So We Can Glow - Stories - Leesa Cross-Smith Page 0,34

perfect song,” you say.

“Absolutely, but it’s too short. The really good songs like that are always shorter than three minutes and that’s too short,” Owen says. “It should be at least five minutes long.”

Five more minutes, you think. You glance back at Owen and he smiles at you. Nick is still looking out the window and nothing about him feels pink. And when the minutes are finally up and Nick gets out of the car, he says to you call me later okay and you say okay even though you know you won’t. You especially know you won’t because Owen gets out of the backseat and opens the passenger door and sits in the seat and puts his foot down on the floor and steps on Nick’s phone as you drive away.

“Oh. Nick accidentally left his phone,” Owen says, holding it up for you. He holds it like it’s his, a small intimacy. You feel a peach-soft tenderness toward Owen, even stronger than before because of it.

“Sweet. Let’s go throw it in the river,” you say, the thought sparking inside of you like lightning. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. But you’ll throw it into the mighty Ohio.

“Is that why you wanted me to ride with you? So we could go throw your boyfriend’s phone in the river together?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore. And yes. Maybe. Maybe that is why,” you say, giggling. The urge to cry has lifted and passed. The urge has gotten in the left lane and gunned past the same way you had gotten in the left lane and gunned past the two old women driving in front of you.

And once you make it to the river, Owen is the one who throws Nick’s phone—skips it like a rock—across the wide, gray ribbon of water so you can’t call Nick. Owen says you and him need to make a fat donation to a clean water fund, now that you’ve polluted the river with a phone. You agree.

“Are you worried Nick’ll come to your house? Or come up to work?” he asks as you sit there.

“Kind of,” you say. Shrug.

“Do you want to tell me exactly what he does to you?” Owen asks. And he sounds like a therapist, so you tell him that.

“My mom’s a therapist,” Owen says, nodding.

“Of course she is.” You nod too. It explains so much about his listening skills, his ability to know when you need to talk.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks.

You do.

Nick gets angry over the tiniest things like you not replying to a text within two minutes and he stays mad about these things for days. Nick’s emotional responses are disproportionate to the occasions. Once, Nick saw you say hello to a man you recognized from coming in the ice cream shop with his daughters and Nick was pissed all night about it. Kept asking who the guy was even though you kept telling him he was a guy from the ice cream shop who came in with his family. Everything makes Nick angry. Nick has issues. Nick comes from a crappy home and doesn’t know better. Nick has to figure out his own life. Nick isn’t awful all the time, you just didn’t know how to break up with him without making him mad. That scared you, so you called Owen.

“Does he ever hurt you…physically?” Owen asks and looks right at you.

“He grabs my arm sometimes…when I turn away from him or when he wants to make sure I’m listening,” you say.

“Show me,” Owen says.

You put your hand on Owen’s upper arm, squeeze and grab. Pull him closer to you.

“Not fucking cool,” Owen says calmly like the weirdo he is, the weirdo who cares about the environment and baby animals and how we treat one another. You feel bad about the rancid phone battery that will soon be polluting the river and mouth the word sorry up and out to the river, knowing it hears you, forgives you. Jesus does too. You smooth Owen’s T-shirt back down, pat his warm skin. The sun ripple-winks on the river water like it should make a clink and it is raining in your heart. Pouring.

“Are you hungry? My mom made chicken tortilla soup. Do you want some chicken tortilla soup?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say. And you get in your car and go full circle to Owen’s place where Owen’s mom is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. Owen’s dad is out back, cutting the grass. You have never