“Anthony’s afraid Eric won’t be into it. He wants me there in case Eric comes over not wanting tonight to be romantic, and I guess there’s the possibility Eric’s not gay. But if he is, and if things do go well, Anthony doesn’t want to have unintentionally created a group-hang vibe. That’s why he wants me to have a platonic date. It could be a casual hang, but it could also be a double date.”
“Wow, complicated.” Owen looks impressed, then thinks for a minute. “What if it does turn into a double date? What are we supposed to do?”
“Sex on the table sound good to you?” I promptly reply, unable to restrain myself.
We’ve pulled into Anthony’s driveway—and thank god, because I burst out laughing when I see Owen’s face. His eyes are blown wide, like he’s very earnestly trying to figure out if I’m joking. “Jesus, Owen. I was kidding. We’ll FaceTime Cosima or something. It’ll be fine.”
Eric’s not here yet. Ours is the only car in front of Anthony’s house. Anthony told me his parents are at an engagement party for one of his twenty-two cousins. I lead Owen up to the front door, positive he’s blushing a shade previously unknown to man. He’s silent, and, feeling guilty, I figure I must have gone too far with that sex-on-the-table comment. I should probably ease up on him.
I knock on the door, hearing Anthony’s go-to cooking music, the Black Eyed Peas, from inside. While we’re waiting, Owen leans on the wall in front of me. “Cosima went to bed hours ago. We’ll have to think of something better to do,” he says slowly.
There’s a suggestive look in his eyes, and I feel my jaw drop open. I know I’m joking when I flirt, but Owen?
He breaks into a grin. “Jesus, Megan. I was kidding.” His voice is playful, and he shakes his head. “Your face, I swear. I never thought I’d see Megan Harper stunned into silence.”
Anthony opens the door, and Owen walks in past him, leaving me impressed and even a little disappointed. He obviously was thinking of that comeback the whole walk up the driveway, and I find myself half wishing it wasn’t just a comeback. Which then has me thoroughly wondering why I’d wish that, even fractionally. This is Owen.
We’re overtaken by the smell of chili and lime inside. Anthony rushes back to the grill, and I follow him and Owen in, passing Anthony’s mom’s intimidating crucifix in the hallway. Mrs. Jenson is Mexican and was raised Catholic, though on Sundays she goes to the gospel services at Anthony’s dad’s Baptist church.
“This is a bad idea,” Anthony mutters behind the grill. “He doesn’t like me—”
“Shut up. You look amazing,” I reassure him. He does, too. “The vest, the rolled-up sleeves, the hair . . . it’s really working for you.” He meets my eyes and lets out a breath, looking like he’s regained some of his confidence.
Then the doorbell rings. Anthony’s panic returns, and he thrusts the grilling tongs he’s holding into Owen’s hands. While Owen, surprised, steps behind the grill, Anthony takes a hesitant couple of paces toward the door.
I stop him and reach for his apron. “Here.” I untie it, pull it over his head, and push his curls back into place. He gives me a grateful look, and I lightly shove him in the direction of the door.
When I join Owen by the grill, he’s deftly turning over the strips of beef. I guess he notices me studying him, because he shrugs. “I cook sometimes,” he says simply.
I hear the front door open and glance over at Anthony. Eric walks in, and it’s clear he’s come from some practice or game. He’s wearing a green and white jersey with ROGERS written on the back. I grin. Of course Anthony thinks Roger is a sexy name. He and Eric exchange quick heys before Eric tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Smells awesome. I’m pumped for some carne asada.”
I watch Anthony to gauge his reaction. “Yeah, man. It’ll be . . . tight,” he says, wincing. I wince with him. He’s trying, but the nerdy thespian in him can’t pull off bro-talk.
They head onto the deck outside the kitchen, and the four of us congregate awkwardly around the grill. “Hey, Eric,” I say, mostly to break the silence. “You remember Owen from the party, right?”
Anthony’s obviously just recalled that Owen’s presently cooking dinner and darts over to take back the tongs.
“Yeah,” Eric says. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” Owen starts. “Good to see you again,” he adds like he’s trying to keep the conversation going. Eric nods, and the silence returns. I try to think of everything I know about Eric, searching for possible conversation topics. Busboy, possibly gay, not into Melissa from the party . . . and that’s it. Not exactly the greatest pre-dinner topics.
Eric fortunately saves us. He glances toward the table, then calls to Anthony, “Could I help with anything?”
“Drinks,” Anthony gets out. “There’s soda in the garage you could go grab.” He sounds as relieved as I feel to have something to say.
I make a split-second decision. “I’ll show you where,” I say, leading Eric into the living room and toward the garage.
We find a couple two-liter bottles of root beer on the wire shelves next to a bicycle hanging on hooks from the ceiling. While Eric’s hefting the bottles down, I nervously wait by the door, weighing my words. I have no idea how to broach this topic.
“You know, whatever might happen tonight, Owen and I won’t say a word to anyone,” I blurt, and immediately I wince, regretting how presumptuous and insensitive that came out. What if I’ve crossed into territory he didn’t want to tread? I wonder for a horrible moment if I’m completely wrong about him and I’ve misinterpreted his comments, his interactions with Anthony.
Eric falters, hand on one bottle, then gradually places it on the floor. “I appreciate that, Megan,” he says finally. “There are things about me I wouldn’t want my all-boys, Catholic school to know.”
I nod, relieved. “Which, by the way,” I venture with half a smile, leaning an elbow on the shelves, “an all-boys school? That’s got to be either a dream come true for you, or a complete nightmare.”
Eric laughs, his posture relaxing a little. “It’s a nightmare, trust me. I’ve never really . . .” his voice grows quieter, heavier. “I’ve never had the chance to do this before.”
I stand up straighter. The comment catches me, and it takes me a moment to figure out why. I can’t imagine going to Eric’s school, balancing everything he has to every day, and I know I’d be eager to experience this side of myself if I were in his position. But Anthony’s not just some boy-shaped experience to be had. I won’t let him be used or get hurt. “If you’re only interested in Anthony because you’ve never had a boyfriend,” I begin, “and he’s an easy secret to keep from your friends—”
Eric cuts me off. “It’s not that,” he says decisively. “It’s about him.”
I permit him a smile. “Well, then I have to give you the obligatory best-friend speech,” I go on. “Anthony’s serious when it comes to relationships, and he’s been hurt before. He really likes you.” Eric’s expression softens. “Don’t screw this up,” I finish.
I pick up the root beer and walk out without waiting for him to reply.
“Dinner’s about ready,” Anthony calls when I’m back in the kitchen. “Everyone should sit, and I’ll bring it out.”
We head to the round dinner table where I’ve helped Anthony memorize countless monologues and cues over the years. Anthony follows with the sizzling platter of carne asada.
Nobody’s saying a word. Owen, next to me, is giving an inordinate amount of attention to pouring his root beer. Anthony appears to be dutifully avoiding Eric’s eyes, while Eric looks at me imploringly.
I don’t understand what’s going on here. I’ve given Anthony plenty of encouragement to go for Eric, and I just straight-up told Eric how Anthony feels. What else could they possibly be waiting for?
I glance at Eric and notice he’s wearing a lacrosse j
ersey, like the guys at Derek’s party. Trying to jumpstart the conversation, I ask, “What, uh, lacrosse position do you play?”
“I’m a midfielder,” he answers unhelpfully.
I try to catch Anthony’s eye to signal that this is where he should jump into the conversation. But he’s only determinedly stuffing strips of steak into a tortilla. Unbelievable. I look back at Eric, struggling to recollect even the first thing I know about lacrosse. I’m pretty sure there’s a ball but . . .
“This is crazy good, man,” Eric says to Anthony through his first mouthful.
Anthony looks up—thank god—and gives Eric a stilted smile. I know he’s thrown by the level of jock-bro that Eric’s exuding. Otherwise he would never go catatonic like this under pressure.
“My brother plays lacrosse—” Owen says suddenly, and I could kiss him.
Wait, did I just think that? I blink. Obviously I didn’t mean literally.
“—but he’s ten, so when I say ‘plays lacrosse’ I really mean he hits me with his stick.” Eric cracks up, and before I get the chance to shoot Owen a grateful look, he and Eric are having a full-on conversation about the great sport of lacrosse. While they’re occupied, I nudge Anthony’s foot under the table with a get-your-head-in-the-game glance.
“Hey,” Eric says suddenly, interrupting his conversation with Owen, “looks like we’re out of salsa.”
Anthony blinks, his eyes flitting to the jar of his mom’s homemade salsa on the counter, then back to the table. “Oh, um,” Anthony stammers. “I’ll get it.” He starts to stand.
“Let me,” Eric says. But as he gets out of his seat, my eyes go wide because in one innocuous motion Eric’s placed his hand over Anthony’s. I watch Anthony straighten like there’s an electric current running through him.
When Eric’s back is turned, I find Anthony’s eyes. Where there was defeat just seconds ago, now there’s the kind of exhilarated determination I’ve only seen when he’s walking off stage after nailing a performance. “Oh my god,” he mouths at me. Eric returns with the refilled bowl, and I watch Anthony expectantly, waiting for his next move.
I don’t even know how it happens. But the next moment, I feel Owen’s hand in my hair. I jerk to face him as he withdraws his hand, removing—a clump of guacamole. The only possible explanation is I was so focused on Anthony, I absentmindedly ran a dirty hand through my hair.
“First applesauce, now guacamole.” Owen grins, wiping his fingers on his napkin. “Your baby sister’s not here to blame this time.”
“Are you saying I’m messy, Owen?” I pull a scandalized expression.
“I didn’t say it. You did,” he replies.
I open my mouth with a comeback, but Eric preempts me. “You guys are cute,” he says. “How long have you been dating?”
It takes a moment for me to realize he means me.
And Owen.
Me and Owen.
I look at Owen, and it’s impossible to read his expression. Somewhere between bemusement and indignation, probably. I don’t know what Eric finds cute about Owen pulling guacamole out of my hair, but I’m thrown. “We’re, uh . . .” I begin, not sure what Anthony wants me to say, or what Owen wants me to say. He was supposed to be my flex date for the night, but I wasn’t anticipating actually having to lie about our relationship status.
“Oh, my mistake,” Eric quickly amends, picking up on my hesitation. “I thought this was a double date.”
It’s not a second later that Anthony blurts, “They’ve been together for a month!”
I cut Anthony a glance, but I have to smile. It’s one thing for me to lie about dating Owen, but if someone else does it for me, I guess I’ll just have to play along. I spare Owen an apologetic look before I lay my hand on his. He stares down at it like it’s radioactive, but he doesn’t move. His hand is warm under mine.
“We met at auditions for our school’s Romeo and Juliet production,” I tell Eric, then fix my eyes lovingly on Owen. Weeks of playing Juliet have given me an aptitude for playing the doting girlfriend, it turns out. Owen looks like a deer in the headlights. “I promised myself I wouldn’t date within the cast, but Owen was unrelenting.” I catch Owen roll his eyes. “He even wrote lyrics about me for his friend’s band, and let me tell you, they were . . . steamy.”
Owen turns to me, and there’s a spark in his eyes. “It’s pretty impossible to resist Megan. She’s an outstanding actress.”
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “Eventually I stopped objecting. He makes a really hot friar.” I stare at him, daring him to keep the act going, and he stares back at me, undoubtedly considering his next line.
“Is this the play you’re in?”
I’ve been so preoccupied with Owen, I didn’t notice how Eric’s eyes have shifted to Anthony.
“I have a role, yes,” Anthony says smoothly.
“He’s being modest,” I cut in. “He’s the best actor at Stillmont. He has a huge part—you should see his monologue.”
“I’d like to.” Eric’s voice softens.
“I could give you a preview . . .” Anthony offers. When he’s on, his flirting game is downright inspiring.
“Right now?” Eric smiles. “At the table? In the middle of dinner?”
“In private,” Anthony says simply, and I have to restrain myself from giving him a standing ovation.
Eric pauses, and I know he’s enticed by the invite. “I’d like that. But I’d like to see the real thing, too.”
I’m pretty certain everyone’s picked up on the definite charge in the room by now. I spring out of my seat and grab Anthony’s plate. “Let me clear the table,” I quickly offer. “Anthony, this was incredible, per usual. Owen and I have the dishes covered since you cooked.”
Of course, it’s not like I needed to say anything. Anthony and Eric are halfway to the hall by the time I’ve finished speaking.
I carry the plates to the sink and turn on the faucet. Owen comes up next to me with a couple more dishes. He hands them to me, then stops beside the sink, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something. “A really hot friar?” he finally asks way too nonchalantly.
I shake a spoon at him, splashing water on his face. “I didn’t know I was impossible to resist, either.”
Owen swats me with a towel, grinning. “Yes you did, Megan.” I laugh, noticing how he didn’t deny it.
Only once we’ve finished the dishes do I realize we haven’t heard anything from down the hallway in a suspiciously long time—no, a promisingly long time. Like he’s just read my mind, Owen glances in the direction Anthony led Eric. “What do you think is going on in there?” he asks softly.
“How about you go check?”
He whirls, eyes wide. “No. No way.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “You wait here.” I throw my towel at his face and tiptoe down the hall. Anthony’s bedroom is on the left, next to a very realistic portrait of Jesus. I only know where his room is from the study sessions where he helped me not fail my finals—definitely not from when we were dating. His door is ajar, spilling light into the darkened hallway. First I see one pair of knees jutting off of Anthony’s bed, then I adjust my angle to get a better view of . . . Anthony and Eric kissing to their hearts’ content.
I feel a rush of vindication. I linger only long enough to see Anthony push Eric down onto the bed. Quietly, I return to the kitchen, where Owen’s waiting. I beam at him. “They’re totally making out,” I whisper, and start cleaning off the counters, looking for dessert. I know Anthony made something.
“This is kind of weird. We’re just going to hang out here while they . . . uh . . . while things progress?” Owen stands stiffly to the side.
I move a giant bag of flour to reveal a golden apple pie. “Uh, yeah,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m not going to let this pie get cold.” I pass Owen on my way into the liv
ing room and notice his skeptical look. “Anthony’s fine with us having pie while things progress,” I promise. “Believe me. I’ve done this before.”
I drop onto the couch and hold a fork out to Owen while digging into the center of the pie, not bothering to slice it. I think it’s my moan of pie-induced ecstasy that persuades Owen to grab the fork and sit down next to me.
“Howv da play gumpf?” I ask through a mouthful.
“What?” Owen studies me.
I swallow. “How’s the play going? Can I read it?”
He shakes his head with surprising vehemence. “It’s nowhere near ready. I’m still deep in outlining.”
“Outlining? I’ve given you so much material.”
He stabs the pie with a little less enthusiasm. “I haven’t had a lot of time.”
“Because of Romeo and Juliet?”
“Yeah, and home stuff.” He doesn’t lift his fork, and it remains in the center of the pie. “You know, picking up my brother, making him dinner, helping him with his homework.”
There’s something serious in his eyes, his squared shoulders. I set my fork down. “You do a lot for your brother,” I say after a second.
Owen shrugs. “It’s not so bad. It’s my mom who works night shifts and two jobs.”
He falls silent, but I don’t want to interrupt in case he’s going to say more. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to respond. I wish I did—I’m even a little embarrassed I don’t—but while I’ve bared family problems to him, I’ve never heard his. Instead, I poke at the pie.
He does go on. “My dad walked out on us the year my brother was born. My mom works really hard to make things possible for us, like the theater camp I did last summer—it wasn’t cheap. It’s nothing to take care of Sam in return.”
“I had no idea,” I say, hearing how inadequate it sounds.
He gives me a quick smile. “Yeah, I’m not exactly the oversharing type. I’m more comfortable writing in my notebook than talking to most people.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem talking to me.” I nudge his shoulder with mine.
Always Never Yours Page 13
