22
Lia
The SALON is now open for business.” Sophie sits at the head of the table with the composure of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
I knew this reaction was inevitable. There was no way my friends would keep their cool once they found out. This is NASA, after all. I mean… this is the SALON.
So here we are, having an official, sit-down “family meeting” in the back corner of Hopewell Bar & Kitchen on Comm. Ave., not permitted to touch our beers until Sophie’s questions have been sufficiently answered.
“Owen Walsh, Lia Mercado, we have called you here today for a formal hearing about the status of your relationship. Oh shoot…” Sophie starts riffling through her purse.
“I meant to bring something to use as a gavel. Rats. Okay just imagine I have a gavel and I’m hitting it on the table right now.
Oh, maybe a spoon? Andy, is there a spoon in the—”
“This is absurd.” I try to stand, but Nolan catches my shoulder and shoves me back into the chair. I stomp on his foot under the table. Then he shoves me because he’s a dickwad, so I shove him too, and by then Andy has stood up and pushed his way between us.
“Stop it, assholes. Just sit like adults.”
“Okay, forget the spoon,” Sophie continues. “As I was saying, we’ve convened here today to discuss your intentions for this relationship, and how it will affect the group as a whole.”
“You know, I used to consider us friends,” I say to Sophie.
“Yeah, is this really necessary?” Owen asks. “We’re not even in a relationship. We’re just fooling around.”
“And we’re not the two of you,” I add. “We promise not to get engaged before date three.”
“Lia, don’t you start with me,” Sophie says. “Not a year ago you were screaming at me and Andy just for kissing each other. And it sounds like you two—” She waves a finger between us. “—have been doing a lot more than kissing.”
“Owen.” Nolan’s face is deadly serious as looks across the table. “What are your current intentions with my little sister?”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling, muttering, “Christ deliver me.”
“Look.” Owen leans forward, elbows on the table in a relaxed but confident posture. “None of this is called for. We’ve been on a few dates, and we’re hooking up. That’s all.”
“Define hooking up,” Sophie says.
“Let me put it this way, Soph,” I say. “You weren’t kidding about the Walsh family endowment.”
“Alright.” Nolan pops up, hands raised. “That’s it. I’m out.”
Andy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, Lia.”
“Actually that’s your brother’s job.”
“Okay!” Sophie claps her hands together brightly. “I guess we deserved that. But this is your official notice: you two have to get married now because we won’t have you messing up the dynamic at the SALON.”
“Oh yeah. What a great way to maintain a normal dynamic,” I say. “Call a formal meeting to tell two consenting adults they can’t have sex outside of marriage.”
“First of all,” Sophie says, “I am literally following your playbook, my love. Secondly, you can have as much sex as you want outside of marriage, you just have to end up married afterwards.”
“This is supremely weird,” I say. “You realize that, right?”
“Yeah come on, Sophie,” Owen says. “This is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be distracted with wedded bliss right now?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Owen agrees. “How was your honeymoon anyway? Can we talk about that?”
“No,” Sophie says. “We’re talking about you two right now.”
I lean towards Owen and stage-whisper, “Must not have been a very good honeymoon.”
He huffs his agreement. “Well, it was my brother’s first time having sex, so he probably wasn’t very good at it.”
“I’ve got some videos favorited on Pornhub that I could send them for reference,” I say.
“Can I take a look first?”
“If you’re lucky.”
By that point all three of my friends have stormed away from the table, dissolving this charade of a meeting by the grace of God.
When it’s only me and Owen left, he says, “You really are exceptional at getting annoying people to go away.”
“It helps that I’m an annoying person myself,” I explain. “I know what makes them tick.”
My phone buzzes with a text against the wooden table.
In recent months, my body has developed the annoying habit of physically recoiling at that sound, expecting it to be another message from Connor even though I’ve since blocked his number as well as several unknown numbers I suspect were him.
I’ve considered getting a new phone number myself, but what would I tell NASA?
My parents? I can’t. Better to push through, force my body and mind to behave, pray he gets tired of it all.
Yet this time, when I force myself to flip the screen over, the message I find there has my heart racing for a totally different reason.
“What is it?” Owen asks, seeing the expression on my face.
“It’s Guy,” I say, my eyes flying over the text.
“He finally talked to his cousin, the one with that boutique that’s hiring designers.
She’s willing to meet with me, but she won’t be back in Boston until October.
He said we could do a video call in the meantime instead, or if I ‘find myself in Paris’ I could meet with her sooner.
” I say the Paris bit with a tone that acknowledges how ludicrous it is.
“That’s great, Lia.” His big hand comes to rest on my shoulder, pride radiating through the warmth there. “Either way, that’s a huge step.”
“I guess,” I say, feeling deflated. “It’s just such a tactile art form. I wanted her to be able to feel the fabrics and textures and… whatever. No, you’re right, it’s still good. I’ll just wait for October. I’ll have to rework my schedule for the rest of the year but—”
“You could always go to Paris.”
My side-eye scorches between us. “Yeah, I’ll do that with the seventeen dollars in my bank account.”
Nolan calls across the room, “Are you guys gonna do a weird flirt-huddle all night or are you gonna come hang out with us?” He’s standing in front of a dart board, fistful of mismatched yellow and black darts high in the air.
“Come on,” I say, pulling Owen out of his seat and making the Paris conversation a problem for Future Lia. “Let’s kick their asses.”
“You know, I’m kind of in the mood for a crossword puzzle," I say as we turn the corner onto my block.
“Mmm, talk dirty to me, baby,” Owen says, pulling a laugh from me as he laces his fingers with mine.
The air is still humid, even after sunset. The Green Line screeches past us through the middle of the four-lane street, a brutal scrape on its rusted track. A dog barks in the distance. My cheeks are warm from the weather and the alcohol.
I say, “Hey wait, can you get a few shots of my outfit before we go inside? I haven’t posted any pictures of it yet.
” I’m in a short denim skirt, white tank, oversized black leather jacket, deliberately ripped tights, combat boots with chunky silver zippers—all wardrobe staples but just edgy enough to be interesting.
“Sure, gorgeous.” He takes the phone from me as stand beneath a streetlight, hoping the yellowy glow will slant into the frame just right—moody and nostalgic.
But before Owen can take the picture, I watch a furrow form in his brow. He squints down at the screen, pulling it closer to his face.
“Lia, what the fuck is this?”
A sinking feeling in my gut. I know exactly what it must be, but fuck—I didn’t want him to see it.
I march towards him. “Give me that.”
He lets me snatch the phone back but absolutely isn’t dropping the issue. “Was that him? The ex we talked about? Is he bothering you again?”
Sure enough, a string of unanswered texts is open on the screen, all from an unknown number, with the most concerning one anchored at the bottom:
Did you have fun at Hopewell tonight?
My chest tightens, breaths shallow, face flushing hot. I’m frozen in place, but Owen’s inquest isn’t over. “You were getting weird texts at the bachelor/ette party too. Was that him? Has he been bothering you this whole time and you didn’t say anything?”
“It’s none of your business who’s texting me,” I say, but it’s meek and bloodless. I shove the panic down, clicking the screen black and continuing towards home.
“Amel—” he starts, then switches to, “Lia, he knew where you were tonight. Is he stalking you? Have you filed—”
“He’s not stalking me. He probably saw it on my Instagram story.” I shove open the front door of my building and Owen stomps behind me.
“You tagged your location?”
“That’s how social media works.” The rusted key scrapes into the lock on my door and sticks. I jiggle it angrily but it won’t fucking budge.
“Are you insane?” he asks.
“Excuse me?” I twist, push, twist at the lock and it still won’t budge.
“You’ve been getting threatening messages and you’re tagging your location to make yourself easier to find? Are you out of your mind?”
The latch finally gives way and I shove the door open. “Go fuck yourself, dude. You don’t own me.”
He follows me in, but shuts the door with care—deliberately not letting it slam, like my body was bracing for.
“No, but I do care about you and your safety.” His tone is paternalistic, scolding, like I’m a child who should know better. “You can’t do stuff like that. Not anymore. Not with this guy out there clearly trying to find you.”
“You know what,” I say, lowering my voice to a deadly simmer. “I think you should leave.”
“Because I’m telling you the truth?”
“Because you’re telling me how to live my life!” I spit the words, confident he’ll cut his losses and run away from this raging, corrosive mess.
Instead, he asks, quietly, “Is he here in Boston? Your ex? He’s back?”
My silence is answer enough.
“How long have you known?”
“Long enough.”
“What else has he done.” He asks the question like a statement, no question mark, and it’s a log tossed on the fire in my chest. If he’s going to push me, then this is war, and I’ve got an entire arsenal of rhetorical bullets up my sleeve.
Not the least of which is shocking him into silence with brutal truth.