Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “He had it all planned out,” she begins hesitantly, her voice wavering with excitement. Her words come more easily as she continues. “He drove us up to the cabin—you know, the one his family owns by the lake. He cooked dinner for the two of us, and he even had a bottle of his parents’ champagne. Then when the sun went down, we went skinny-dipping. It was beautiful, there were stars and everything, like a movie or a postcard or something. And when we went inside . . .” Madeleine leaves the sentence unfinished.

  I’m silent for a moment, because what I’m visualizing isn’t a lake and a thousand stars. It’s the couch in Tyler’s basement, the sounds of the Twelfth Night cast party echoing down from upstairs. I enjoyed that experience with Tyler, feeling close to a guy I cared about, and feeling for once like I was important. Like I was the lead in a love story. But neither Tyler nor I imagined it to be this big, life-changing thing. And the décor, the timing—it wasn’t exactly an experience someone would write poetry about.

  Of course Madeleine had the perfect night. I’m glad it was perfect. I am. While Madeleine’s watched me date a nearly constant stream of guys, I’ve watched her spend all her free time studying and volunteering and not having a boyfriend, and meanwhile becoming this incredible, beautiful person. It’s nice to see her finally have the boyfriend piece, too.

  “I told you you had nothing to worry about,” I say finally.

  “I guess.” She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, smiling softly at her feet. “Anyway, I should get back to the library. I just wanted to tell you in person.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I say, but an unexpected pit opens in my stomach. I walk her to the stairs. “Skinny-dipping under the stars at a beautiful lakeside cabin,” I add, forcing a smile. “You give us mere mortals hope that true love is possible.”

  She laughs. “It is, Megan.” She grins and practically bounds down the stairs.

  I stand in the hallway, her words echoing in the small space. It is. I don’t know why her confidence upsets me. Or why hearing about Madeleine’s perfect night feels like a lump of lead under my lungs. I knew this was coming, and I wasn’t lying when I told her I was fine with it. But I can hear the words Madeleine didn’t say. Tyler gave her a night he never gave me because what they have is more real, more worthwhile than what we had. In his head, our night is forgotten, obliterated by something better.

  Which it should be, I remind myself. They love each other.

  But I guess I liked the idea that Tyler’s and my first time meant something to him—that for one boyfriend I was worth remembering. Instead I’m realizing, however close I felt to the center of Tyler’s and my stage, I was far off. Far from important. Far from extraordinary.

  I try to push the feeling away. I open the door to the green room and find Owen reading lines under his breath. I remember what he was saying about Rosaline, how she doesn’t have to be just a precursor to someone else’s happy ending.

  Madeleine and Tyler are perfect together—they’re Romeo and Juliet without the tragedy. I’ve known their relationship was unique since the first time they sat together at lunch as a couple. Madeleine laughed at something Tyler said, and his eyes lit up like he’d never heard something so lovely before. It reminded me of the way my dad smiled at Rose. There are some things a person can’t get in the way of.

  But I’m not going to be just a bystander to their epic romance. I don’t want Tyler, but I do want to be wanted.

  “I need your help with Will.” I interrupt Owen’s reading and sit down next to him.

  His head pops up. “Okay, first, you just made me lose my place,” he says, sounding exasperated, but he shuts his book and gives me his attention. “Second, you don’t need my help. You’re doing fine on your own.”

  “No, I’m not,” I admit. I’ve watched Will build sets after school three times, and still he hasn’t said one word to me since we met. “What you were just telling me about Will being new-hot, that’s the kind of insight I need. I don’t know a lot about him, about what to expect, how to read him, what he’s interested in. I like him,” I say. “And I don’t want to screw it up. You’re his friend—you could help.”

  Owen doesn’t say anything for a moment. He begins tapping his pen on his knee, and it takes everything in me to resist grabbing it out of his hand. “It could get uncomfortable if Will figures out I’m trying to set him up with someone,” he finally replies.

  I smile slightly, hopefully not enough for him to notice, because his answer wasn’t a no. He knows I’m right.

  He moves to drumming his pen on his notebook, and I realize how I can convince him. “I’ll help you with your play.” It comes out sounding like a statement, not an offer.

  His pen stops, and he looks at me with curiosity, or hesitation. “I’m not really looking for a cowriter,” he says gently.

  “Not a cowriter.” I shake my head. “I’ll help you figure out Rosaline’s character. You said you were having trouble getting into her head. Think about it. I am Rosaline.” Owen blinks, his contemplative look returning. “You liked the idea I had about Rosaline convincing herself not to want what Romeo and Juliet had. I can give you more of that. I know what it’s like to watch your ex fall for someone they’d die for, over and over,” I go on. “I could tell you about first dates, last dates, breakups—oh, the breakups.”

  He’s tempted, I can tell by the spark in his eyes. But he only asks, “Wouldn’t that be kind of weird? Interviewing you about your romantic history?” His ears turn pink.

  “It wouldn’t be weird for me. I’m not embarrassed by it,” I say with a shrug. But by the blush spreading to Owen’s cheeks, I know it’s not me he’s worried about. I’m going to enjoy scandalizing him if he agrees. “Besides,” I continue, “you said the play was inspired by me. You’re a writer, Owen. How can you refuse the chance to get real, deep emotional insight into a character? That’s what I’ll give you,” I finish triumphantly.

  He thinks for a long second. I watch the wheels turning behind his dark eyes.

  I stick out my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  When he puts his hand in mine, it’s without a trace of hesitation. His fingers wrap all the way around my hand, and his palm is surprisingly rough. “Deal,” he says.

  “I am not going to regret this,” I say, and withdraw my hand.

  He narrows his eyes. “You . . . Don’t you mean I’m not going to regret this?”

  “Yeah, that too. But I know I’m not going to regret it,” I reply, and Owen grins, a bit bashful. “What can I do?” I ask, ready to get down to business. “Do you want to start with my first boyfriend? My post-breakup ritual, what?”

  He drops his Romeo and Juliet script in my lap. “You can read for Friar John. Jody’s going to kick me out if I don’t have something memorized by the end of the day.”

  EIGHT

  ROMEO: . . . all these woes shall serve

  For sweet discourses in our times to come.

  III.v.52–3

  OWEN LIVES ONLY TEN MINUTES FROM ME. Unlike my street, his is hemmed in by trees, and I think I see a trailhead down the block when I get out of the car. His house is a single story, and there’s no car in the driveway. The lawn is brown, the leaves in dry piles by the sidewalk.

  I knock on the door, and Owen opens it almost immediately. “Hey,” he says with a smile.

  “Wow.” I peer past him into the living room. “Your house is clean.” I hardly remember what a clean house looks like. I found some dried macaroni on my bag the other day.

  “Is it?” He shrugs, but he looks a little pleased. “It’s because my family’s out right now.”

  He leads me down the hallway. The walls are sparsely decorated, only a couple of framed pictures of Owen and what must be his younger brother. Next to them hangs an enormous black-and-white photograph of a boyishly handsome Asian man in a seventies-style suit. I pause in front of it. “Is
this your dad?” I ask.

  Owen glances over his shoulder, puzzlement momentarily written in his brows. His eyes find the photograph, and his mouth twitches with contained laughter. “My mom wishes that were my dad. That’s Yûjirô Ishihara,” he says. “My mom grew up in Kyoto, and when she was a teenager, he was pretty much the biggest star in Japan. She was obsessed. Is obsessed,” he adds, “even though he died thirty years ago.”

  “Damn. Your mom’s a legit fangirl.” I take a closer look, considering Yûjirô’s eyebrows and jawline. “I get it, though.”

  “Great,” Owen grumbles, pushing open the door to his room. “Not you, too.” I follow him, grinning to his back.

  The first thing I notice about Owen’s room is the movie posters that line the walls. But they’re not movies I know—half the titles are in French, and most of them feature surreal imagery I can’t begin to decipher. “Whoa,” I say, and look back at Owen, who’s noticed my survey of the room.

  “I have a bit of a thing for French cinema,” he says casually.

  “Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” I deadpan. “But seriously, how do these fit in with Shakespeare and Eugene O’Neill?”

  He gives me a crooked grin and brushes his hand through his hair. “I’m a complicated man, Megan.”

  I step farther into the room. “English theater, French movies, Italian girlfriend . . .” I search for photos of Cosima on his cluttered dresser, his conspicuously clean desk, and his windowsill storing a set of encyclopedias. “She’s not going to interrupt us on FaceTime, is she?”

  “No, she already went to bed,” he says, his voice neutral.

  “Of course she did,” I tease. I walk over to his desk and start opening drawers, finding only impressive stacks of notebooks in each.

  “Excuse me,” I hear behind me. “What exactly are you doing with my personal possessions?”

  I glance over my shoulder to find Owen leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. He pushes himself off the wall waist-first and crosses the room to shut the drawer I’m perusing.

  “Looking for a picture of Cosima,” I answer like it’s obvious. “She doesn’t think being photographed is frivolous, too, does she?”

  “No,” Owen replies coolly. “I just don’t have any pictures of her, is all.”

  “Where did you guys meet?” I ask, undeterred. I turn to the bookshelves by his bed. A small framed photo of Owen and Jordan from middle school sits between a beautiful hardcover of The Great Gatsby and a collection of Emily Dickinson poems.

  “It was a summer theater program in New York.” He sounds a little defensive. I can’t see his face because I’ve walked behind him, but I’m certain he’s blushing.

  “Well, what’s she like?” I press him.

  “She’s from a little outside Bologna. She writes dark, experimental suburban stuff. Like David Mamet from Italy. Her parents are local politicians.”

  “You totally didn’t answer my question.”

  He turns to face me, tilting his head and looking confused. “Yes, I did.”

  “No, what’s she like?” I repeat. “You told me what she writes and where she lives, not who she is. If you’re going to invent a girlfriend, you should flesh her out a little more.” It’s not that I definitely believe he made her up, it’s just that I enjoy getting a rise out of him. “For someone who writes plays, Owen, you really should have a better command of character.”

  He frowns and raises an eyebrow at me. “She’s social, she has a lot of friends. And a sarcastic sense of humor. Better?”

  I grin. “Getting there,” I toss back. “I’m still not convinced.”

  “Do you want help with Will or not?” he asks loudly. Without waiting for my answer he continues. “I thought we were here to work on my play.”

  “Fine,” I say with a dramatic sigh, then take a seat on his bed and recline on his pillows. “Ask me anything.”

  Owen rolls his eyes at my posture before sitting down in his desk chair. He pulls a notebook from the top drawer, and suddenly his whole demeanor changes. His shoulders drop, he sits up straighter and fixes his eyes on me. I wait for him to ask about my thoughts on love or my feelings about myself, the kinds of things I’d imagine a playwright would want to know.

  “How far do you and your boyfriends typically go? Like, sexually?” he clarifies.

  My mouth drops open for a second, both at the question and at Owen’s unexpected composure. Not about to let him think he’s scandalized me, I give him a lazy grin. “You get right to it.”

  I expect Owen to blanch, but he doesn’t. “It’s important to the play.”

  “Well, if it’s for the play.” I smother a smirk. If he wants detail, it’s detail he’ll get. “Tyler was my first. We only did it a couple times, mostly on the couch in his basement in the middle of cast parties, with everyone upstairs.” I ignore the lingering bite of comparing those memories with Madeleine’s recent account, instead preoccupying myself with hoping I’ll catch Owen’s ears going red.

  When he only continues writing, I deflate a little. I’ll have to work harder. Which won’t be a problem given the detail I could provide. “I wouldn’t say it was amazing, but there was a reason we did it more than once . . .” I say suggestively, frowning when Owen only nods. I’m used to hushed laughter and gossip-glittering eyes when I provide details of my escapades—the consolation prize for their early, inevitable ends. Owen is . . . resisting. It’s unexpected, and I’m uncertain what to make of it.

  “I’m trying to get an idea of what Rosaline might feel if she’d slept with Romeo before the whole Juliet thing.” His eyes remain fixed on his notebook. His hand moves with practiced speed, his pen in precise jolts. “Do you feel differently about Tyler than your other exes?”

  “Not really.” I shrug. “I did plenty with other guys.”

  For the first time, Owen’s shoulders stiffen. I grin. Everyone has a sex-awkwardness pressure point, even young Shakespeare over here. I go on. “I went to third base with Chris behind the gym after homecoming sophomore year. Only hands were involved with Charlie because his mom was always coming home at inopportune times. Obviously nothing with Anthony—oh, third base with Dean, which took freaking forever. I had to—”

  “That—that’s enough, thanks,” he cuts me off, completely crimson.

  “Ha! Finally,” I explode.

  He looks up. “You were trying to make me uncomfortable?”

  “Well, a little, yeah.” I eye him playfully.

  He lifts his pen, looking like he wants to say something, until he finally does. “Is this . . . how you are?”

  “Is what how I am?”

  “This, you know . . . forward. Provocative.” I know it’s not a criticism, or a joke. He watches me, his mouth a neutral line, his eyes searching. He really wants to know.

  I laugh harshly. “I’ve earned the right. When you’ve had as many relationships as I have, you learn to find the humor in . . .” I reach for the right word.

  “Heartbreak,” Owen says.

  “That’s a bit more poetic than I would have gone with, but basically.” He says nothing, and I pounce on the opportunity to change the subject. “Besides, teasing you is too much fun to resist.” I reach toward the chair and pat him on the knee. “You’re just so . . . sweet.”

  He shakes off my hand. “No, I’m not,” he huffs.

  He’s looking at the floor, and I feel a sting of remorse. Owen is sweet. He’s been nothing but kind to me, and I just turned that into something he feels self-conscious about. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “I have other questions, you know.” Owen recovers his composure, returning to his notebook. “If you’re ready to answer them like a mature human being.” He flashes me a brief smile.

  “Okaaaaay . . .” I drag out the syllables, relieved I’m forgiven.

  “Does how fa
r you go with a guy affect your feelings in the breakup?”

  I pause a second. He deserves a thoughtful answer this time. “The sex doesn’t matter, per se. But if I’ve been with a guy long enough to have done things with him, I’m used to having him in my life, and it’s worse when we break up. Even then, though, when I see him with someone else and they’re perfect in every way he and I weren’t, it’s hard to stay upset.”

  Owen stops writing. “I would think it’d be the opposite—that it would hurt worse.”

  “Not when you’re expecting it. My relationships end for something bigger. In the end, it’s comforting.”

  He gives me a long look, like he’s waiting for me to elaborate, or to burst into tears or something. I don’t know what he’s thinking. When I do none of the above, he makes a couple more notes. “Do you believe in true love?” he asks out of nowhere.

  “True love?” I scoff, not meeting his unfaltering eye contact. I don’t know why the question throws me. Maybe it’s the way he asked it, like true love is common and obvious enough to be brought up as easily as the weather. “I told you. I’m not really the romantic, love-at-first-sight type,” I answer.

  “You also said Tyler and Madeleine are perfect together.”

  “So?” I reply a little hotly.

  “So,” he repeats, his tone measured, “if two people are perfect for each other, it suggests their connection is better than others. Deeper, truer.”

  “True love exists, like, in the world.” I gesture vaguely to the air around me. I’ve witnessed true love too often to think otherwise. What Madeleine and Tyler have is true. Same with my dad and Rose. “But I’m certainly not holding out hope for it myself.”

  “Hmm,” Owen muses, his eyes sparkling. He leans back, clearly confident about whatever he’s going to say next. “It’s interesting you think that.”

  “Think that? I know it. It’s my own feelings.” My skin itches down my arms. I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the sudden tension in my back.