Never Always Sometimes - Adi Alsaid Page 0,86

weeks. Every landmark in town,

every restaurant or shopping plaza or tree, Dave could suddenly recall

exactly what song he and Gretchen were listening to as they drove past

it. His memory had never been sharper. Which was kind of a shitty

thing for his memory to do at this particular time.

The sun was starting to turn orange, casting everything in the

harbor in the same emblazoned light, making silhouettes out of all

the people in Dave’s line of sight. He watched the bundled shadows of

the homeless guys gathering their belongings and moving on for the

night. A couple of sophomore girls from school walked right in front

of Dave, not noticing him sitting on the bench, like he was more liquid

than solid.

“I’m serious,” one of them was saying, “it’s a real thing. We have to

try it.”

“There’s no way that exists.”

“I read it online.” The girl was a brunette, wearing dozens of

bracelets on her wrist that jingled audibly. “Oreos fried in Mountain

Dew. Just saying it out loud gives me goose bumps.”

They kept walking, their conversation fading out, contextless. Dave’s

butt was asleep. His feet were asleep. Everything else was painfully

awake. He felt like a guttural groan would nicely summarize how he

was feeling.

“Dave.”

At first he just craned his neck, thinking maybe the sophomore girls

had recognized him and hadn’t picked up on the social cues that said

DAVE & JULIA 289

he was miserable and didn’t want to chat. Then he saw a silhouette

coming his way, the wavy locks unmistakably Gretchen’s. He stood

up as quickly as he could, which was not all that quick thanks to his

stiffened muscles.

She wasn’t crying. That was something. She was in front of him

and not crying and she’d said his name without affixing an insult or

a curse. Not that Gretchen was the type to throw insults or curses

around, even at people who deserved them. “Hi,” he said, not quite

holding his breath, but waiting to see what came next. Since that day at school, Dave hadn’t talked to Gretchen, except over and over again in

his mind. He’d glanced at her once in class, then immediately flushed

with shame, hiding himself away, feeling exactly like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

She was wearing a black zip-up hoodie with the school’s name on

it. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets. The smell of honey wafted

over to him and he knew that it would be a long time before he’d be

able to forget what it was like to be near her.

“I figured I could find you here,” she said.

“The bench helps me feel less like an asshole.” He rubbed the back

of his neck. “Gretchen, I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough but I need

to say it again. I don’t deserve to feel like less of an asshole.”

She nodded, rubbed one foot against the other. “You hurt me, Dave.”

Dave wanted to whisper another “I’m sorry,” but there were still no

tears and he didn’t want anything to push her to that point, so he kept

quiet. He’d stand there and let her yell at him, take the full force of her 290 NEVER ALWAYS SOMETIMES

sorrow if it meant easing some of it. He’d absorb her pain, and Julia’s

too, if he could. But he didn’t know how, and so he stood there, a hand

on the back of his neck, looking around the harbor, stealing glances at

Gretchen, who seemed almost confused about why she was standing

there with him.

Gretchen took a step closer to Dave, so she was less of a silhouette,

the details of her face coming into focus. He couldn’t tell what she was feeling, if she was about to slap him or hug him. The moment stretched

on and on without a clue as to what was on Gretchen’s mind. People

walked all around them as if on fast-forward, like a film-editing trick.

Dave realized he had no idea what was on anyone’s mind, not even a

little. Before the Nevers he and Julia had assumed they knew exactly

what was going on in strangers’ minds, that people felt and thought in

clichés. During the Nevers Dave had discovered that they hadn’t been

exactly right, or maybe that the assumption that he didn’t fit in with

those clichés was wrong. Now everyone just seemed like a mystery. He

couldn’t even tell what the hell he was thinking and feeling, if he was

angry or sad or guilty or hopeful or curious.

“I need you to promise nothing will ever happen between you and

Julia again,” Gretchen said, eyes still on the ground.

“I promise,” Dave said quickly, before he really understood the

implications of what she was saying.

“I can’t go through that again. I was a wreck. Even