even if it’s a little thing. Even if it’s embarrassing.”