Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “You’re moving?” Owen sounds startled.

  “They are,” I quickly reply, “when I graduate. Rose, my stepmom, is pregnant again and wants to raise her kids in New York.”

  He nods, considering for a long second. For someone who’s only really known me a few weeks, he looks unexpectedly relieved to hear I’m not going anywhere. “I can see why that would kill the mood,” he finally says.

  I let out a rueful laugh. “Yeah.”

  “Did you tell Will all of that?” Owen watches me as he takes a hesitant sip of his coffee.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should. I mean, that’s the other thing. He said something about never having a girlfriend, and it sounded like he didn’t think of me that way. I didn’t want to, like, unload my personal shit on him if he doesn’t see us as having that kind of relationship.”

  “I have to say,” Owen begins, “if you just shut down a hookup without an explanation, I’d understand if Will was a little confused. Remember, he’s pretty inexperienced. I don’t know how many conversations with girls he’s even had. It might not occur to him to ask what’s wrong.”

  He has a point. Will’s so gorgeous, it’s easy to forget that everything’s new to him. “I guess,” I tell Owen. If Will’s that inexperienced, he might not even know how to bring up the question of a relationship with me. “What do you think? Do you think he considers me his girlfriend? Has he said anything?”

  He takes another sip of coffee, clearly stalling. “I don’t . . . know, Megan,” he says delicately, or uncomfortably.

  “Well, could you please ask?”

  He gives me an uncomprehending look. “Yeah, in the midst of our next slumber party, after the pillow fight. When we’re exchanging our deepest, most tender secrets over a flashlight, I’ll be sure to bring you up.”

  “That’d be great, Owen. Thanks,” I say dryly.

  “I was just—”

  “I know.” I roll my eyes. “Just, the next time you talk to him about Cosima, bring the conversation around to Will and me.”

  “Evidently I’m not saying this right,” Owen says with forced patience. “The conversations you’re imagining, they don’t happen. Especially between . . . me and Will. We’re not that close. No friend-glue, remember?”

  “Please, Owen,” I implore, batting my eyelashes and knowing damn well it’ll work.

  He sighs, dropping his head back over the chair. When he returns his eyes to me, I can tell he’s hiding a smile. “Fine. For you.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I stand to collect our dishes. “Now, what do you want to know for your play?” I call over my shoulder as I carry the plates into the kitchen. Wow, I catch myself realizing, I’m glad Owen didn’t look past the high chair. The kitchen is a mess, and not just an Erin mess. There’s the box of microwave macaroni I left out from yesterday’s dinner, a pile of Rose’s paralegal paperwork on the counter, and a piece of scratch paper from the Trig assignment I didn’t finish next to the toaster. Mental note—clean the house before the next time Owen comes over.

  He’s taken his notebook out by the time I walk back into the living room. “I’m working on Rosaline’s relationships with characters other than Romeo,” he says while reviewing his notes. “Would she have known Mercutio or Tybalt or Romeo’s family?” He looks up from his notebook, fixing his eyes on me. “I was even toying with the idea she might’ve known Juliet.”

  I know where he’s going with this. “You want to talk about me and Madeleine.”

  “Why are you friends with her?” he blurts.

  I guess I’m not the only one who gets right to the point. Still, the transparent way he said it makes me laugh. “What’s not to like?”

  “Stealing your boyfriend.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I say. “We’ve been friends forever. She moved to Stillmont a month before the end of freshman year, right around when my dad remarried. Even though she hardly knew me, she immediately invited me to stay over while my dad was on his honeymoon. She spent twenty hours with me in the hospital while Erin was being born, she baked brownies for me every day I missed my mom, she’s come to every one of my shows, she’s been there for me after every breakup—”

  “Except for one,” Owen interrupts.

  “It’s not like she decided to steal my boyfriend.” I shrug.

  He looks skeptical. “Well . . .”

  “She fell in love with a guy who I happened to be dating, and he fell in love with her. I didn’t exactly imagine kids and a white picket fence with Tyler Dunning, and you can’t help who you fall in love with.”

  “I suppose not,” he says softly, his eyes averted almost pointedly, as if he wants them anywhere but on me.

  I go on, feeling like it’s important I defend Madeleine. “When she realized she had feelings for Tyler, she told me. They both did. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. Tyler has his faults, but he treated me decently, better than Romeo did Rosaline.”

  Owen determinedly taps his pen on his knee. “There’s really no bad blood between you and Madeleine? The whole best-friend thing isn’t some passive-aggressive act?”

  “Wow. Devious, Owen.” I give him a half smile. “No, everyone figures that. But I’m honestly happy for my best friend. Love is inconvenient sometimes. I mean, you know. It’s probably not ideal to have a girlfriend in Italy.”

  Owen’s stopped writing. He’s staring down at the notebook, and he’s got that contemplative look I’m realizing I quite like. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s inconvenient.”

  “How often do you guys even talk? What with her strict bedtime—”

  “She doesn’t have a strict bedtime,” Owen cuts in. “It’s just the nine-hour time difference.”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t look like cross-continent FaceTime is the easiest thing in the world, either.”

  “We talk every weekend,” Owen says grandly, like this is something to be proud of.

  I make sure to look aghast. “Every weekend? What about the other five days of the week? Already we’re only talking about phone sex here, I don’t know how you—”

  “Oh my god, Megan.” He hangs his head in his hands.

  “What?” I say, laughing. “I tell you everything about Will and me!” My face hurts from grinning. Which . . . is unexpected, after last night.

  “Not because I ask about it!” Owen fires back, but he’s definitely on the verge of laughing himself.

  “Wait, do you guys have phone sex?” I drop my voice seriously.

  “You have no idea.” He quirks an eyebrow, and he’s almost got me convinced, until he doubles over laughing.

  “You actually can act!” I say, enjoying the way his hair has gotten ruffled.

  He catches his breath. “What were we doing here again?” he asks with a rhetorical air, pen to his lips. “Oh yeah, helping me on my play.”

  “Fine . . .” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Ask away, Shakespeare.”

  * * *

  By Sunday night, I’ve surprised myself in two ways. I’ve memorized Juliet’s long scene with the Nurse, even the monologue and my cues from Romeo, and honestly . . . I’m proud. It’s the first time working on Romeo and Juliet that I feel like I’ve accomplished something. Even if I can’t pull off a convincing Juliet performance, at least I won’t lose my shit and forget my lines in front of a huge audience.

  I’m in the kitchen, reading the balcony scene over a dinner of macaroni—which I remembered to return to the cupboard this time—when I hear my phone vibrate on the table.

  I glance down at the screen. Anthony’s texted, NEXT FRIDAY NIGHT. YOU’RE COMING OVER.

  I take a bite and type with one hand, anthony, if i didnt kno sum things id think u were propositioning me

  CARNE ASADA. ERIC, he replies. Immediately, I drop my fork and snatch my phone off the table.

&nbs
p; omg omg omg omg, I send back.

  Either Anthony’s in a hurry or he expected my enthusiasm, because he replies simply, BRING A CASUAL DATE. WANT EVERYTHING TO BE CHILL.

  roger, I confirm.

  Anthony’s typing bubble reappears, and a second later I receive, UM WHO’S ROGER??

  meant yes!! I send, then follow up with, ugh id never date a “roger,” def not a sexy name

  BEG TO DIFFER, Anthony replies.

  Smiling, I send him, what happened w eric??? call me

  SORRY. SHIFT STARTING.

  I open the NEW MESSAGE window, but before I type Will’s name, I hesitate. Inviting him to be my “chill date” would kind of implicitly dismiss the questions I still have concerning yesterday. If only Owen could’ve shed some light on things between my possibly-boyfriend-but-who-knows and me.

  I just have to talk to Will in person, I decide. Tomorrow I’ll find him between classes.

  I poke my fork into my macaroni container only to discover it’s empty, so I walk to the other side of the kitchen and drop it in the trash. The echo of plastic on plastic is surprisingly loud.

  It’s stupid, but it makes me feel lonely. The house feels stiflingly empty. I thought I’d be relieved to have peace and quiet with Erin out of the house—I had epic plans for today of napping on the couch and blasting music in my room—but I’m surprised to find the solitude is starting to bother me. I even slept with my industrial-strength earplugs in because I felt weird without them.

  I study Romeo and Juliet for two hours before I hear keys in the front door and my heart does an unfamiliar leap. Not bothering to play the cool, independent teenager, I jump up to meet my family at the door. The first face I find is Erin’s. She’s held over my dad’s shoulder, eye-level with me, and she breaks into a tiny-toothed smile when she sees me.

  “Menan!” she squeals.

  Rose, walking in behind my dad with a hand on her stomach, notices Erin’s delight. “Looks like somebody missed her sister.”

  Somebodies, I think. I lift Erin off Dad’s shoulder, and he immediately turns back to get the luggage out of the car. Erin reaches for one of my earrings, and I coo to her uncomprehending grin, “Let’s try to go twenty-four hours without getting your food in my hair, okay?”

  “How was your weekend?” Rose asks from the doorway.

  “Good. Quiet,” I say. But she’s looking at me like she wants to hear more, and I feel unexpectedly grateful after a day of nothing but texting by way of social interaction. “It’s nice to have everyone home,” I add.

  Dad walks back through the door, wheeling two suitcases behind him. He briefly smiles at the sight of me with Erin, but when his eyes land on Rose, a look of horror crosses his face. “You weren’t supposed to carry anything!”

  “Oh, come on,” she says, smiling and shrugging the small diaper bag off her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

  But Dad’s halfway to her by the time she says it. He quickly seizes the diaper bag and kisses her on the temple.

  “Henry,” she chastises like she’s exasperated, but the blush coloring her cheeks gives her away. She meets my eyes when Dad’s walked out of the room. “He’s ridiculous sometimes,” she says, fighting a smile and losing.

  “Just sometimes?” I ask, half-sarcastic, and Rose chuckles.

  “Did you eat? Or can I make you something?” Rose quickly returns to mom mode.

  I set Erin down in her playpen. “I’m good. But thanks,” I reply, wishing now I hadn’t already had dinner.

  I head up the stairs to my room while Dad unpacks and Rose watches Erin. I plug my headphones back into my computer—Erin will be going to bed soon, and my dad’s strict about hearing music from my room after nine—but it doesn’t bother me. For a moment, I’m just happy to have everyone back home.

  Until I remember why they left in the first place. I’ve always assumed I’d go to college near home, near my family. I’d pictured coming home on weekends, being there for Erin’s milestones and the new baby growing up. If they’re in New York and I’m at SOTI, none of that will happen. I’ll visit them for Christmas and summer, and that’s it. It’s not just the house I’m going to lose when they move, not just my childhood bedroom. It’s the thought of this family, however new it is, being nearby.

  THIRTEEN

  ROMEO: Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate,

  O anything of nothing first create!

  I.i.181–2

  I DON’T GET THE CHANCE TO TALK to Will until Wednesday. He hasn’t met me between classes this week, which isn’t a good omen for the conversation I’m hoping to have. I couldn’t at lunch due to a forgotten Gov exam I had to study for, and when I walk into the drama room, I notice the stage crew is nowhere to be found.

  Rehearsal is demoralizing. Whatever confidence I had from memorizing the monologue flies out the window when Jody criticizes my “level of enthusiasm” in Act II, Scene vi. Apparently, I didn’t sound convincing in my portrayal of a thirteen-year-old eager to marry the boy she met a week ago. So it’s not in the best of spirits that I walk down to the parking lot after school to find Will.

  I round the corner and, for a moment, every one of my worries vanishes. Because there’s Will, shirtless, nailing together the pieces of a wooden staircase. Now I’m certain he’s hit the gym over the summer. My mouth goes dry, which is a good thing, because what jumps into my mind is a joke about how big of a tool he’s working with.

  But when I walk over to him, I say only, “Hey.”

  “Megan, hey.” He straightens up and grabs his shirt from the stairs, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “How was rehearsal?” he asks like he’s searching for something to say.

  “It was fine.” I sound no less stiff. “I just, uh— I wanted to apologize for what happened Friday. I hope you know it wasn’t you.”

  He looks surprised. “Oh, it’s . . . all right,” he finally says.

  “Is it? Because we haven’t talked or texted since then.”

  “It’s fine, really. I’ve just been busy.” He nods to the sets behind him. “Besides, it kind of seems like you have other stuff on your mind.” I can’t tell if his tone is concerned or frustrated.

  “I did, but . . .” I take a breath, remembering Owen’s advice. “I figured I should probably tell you what was going on with me.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he says quickly.

  “Oh.” Well, now I’m really confused. Is he trying to be considerate, or does he not care? “Yeah, it’s whatever,” I say, trying to sound like it is indeed whatever.

  He nods, then smiles. “So do you want to see the balcony set I’m—” he starts, but he’s interrupted by the ding of a text from his pocket. Before I can reply, he pulls his phone out and glances at the screen. “Shit. I told Alyssa we would figure out a time when I could help her memorize lines.”

  “Alyssa?” It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that Alyssa hasn’t missed a chance to remind everyone how well she knows Romeo and Juliet. She doesn’t need help.

  Will’s phone starts to ring. “Yeah. And now she’s calling me. I’m sorry, Megan.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

  “It’s cool. We’ll just talk later,” I say, but he’s already picking up the phone.

  With nothing else to do, I walk toward my car. The parking lot is carpeted in pine needles. I take out my phone, weighing my options. I need a date for Anthony’s carne asada, but this conversation’s only made me more reluctant to invite Will.

  I get in the car and open a message to Owen. U busy fri nite? Need platonic date 4 carne asada

  I smile when Owen’s reply comes in before I’ve even turned on the car. I love carne asada. I’m in.

  * * *

  Owen’s waiting under the giant fir tree that towers over his house when I pull up on Friday. Instantly, I notice what he’s wearing—a dark blue button-dow
n, slacks, and leather shoes with just the right amount of scuff.

  “Whoa.” I nod to his outfit. “It’s not a real date.”

  “Of course it’s not, Megan.” He furrows his brow quizzically and gets in the car. “Wait, why do you say . . . ?” He smiles wryly at me. “Are you saying I look nice?”

  “Nicer than I’d want my boyfriend to on a not-date with another girl.” I turn around in Owen’s driveway.

  “Sounds like you’re implying something, but I don’t really know why when I could say the same thing about you.” He gestures to my close-fitting, black velvet dress.

  “Touché.” Part of me is glad he noticed, the part that chose this dress wondering what he’d say. Not that I’m the kind of girl who’d go for a guy with a girlfriend—not that Owen’s the kind of guy I’d go for in the first place—but I won’t say I don’t enjoy a little harmless flirting with him. “Seriously though, thanks for coming with me tonight,” I say as we’re passing Verona on our way to the other side of town.

  “No problem. But, why exactly did you invite me? Why does carne asada require a platonic date?” He’s idly tapping on the armrest, and I know it’s because he doesn’t have his pen in his hand.

  I realize he signed on for tonight without hesitation, without me even explaining the plan. “Remember Eric, the guy from the party? Anthony wants to have him over for carne asada. It’s Anthony’s best move. It always works.”

  Owen raises his eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean by ‘works’?”

  “Let’s just say, when he used it on me, we only got fifteen minutes into West Side Story before I decided there were things I’d rather do. Anthony, now that I’m thinking about it, probably just wanted to watch the movie,” I say, considering.

  Owen laughs. “Sounds like Anthony should just have Eric over alone then.”