Page 27 of Ship Happens

“Okay, keep not listening to me,” Jacob scoffs. “That worked really well the first time.”

That’s when Owen notices the stares he’s getting from a few of the nearby passengers. Nosy neighbors who want nothing more than to eavesdrop on the argument and figure out who’s in the wrong. The heat on Owen’s neck starts to spread, first to his back, and then to his chest, causing his shirt to stick to his skin like it’s coiling around him.

Not here, Owen thinks. Not right now.

In a calmer setting, he’d maybe be able to talk himself down from the ledge he’s stepping up on, or even if he had his noise-canceling earplugs. The music seems to slowly creep up on Owen, a ringing starting in his ears.

There’s that pressure, right at the nape of his neck. It’s not quite a pang, just a . . . a feeling, a tension that blossoms slowly. It’s the same feeling he’d get when his parents stared at him for too long, before telling him that no excuse was good enough. When they told Owen that he needed to make an effort to look “more like a girl.”

Owen feels a fluttering in his chest as he presses the nails of his thumb and index finger together, feeling relaxed by the numbing pressure it creates, almost connecting him back to a moment that he can feel himself slipping away from.

“You’re not dancing?” Jacob asks, his attention still solely on Owen, almost like he’s trying to distract Owen from something. Himself, maybe.

“What makes you think I want to dance?”

“You used to like to,” Jacob reminds him. “At least, you did with me.”

For the briefest moment, Owen’s heart swells with warmer memories. Owen getting home late from the shop, Jacob in the kitchen reheating one of the meals that Owen prepared ahead of time for the days when they both got home late. They’d spend hours spooning food into their mouths while they caught each other up on their day, filling the room with laughter. One of Owen’s favorite memories is the night some jazz album that Jacob was waiting for finally came out, and he played it for Owen, taking Owen’s hand in his own during one of the slower songs.

“This is one of my favorites, they played it on their last tour,” he’d said, pulling Owen toward him, letting him rest his head against his chest as they swayed back and forth, Owen listening to the steady rhythm of Jacob’s heart beating in his chest.

“You should get out there,” Jacob says. “Kaitlyn and Abby are having a great time.”

“I’m good here,” Owen says, eyes going back to the tattoo, to Jacob’s chest, which only seems to have gotten bigger over the last year. Maybe he’s been hitting the gym harder post breakup. Owen forces himself to avert his gaze. “You don’t have to babysit me. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“I just wanted a drink,” Jacob says to him. “I know that things are a little . . . tense—”

“Did Kaitlyn put you up to this?” he asks, venom in his tone. “Or is it just out of the kindness of your heart?”

“My sister doesn’t have to ask me to check in on you, Owen.” There’s frustration in his voice. “Believe it or not, I’m capable of caring about you outside of our romantic history.”

“Okay, well, I’m fine! See!” Owen holds out his arms as if that gives Jacob a better view of his body. “I’m not sitting here stewing in my own misery, I’m not in pain or anything. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say that you weren’t.”

Owen closes his eyes, growing angry with himself. I thought you would’ve fought harder. That’s all. Owen remembers Kaitlyn’s words.

Did she say the same thing to Jacob?

For a moment, Owen hesitates, his eyes meeting Jacob’s. His stomach stirs with shame, embarrassed by the childish nature of his words. “I didn’t ask you to be nice to me,” Owen says to him.

“No,” Jacob admits. “You didn’t.”

“I’m not the one—” Owen starts to say, before letting go of the words, realizing they’ll only make things worse.

Jacob still finishes the thought for him. “—who left. I know.”

“Well, at least you’re kind enough to admit it.” Owen’s body feels electric, tightening around him as the DJ shouts something, changing the song and pumping the volume as the crowd cheers. A few more people hop into the pool, water lapping around Owen’s thighs as his shirt starts to cling to his back, sweat pooling on his skin uncomfortably.

He needs to leave, he can feel it.

“I just wish you’d talk to me,” Jacob continues.

“What do you call what we’re doing now?”

“Deflecting,” Jacob says plainly.

“I’m over it, okay?” Owen says to him, catching the eyes of a few nearby guests who no doubt are eating this up. “I’m over you, Jacob.”