conversations that change everything and nothing

some kind of good luck charm, part II. autofiction piece about old friends and almosts.

artwork from Pinterest

this is a direct sequel to an autofiction piece I posted back in march, called some kind of good luck charm, so I highly encourage you to read that one first before coming back to this. I think it’s better that way. thank you so much for reading. these characters have unexpectedly become so dear to me, and I think it’s because I’ve known them long before they were written. I hope you grow to love them as much as I do. <3

The weeks leading up to Mila’s wedding felt like returning to your childhood bedroom after years of being gone. You know the furniture will be in the same places, that the walls will still hold the same faded poster marks, that everything will look exactly like the home you remember. But there’s this creeping fear that won’t feel like home anymore. You’ll recognize the room and all its parts with bittersweetness, but you won’t recognize yourself as someone who used to live in it. That’s what preparing to see everyone again felt like: afraid it would look like coming home, but knowing it probably wouldn’t feel like it anymore.

I found myself obsessing over what to wear, whether to cut my hair, if I should bring a date to save face. In the end, I chose a navy blue dress that was comfortable enough to make me feel like myself, but formal enough for a wedding, kept my hair the same as it’s always been, and went alone like I originally planned, because pretending seemed more exhausting than being honest. I didn’t need anything more to worry about right now.

The invitation had arrived on cream-colored cardstock, Mila’s name embossed in gold alongside someone called James none of us had ever met. The wedding was in Napa, because of course it was, and at a vineyard that looked expensive even in photographs. She’d included a handwritten note: Can’t wait to see everyone together again! It’s been too long! Her handwriting was the same, but something about the phrasing felt like she’d written the same exact thing on several other invites.

I’d started writing again after seeing Anna, hesitant at first, and then suddenly, I couldn’t peel myself away. The novel felt different now, less like fiction and more like confession. I was taking simple truths from my own life, trying to understand the space between what happened and what almost happened. And as if it were out of my control, Andrew appeared in every scene, carefully disguised as characters with different names but the same studied way of holding back.

Every now and then I’d remember he was bringing someone to Mila’s wedding. After Anna broke the news over coffee, I feigned nonchalance but immediately searched her up once I got home. I dug around on social media in the name of ‘research’, trying to find everything I could about this new girlfriend of his — but she didn’t seem to have much of an internet presence to begin with. All I could find was her name: Stella. Eventually, I gave up and tried to forget about it, convincing myself it was a problem for future me, that it was fine, and that I was happy for him. But it wasn't fine, and I wasn’t glad, and the next few weeks passed in a blur of imagining scenarios where I’d have to watch him be who I wished he could’ve been before with someone who wasn’t me.

The vineyard was everything the invitation had promised — rolling hills decorated with grapevines, golden light that made everything look like a movie. I arrived early, hoping to find a quiet corner to collect myself before the inevitable reunion. Instead, I walked directly into Theo, who was standing by the welcome table looking exactly like himself but somehow older.

“Rowan!” He hugged me tightly, and for a split-second it felt like no time had passed at all. “You look incredible. How long has it been?”

“Way too long,” I said, meaning it. “How’s San Diego?”

“Can’t complain. Well, I could, but not here.” He gestured toward the vineyard. “This is insane, right? Mila actually did it. Became the person she always said she would.”

We caught up in the easy way of people who had once known each other completely. He told me about his research, his girlfriend Jennifer, who couldn’t make it, the apartment he’d scored near the beach. I told him about the coffee shop, my sister, the writing I was finally doing again. Both of us knew not to mention Andrew, but I could feel his absence in our conversation like a missing tooth.

“There’s our bride,” Theo said, and I turned to see Mila approaching in a dress that probably cost more than my rent. She looked radiant and nervous.

“You guys!” She embraced us both at once, and suddenly we were a cluster of bodies trying to bridge years with physical closeness. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe any of this is happening, actually.”

“Nervous?” I asked, grinning.

“Oh, terrified,” she admitted. “But… good terrified, you know? Like before jumping off a cliff.”

“Have you ever done that?” Theo asked.

She squinted one eye and gracefully lifted a perfectly manicured hand as a makeshift visor over her forehead to block the sun. “No, but I would imagine it’d feel kind of like this.”

We talked for a few more minutes before she was whisked away by someone with a clipboard and urgent facial expressions. Theo and I found our seats, assigned to the same table, along with Anna — and inevitably, Andrew.

Anna appeared just as the music started, looking polished in the way that her lifestyle seemed to require. She hugged me quickly before taking her seat.

“He’s here,” she whispered. “With her. Just… be prepared.”

I wasn’t. As they walked along the aisle and passed our row, they looked perfect together in a way that made my chest tight and heart sink. Andrew caught my eye as they passed our row, and his step faltered slightly. He smiled that same careful smile and I gave him one right back, a performance of normalcy that felt like dying.

The ceremony was beautiful in the way expensive weddings always are. Mila and James exchanged vows that sounded sweet and sincere, and I tried to focus on this celebration of their love instead of the way Andrew’s hand rested on Stella’s knee, the way she leaned into him during the readings. But I kept stealing glances, cataloging similarities and differences, trying to understand what her presence meant. I don’t know why I always had to do that — find meaning in every little thing. I hated the way I couldn’t just leave it alone, wish them well, and move on like a normal person.

At the reception, our table became a strange reunion of people pretending the intervening years hadn’t changed a thing. Andrew introduced Stella with obvious pride, and she was charming in exactly the way I could be if I were braver and more confident. She was naturally witty, she laughed at Theo’s jokes, asked thoughtful questions about my writing, complimented Anna’s jewelry. She was trying so hard to fit in that it made me feel sorry for her, which only made me feel worse about myself.

“Rowan’s, uh, the writer I was telling you about,” Andrew said during a lull in conversation, and something in his tone made me look up sharply.

“Oh, with the book!” Stella said excitedly, and I could tell she was being genuine, which killed me. “Andrew mentioned you were working on something really special.”

The fact that he’d talked about me to her at all felt like both a gift and a wound. I mumbled something about it being a work in progress, and the conversation moved on. As the evening progressed, I found myself watching them more carefully. The way Stella touched his arm when she talked, the comfortable rhythm they’d developed. But there was something performative about it too, like they were both trying very hard to be the couple they thought they should be.

The reception had moved outside to the terrace as the evening cooled, string lights casting everything in a warm glow. I found myself at one of the high cocktail tables on the edge of the party, sipping away another glass of wine. The alcohol had settled into my bones and everything feel soft around the edges. Andrew appeared beside me, his tie undone and hanging loose around his neck. He’d been drinking steadily since dinner. I could tell by the way he moved, more relaxed than I’d seen him all evening.

“Mind if I…?” He gestured to the empty space next to me at the table.

“It’s a free country,” I said, then immediately regretted such a nothing response.

We stood in comfortable silence for a moment, both of us watching Stella laugh at something Theo was saying near the dance floor. She looked radiant under the ambient lighting.

“She fits,” I said finally, not sure why I was speaking the thought aloud.

“What do you mean?” His voice was soft, curious rather than defensive.

“Here. With all of this.” I gestured vaguely at the elegant reception, the beautiful people, the effortless sophistication of it all. “She looks like she belongs in a place like this.”

“And you don't think you do?”

I shrugged, the wine making me honest. “Some things just don’t change. I’m one of them.”

“Some things do, though.” He looked at me sideways. “You’re writing again.”

“Yeah, I am,” I fiddled with the pendant on my necklace. “And remind me again how you found out?”

“Anna mentioned it.”

Of course she did. “It’s different now," I said. “The story, I mean. Turns out I had more to say than I thought I did when I was twenty-one.”

“About what?”

I took a long sip, gathering courage. “About missed connections. And timing. How sometimes the most important conversations are the ones you never have.”

Andrew was looking at me now, really looking, and I could feel the weight of his attention even though I kept my eyes straight ahead, pretending to scope the area.

“Sounds heavy,” he said quietly.

“It is, a little. But not in a bad way. More like… finally giving a name to something that’s always been there.”

The music changed to something slower, and I watched as Stella glanced around, clearly looking for Andrew. She caught sight of us and waved, her smile bright and genuine.

“She’s going to wonder where you are,” I said.

“Probably.” But he didn’t move.

“She seems really great, Andrew. I mean that.”

“She is.” His voice carried something I couldn’t quite place. Affection, maybe, but also something that sounded almost like apology.

“But?”

He was quiet for so long I thought maybe he wouldn’t answer. “Do you ever think about parallel lives?” he asked finally. “Like, the versions of ourselves we might have been if we’d made different choices?”

The question hung between us, loaded with years of what-ifs. I felt the wine and the evening and the strange intimacy of the moment mixing together in my chest. “Yeah,” I admitted. “All the time.”

“I used to think moving to New York would stop that. The wondering, I mean. That if I just… built something new, somewhere else, I could stop thinking about the things I left behind.”

“Well, did it work?”

Andrew laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What do you think?”

Before I could answer, we heard raised voices from near the main entrance to the terrace. Mila was standing there in her wedding dress, but something was wrong. Her face was flushed, and she was gesturing emphatically while James stood nearby looking dumbfounded.

“I can’t,” she was saying, her voice carrying across the terrace despite the music. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. Not like this.”

The entire reception came to a halt, conversations trailing off as people turned to look. Mila’s hands were shaking as she gathered up her skirts, and then she was running — actually running — across the terrace and down the steps toward the vineyard, her dress billowing behind her like something out of a movie.

“Should we —” I started.

“No,” Andrew said quietly. “Let her go.”

The entire reception had ground to a halt, guests frozen in place like actors who’d forgotten their lines. James looked devastated but not entirely surprised, which made me think this wasn't the first time Mila had second thoughts.

And then she was gone, running across the vineyard in her designer dress, leaving behind a wedding that had cost more than most people’s cars. The aftermath was awkward and painful. James stood by the door for several minutes before his groomsmen gently led him away. Guests began to leave in small increments, whispering among themselves. Our little group clustered together out of old habit, united by shared bewilderment.

“Should we go after her?” Anna asked.

“Where would we even look?” Theo replied.

Andrew was checking his phone. “She texted me. Says she’s okay, just needs time to think.”

Stella appeared at his elbow, looking concerned and beautiful. “Is everything alright?”

“Just Mila being Mila,” Andrew said, but his tone was gentle. “She’ll be okay.”

We decided to move the reunion to the hotel bar, a smaller, quieter space where we could process what had just happened. Stella excused herself, saying she was tired, and kissed Andrew goodnight with a practiced intimacy. I watched him watch her go, noting the affection in his expression but also the relief.

“That was intense,” Anna said once we were settled in a corner booth.

“Classic Mila, though,” Theo said. “Remember when she quit the school musical the night before opening because she decided she didn't want to be an actress anymore?”

“Or when she changed her major three times freshman year,” I added.

“She’ll figure it out,” Andrew said. “She always does.”

We talked for another hour, sharing stories and catching up, but everything felt different. Not vastly different — our dynamics remained the same, for the most part, just slightly shifted. On top of that, the conversation Andrew and I had left unfinished loomed between us, and I could feel him stealing glances when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Eventually, Anna and Theo called it a night, leaving Andrew and I alone. The bartender was already cleaning glasses with the efficiency of someone hoping to close sometime soon.

“One more?” Andrew asked, and I nodded, not ready for the evening to end.

We moved to a smaller table by the window that looked out over the vineyard. In the distance, I could see the lights from the reception being turned off one by one.

“Weird night,” I said finally.

“That’s one way to put it.” Andrew was quiet for a moment, then: “Are you happy? I mean, really happy. With your life, your writing, everything.”

The question caught me off guard. “That’s a lot.”

“I know, I know. But I’ve been wondering.”

I considered lying and giving him the easy answer that would keep everything surface-level. But instead, I found myself being honest. “I think I’m becoming happy. It’s taken me a long time to figure out what that even means.”

“And what does it mean?”

“Not living in the past, I guess? Not waiting for permission to want things,” I paused. “What about you?”

Andrew stared into his glass. “I thought I was. I thought I had it all figured out. Great job, nice apartment, someone who loves me. But tonight…”

“Tonight?”

“After dinner, I kept thinking about what you said earlier about conversations, how the most important ones are the ones you never have. Like the one where we finally figured out what we really were to each other.”

My heart started beating faster. “What?”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it’s not fair to bring this up now. I know I made my choice when I left. But seeing you again, I don’t know.” He trailed off, running his hands through his hair.

“What are you even saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t know if I made the right choice. And I’m saying that scares me.”

The weight of his admission settled between us. “But you made a choice anyway,” I said finally, as gently as I could. “And so did I. We both chose to let it stay a maybe.”

“Did we choose, or were we just too scared to?”

It was a fair question, one I’d been asking myself for years. “Probably both.”

Andrew looked at me then, like really looked at me, and I saw something in his expression that reminded me of the last night in our apartment — that same mixture of longing and regret.

“If I asked you to come back to New York with me,” he said gently, “what would you say?”

“I’d say you have a girlfriend who loves you, and I have a life I’m finally building for myself.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I met his eyes, and all at once, I felt the pull of all those years of almosts.

“I’d say yes,” I whispered. “And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t ask.”

Just then, the bartender politely informed us that they were closing. We stood up, both of us reluctant to say goodnight, afraid that speaking would break whatever fragile thing had formed between us.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Andrew said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn't.”

I smiled weakly, and he hugged me. For just a moment I let myself imagine what it would feel like if this were a different story. One where timing worked in our favor, one where we’d been brave enough.

But this was the story we had: two people who had found each other at the wrong time, over and over again. That’s another thing I’ve been slowly growing to realize — that sometimes, the right person at the wrong time is just the wrong person.

In my hotel room, I sat by the window and watched the world settle into sleep. Somewhere out there, Mila was discovering what it felt like to choose uncertainty over safety. A few floors above me, Andrew was probably staring at his own ceiling, trying to make sense of a conversation that changed everything and nothing at the same time.

I pulled out my laptop and opened the novel I’d been working on. For the first time in months, I knew exactly what came next. Not because it had a happy ending, but because it finally had an honest one. I began to write about the space between what we want and what we choose, between the people we love and the people we end up with, between the stories we tell ourselves and the ones that are actually true. How sometimes, the most honest thing you can do is admit that loving does not always mean having.

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