24
Lia
Owen: Would you prefer a robust apology over text, phone, or in person?
Lia: in person please
Owen: Well since you asked so nicely
Owen: Got dinner plans tomorrow?
Lia: not yet
Owen: What about this place?
Owen: [link]
Lia: wow youre really trying to butter me up huh
Owen: I’ll pick you up at 6?
Lia: im actually working in the seaport tomorrow so i can meet you there around 6:30
Owen: Perfect
“I hope you know that no amount of feminism will make me split this bill with you.”
Owen laughs as he holds the door open, letting me walk into the restaurant in front of him. “I’m glad you told me. I spent all day trying to figure out whether you’d want me to cover it or not. Seemed like either option would make you mad.”
My strappy gold heels click against the hardwood floor. “You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?”
“Terrified.”
The soft sounds of strings surround us, and I try not to gawk at the ornate chandeliers twinkling in gold as the hostess shows us to our table. When we get there, Owen pulls out my chair like the stuffy try-hard he is. I secretly love it.
“Why’s this place so fancy?” I ask as I sit, scooping my silk dress so it doesn’t wrinkle. “Please don’t pull a Sophie-and-Andy and propose to me right now.”
“No way,” he replies coolly, taking his own seat and unfolding a napkin onto his lap. “I’m not even sure if I like you yet.”
“Oh, you’re not?”
“Nope. You’re too smart and pretty. I like being the smart and pretty one in the relationship.”
We order a bottle of merlot from a waiter in monochromatic black, and when he’s gone, I slide open my menu, asking casually, “Should I expect your apology before or after we eat?”
“You tell me, Grand Master Mercado. I exist at your pleasure.”
I peek at him over the appetizer list. “Now is good.”
His smile dims, and he doesn’t beat around the bush. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He takes a deep breath. “That’s a really good question.
” At the look on my face, his hands pop up in self-defense.
“I’m not saying I did nothing wrong. I just mean I spent all week thinking about it and I still have complicated feelings.
I know I made you feel like I wasn’t listening to you, so I’m sorry for that first of all.
I’m sorry that I have this instinct to control things, but let’s be honest, you have it too.
” My expression must still be incredulous because he corrects himself. “I’m off to a bad start right now.”
“Keep trying,” I say, feeling generous because dammit, we really are similar, aren’t we?
“I think,” he starts, then quieter, “I know I have some issues, and I’m trying to work on that. But also…”
I take a sip from my water, refusing to give an inch, waiting for him to do the work himself.
The lawyer in him is showing as he says, “I hope we can mutually agree on a course of action that makes us both feel secure, with this Connor thing and anything else. I think we can. I really do. Because dammit, Lia, I care about you. I don’t know when it changed, when you moved from being some beautiful, inscrutable woman that my brother is friends with to being someone who’s really important to me, but you did.
And it’s not that we can never fight, but I can’t take it if you shut me out. ”
I smooth the napkin on my lap, then say, “That wasn’t as much of an apology as I was expecting.”
He sighs. “I suppose not.”
Then I realize something, sitting up straighter as I ask, “Wait… did you just say this Connor thing?”
“That’s his name, isn’t it?”
I’m sure I never mentioned the name to Owen. Absolutely sure. In fact, I pointedly omitted it from our conversations. That must mean…
“How did you figure it out?”
“What?”
“Did he say something to you? Did he actually talk to you about it?”
“Yes… he just—”
My menu drops, hand going to my mouth. I can’t believe Connor would—
“He just dropped the name in passing, on our run yesterday. Don’t be mad at him.”
I press my eyes shut. On their run. Andy. Andy told him.
When I look back across the table, Owen looks more confused than ever.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Yeah, I’m not mad at him. It’s fine.”
“So what do you think, Lia? Can you let me in? Can you let me help you? Because I need to. I can’t—”
“How are things going over here? Are we ready to place our orders?”
I look up at the waiter with a forced smile. “Not quite yet. Thank you.”
“Of course. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Momentum lost, Owen deflates across the table, adding feebly, “I need to feel like I’m helping.
And I think you need to know there are people in your life who will help.
I don’t want you to ever have to handle something alone again, or wonder why no one noticed or cared. I’m here. I notice and I care.”
Even in the strange limbo aftermath of our fight, this man is the pinnacle of consideration. It’s clear he’s heard everything I’ve told him, and taken it deeply to heart. I can’t remember ever feeling so seen. So tenderly held, without him even touching me.
So I say, “I’ll try.”
“You’ll try?”
“I’ll try to… talk about this. To be honest and include you. There are still things you don’t know, and you should hear them from me. But you need to promise that I’m in charge, okay? This whole situation—it’s my decision to make, how I handle it.”
His eyes sparkle in the low light, relief twisting at the corners of his mouth. “Okay.”
“But not here.” I glance about the room briefly, at the businessmen and theatergoers in their Sunday best. “I’ll tell you everything but… later. When we’re alone.”
“Okay, yes,” he breathes. “Whatever you want.”
“I want to talk about something happy,” I pivot. “This is supposed to be my glamorous night out.”
“Hah, alright. Big talk or small talk?”
“You know I like ‘em big,” I say with a wink. “Why don’t you update me on the partner stuff? Have they picked you yet?”
“Okay, well first of all, a touch of superstitious discretion please. I won’t find out for another week or two.”
I knock on my wooden chair.
“I’m up against one other guy, and the senior partners are basically using our most recent work as a decision point.”
“Were the cases you had similar? Can they really compare apples-to-apples like that?”
He shrugs. “Technically they’re matters, not cases, and no, but they’re going to. The other guy’s kind of sloppy, couldn’t spot an unitalicized id if it slapped him in the face—”
“That means nothing to me.”
“—but he’s also got the whole WASP-y New England asshole thing going so he’s kind of a shoe in.”
“You don’t think you have the WASP-y New England asshole thing going?”
“I was raised Catholic, Amelia, not Protestant.”
I laugh. “You know, that actually tracks. Your whole misplaced guilt thing.”
Owen quirks an audacious brow at me. “Did you just make a joke about my relationship to my abused mother?”
“Me? I would never joke.”
“And where’s your Catholic guilt, anyway?” he asks. “Did you skip that week of Sunday school?”
I glance down at my nails, deep blue and sharp. “I was probably out back, hooking up with the preacher’s daughter.”
“Wait, really?” Owen has the starstruck look of a man meeting his idol.
“No, dickwad,” I laugh, giving up decorum as I toss a crust of bread at him. “But I love that you bought it. What an excellent personal brand I’ve cultivated.”
“Hot and annoying,” he says with hearts in his eyes. “Always have been.”
The rest of the meal is… wonderful. Owen’s sarcastic banter paired with duck à l’orange—sweet and hearty and acidic, just the way I like it. It’s enough to distract me from the promise I just made him, the truths I’ll have to tell when it’s only the two of us again.
And sure enough, as soon as we make it to his car, he says, “You don’t have to tell me right now, but I’m here to listen, whenever you’re ready.”
“Wow, you were really waiting to pounce, weren’t you?” I ask, not looking at him as I fasten my seatbelt.
“I mean it, Lia. I want to be someone you can depend on.”
Silence vibrates as I get my bearings. He shifts into drive and the dark streets of Boston begin to slide past the window, all narrow turns and double-parked cars. Eventually, Owen reaches for the car radio, clearly prepared to give up for tonight.
“Can you keep a secret?” I ask.
His hand pauses, floats back to the steering wheel, like any fast motion might spook me off. “Yes.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
He sighs. “I kept my mom’s abuse a secret from Andy for seventeen years, didn’t I? Feels like that was a pretty good run.”
“I guess that’s true.” Then something clicks into place. “Wait, you kept it, past tense? Does that mean…?”
He nods.
“Wait, really? You told him?”
“Yeah. Yesterday. After our run.”
“Owen…” Pride is an explosion in my chest. I want to hug him and kiss him and show him just how incredible that is. I settle for squeezing his knee. “That’s amazing. That’s so, so good. How’d it go?”
“It’s kind of thanks to you, actually. I only brought it up because I needed advice about… whatever this is between us.”
“Oh yeah?” My interest is piqued. “And was Andy’s advice any good?”
“Well, he told me my moral compass is fucked up because morality is subjective and the situation is fucked up.”
I laugh loudly at that. “A real way with words, that one.”
“But then, yeah, it was. He basically told me to stop trying to protect you all the time, because you don’t like or need that, and that I can just be your… partner.” He says the word tentatively, like he’s wary of how I’ll react.
“Partner, huh?” I shift in my seat, an unwanted warmth blooming on my face. “Between this and work, that’s really the theme of your summer, isn’t it?”
He lets out a single “ha” then signals left, checks his mirrors, checks his blind spot, switches lanes. So meticulous.
Then he says, “Speaking of hard conversations…”
A few drops of rain hit the windshield and I’m suddenly conscious of my heartbeat—a thick, angry thud in my chest. I take a slow breath, hold it for three, then let it out.