“You’re not most people.”
He’s looking at me intently, and there’s a hum in the air I wasn’t expecting. One I don’t know what to do with. I look down. “No,” I say, trying to sound undisturbed, “I’m loud, sarcastic, boy-crazy—”
“—thoughtful, perceptive, witty,” Owen finishes. He doesn’t look away, and I lift my gaze to meet his. The truth is, I could say the same thing about him. He’s quiet and patient enough for me to talk while he listens, and yet he keeps surprising me by making me laugh. I nearly do tell him. Instead, in the silence that follows his comment, I inch closer to him on the couch and take his hand, entwining my fingers with his.
Owen doesn’t move. I watch him look down at our hands and then up at me. There’s possibility in his eyes. I lean forward, but before I reach him, he quietly says, “You like Will.”
I pull back just a bit. I definitely felt like Owen wanted this. Why would he bring up Will? I tell him what I haven’t wanted to admit before now is the truth. “It’s not going to happen with Will.”
He blinks. “What? Why?”
“It’s run its course. Trust me. I’ve been here before. I know what happens next.”
“But you still like him.” His eyes are guarded.
I drop his hand. What brought us this close on the couch was how easily I felt I could like Owen one day. I could use him to get over Will or even fall for him for real, even though I know he’s right—in this moment, I do still like Will. “Yeah,” I say bitterly, “like that ever means anything.”
“Why do you do that?” I’m surprised to hear he sounds accusing.
“What?”
“You sell yourself short,” he says, softer this time. “You give up. It’s what you’re doing with Juliet and the play. I think you did it with your and Tyler’s relationship, too. If you like Will, then don’t write it off. I know you, Megan. Don’t undervalue yourself.”
His speech momentarily stuns me. It’s charged with conviction, and the words linger in the air while I search for what to say.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that even if I like Will, I can’t force him to like me, when Anthony’s door bangs open. Eric storms down the hall, his hair disheveled. He startles when he sees us and stops for a moment. “It was good to see you guys,” he mutters distractedly. “I’ve got to go.” Before we have time to react, he throws open the front door, and he’s gone.
Anthony trails into the room, looking dazed. I’m on my feet and rushing to his side. “What happened? It looked like it was going great,” I say, realizing a second late I just let it slip I’d spied on them.
If he notices, he doesn’t care. “It was. Everything was perfect,” he says emptily. “And then his dad called, and he got weird and distant and just left.”
“Was there a family emergency or something?” I ask.
“Of course there wasn’t a family emergency,” he snaps, finally whipping his gaze to me. “This was just a terrible idea.”
“A terrible idea? You just hooked up with the guy you’ve been obsessed with.”
“Which is everything I could have hoped for, right?” he fires back. “It doesn’t matter he’s obviously in the closet with no intention of having a relationship with me—or that he’s definitely never going to talk to me again.” He’s yelling now, and there are tears in his eyes. “Because it’s enough I got to hook up with him, right? It might be for you, Megan. But not for me.”
I fumble for words. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m not—You don’t have the first clue what’s enough for me,” I fire back, finding my voice. “Or how much I did to help you. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have had what you did have. Which wasn’t nothing.”
“I didn’t ask for your help. Whatever you did, whatever you said to him—you pushed him. You pushed us both. Not everyone wants to take things at your pace. Relationships aren’t a race against the clock.” I flinch, but Anthony blazes on. “I’ve never even had a real boyfriend. I thought Eric would be different. I thought he got me. It’s hard enough meeting guys in high school. It’s not like I’ve got endless relationships and hookups around the corner to console myself with—hard though it might be for you to understand.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, stung.
“Not fair?” He steps closer to me, and I can see he’s shaking. “Not fair is having to move schools because you’re too black and too gay to get lead roles. Not fair is dreading every school trip because you know no guy wants to be your roommate. Not fair is worrying every time you flirt with a guy if he’s going to laugh in your face.”
His words have me looking past the malice in his voice. Anthony hardly ever talks about this stuff, but I’m not unaware of the toll it takes on him. And I know tonight meant a lot to him. Of course he’s heartbroken. “I’m sorry. I think you’ll have another chance with Eric,” I say gently.
“I know you do. You don’t get it. It’s easy to tell yourself everything is going to be okay when really, inside, you’ve already resigned yourself to failure.”
I feel tears of hot anger in my eyes. I don’t have the words to deny what Anthony’s saying. Maybe I am resigned, and maybe it’s unhealthy. But right now, I don’t know how not to be.
“Fuck this.” I hear my voice waver. “I’m trying to be here for you. I’m trying to help. But forget it. You don’t want to talk. You only want to take your ruined night out on me.”
Grabbing my bag, I remember Owen behind me. “Come on, Owen,” I tell him, walking to the door. I think I catch him give Anthony an apologetic glance before I follow in Eric’s footsteps.
* * *
We drive home in silence, wrapped in too many layers of things left unsaid. Owen’s not meeting my eyes, and we exchange muted good-byes when I drop him off in front of his house.
The windows of my house are dark when I pull into the driveway. I walk in the front door, past the remnants of what looks like a family craft night, and up to my room. It takes everything I have not to slam the door behind me. It’s not just thoughts of Anthony and Owen that torment me. It’s something more selfish, too—that I teared up in front of them, and I’m not the kind of girl who cries.
I don’t even bother turning on the lights. I head straight for my bed. But once I’ve buried myself under the covers, I can’t sleep. I dwell on the words Anthony flung at me. He said things a person shouldn’t say to a friend even when angry.
Nevertheless, they rang painfully true. Anthony might be right. I’ve always thought my relationships give up on me. It’s easier, in a way. They’re out of my control—comfortably predictable. Inevitability has become my coping mechanism.
Except what if it’s become more than that? The question comes with a queasy rush. What if somewhere along the way, a coping mechanism became a chain around my neck, pulling me in directions I didn’t want to go? I’m beginning to feel like whatever happens to my relationships, my negativity can’t be helping. What if they don’t give up on me—what if I give up on them?
I turn over to face the wall, fighting to calm my racing thoughts. This time of night, fresh from what happened with Anthony, is not the time to fray the edges of those questions, hard though I’m finding it to force them down.
There’s one thing I do need to do tonight. I have no business going for a guy who has a girlfriend while I have feelings for someone else, no matter how thoughtful, perceptive, and witty he is. I reach for my phone on my nightstand and type out a text to Owen.
sry for earlier. b4 anthony
He doesn’t reply, and I can’t help remembering how quickly he did when I invited him to Anthony’s. He could just be putting his brother to bed, I tell myself. I try to let it go, but twenty minutes go by and I’m still awake, still worrying I lost two friends in one night.
i hope i didnt mess stuff up btwn us, I type before I can stop myself, then a second later I add, ur
a good friend. I hit SEND.
This time, it’s only a couple minutes before his reply comes.
You’re a good friend too. You don’t need to apologize . . .
I feel myself let out a relieved breath. Then I receive a second text.
I get it. I know I’m a really hot friar.
I laugh, hurting a little less. I send him my reply.
the hawtest. can’t wait to c u in ur frock
FOURTEEN
JULIET: Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!
III.ii.89–91
IT’S DAWN, AND I’M DRIVING UP THE dirt road to where Madeleine texted me to find her for tree planting. It’s thickly forested on both sides, and my mom’s old Volkswagen skips over the loose rocks. I crest the hill, and spreading out below me is the horizon painted pink by the rising sun.
It’s beautiful. And I hate it.
I take one hand off the wheel to rub sleep out of my eyes. Only for Madeleine would I get up at five in the morning on a Saturday and venture into nature. I spot her car on the side of the road, where she told me it would be, and pull in behind it.
Walking into the woods, I pull my scarf over my very messy ponytail. October’s giving way to November, and it is cold. In the crisp morning light my breath is depressingly visible. I hear rustling up ahead, and voices drift to me a second later. I can’t believe Madeleine actually convinced other people to come to this.
When I enter a clearing in the forest, I find a handful of volunteers working with shovels, among them Madeleine, whose head is bent over the hole she’s digging. She looks better than anyone has the right to at this ungodly hour in the middle of the forest, wearing a blue bandana with perfect carelessness over her tidy bun and a baggy Windbreaker that somehow still flatters her frame. She doesn’t notice when I come up next to her.
“You know,” I say, and Madeleine’s head pops up, “this is awesome. Whenever I look into the woods, what I find myself thinking is, needs more trees.”
She rolls her eyes. Grinning, she grabs the small sapling beside the hole and drops it in. “They’re to replace the foliage lost when a couple of drunken idiots on a camping trip started a fire.” Now that she mentions it, the ground here does look ashy. “Besides,” she continues, patting the dirt around her tree, “it looks great for college.”
She straightens up and produces a trowel from her back pocket. Holding it out to me, she gives me an expectant look. Is she serious?
I pull a fake pout.
She’s not amused. One eyebrow arches, and she waves the trowel in the air, flinging dirt at me.
“Okay, okay,” I grumble. We walk to the next sapling, a few feet over. Following Madeleine’s lead, I kneel and shove my trowel into the earth, no idea what I’m doing. Far away, I hear the chattering of some indiscernible woodland creature. Madeleine, however, knows exactly what she’s doing, and she confidently removes a shovelful of dirt in one even motion. “Doesn’t it ever get tiring being perfect?” I ask, watching her.
I meant it half-jokingly, but she wrinkles her nose. “Perfect?”
“I mean, saving the forests, volunteering at the library, perfect GPA, perfect boyfriend. It’s a lot to keep up. Don’t you ever just want to screw something up?” I got two hours of sleep after somehow ruining one of my closest friendships, and here Madeleine is, saving the planet.
She stops digging and stabs her shovel into the ground. “What’s with you today? You’re snarkier than normal.”
I shrug. She’s not wrong. With last night weighing on me, of course I’m snarkier than normal. “This is just me at six a.m.,” I mumble. I feel her scrutinizing me, but after a second she resumes digging with a little more force than before.
“Do you think I give up too easily?” I ask abruptly. The thought’s been burning in my head since Owen and I talked on Anthony’s couch. Madeleine’s been my friend for a lot longer than Owen. She’d have perspective he doesn’t.
She straightens up once more, this time pausing with one foot planted on her shovel. “Give up on what?”
“On everything. You know . . .” I hesitate, reconsidering. It’s not everything, really. I haven’t given up on SOTI, haven’t given up on Anthony or Madeleine herself, even when we fight. “On relationships,” I finish.
“This is about Will,” Madeleine says knowingly.
“Yeah, Will, and everyone, I guess,” I go on. “I’ve had a ton of boyfriends, but I’ve never been in a relationship longer than four months.” I’d never thought anything of it before, but pondering Owen’s words in bed at 2 a.m., it began to depress me.
“Well, you shouldn’t waste your time when a relationship’s not working.” She pulls off her bandana and wipes her face with it.
“But what if I’m too quick to think a relationship’s not working? I was ready to give up on Will after one awkward night and seeing Alyssa flirt with him. Which, you know, Alyssa flirts with everyone. Everything.”
Madeleine doesn’t laugh. She puts a hand on her hip. “Why are we talking about this?” She sounds slightly exasperated. God forbid I disturb her community-service time.
“I don’t know. Just looking back, it feels like I was too quick to . . . write some of them off.” I’m using Owen’s exact phrasing, I realize.
“But . . . Tyler was different,” she says slowly.
I point my trowel into the soil and shovel out more dirt. The motion comes easier this time, like I’m finding a rhythm. It feels good, even. “I guess. I mean—” I stop myself, realizing who I’m talking to. “It’s not like I want him back,” I quickly reassure her. “It’s just, maybe I let things fall apart with Tyler and with my other boyfriends, too.”
From the look on her face, I know my reassurance didn’t work. Blood has started to color her alabaster cheeks in uneven splotches, and her downturned mouth is twitching. Her eyes are narrowed and fixed on me. It’s a look reserved for instances like unfair grades and jocks pushing the yearbook staff into lockers.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference with Tyler, okay?” she says quietly.
I shake my head. “I just mean hypothetically. What if it would have—”
“We were together before you even broke up,” she nearly shouts.
My mouth drops open, my trowel into the dirt.
“You . . . What?”
“He kissed me the closing night of Twelfth Night.”
I stand there, blinking in the brightening day, my thoughts chasing each other in circles. I remember the closing night of Twelfth Night, the final cast party of the season at Tyler’s house. It was one of the rare instances of Anthony getting drunk, and Jenna and I watched him recite a version of Hamlet’s soliloquy. To beer or not to beer.
I remember how Tyler and I had had sex for the first time just weeks earlier, and we would go on to break up about a month later. I remember them both coming over to my house a few weeks after the breakup, asking if it was okay with me for them to date and promising they’d done nothing together at that point.
I remember believing them.
All the anger drains out of Madeleine’s face. Her eyes fill with tears, her face goes pale, and she rubs the bridge of her nose. I can’t believe she has the nerve to drop this on me and then cry about it. Wanting me to take care of her.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” she says weakly, her voice pinched.
“No, you should have said it six months ago.” I can’t even look at her.
“I know. I’m so sorry, Megan. I should have,” she blurts out through her tears, but there’s exasperation or even frustration behind her remorse. “I know things have been weird between us, it’s why I wanted today to—”
“I defended you,” I cut her off. “Everyone thought you and Tyler cheated, and I played the
best friend because I trusted you. You told me nothing had happened while we were still dating.”
“I know, I know.” Tears are streaming down her face, and a couple volunteers’ heads have turned in our direction. “Please, let’s go to my car, let me explain . . .”
Some of my anger has ebbed away. I take a step toward her, my instinct kicking in to forgive and be there for her. But before I reach out to her, I remember what Owen told me. Don’t undervalue yourself. I shouldn’t sweep my hurt under the rug so Madeleine doesn’t have to feel bad. My feelings matter, too. I’m tired of pretending they don’t.
I turn on my heel and walk back to my car, leaving Madeleine to her tears.
* * *
I wake up to six missed calls from Madeleine after sleeping for the rest of the morning. I delete the voicemails without listening to them.
Surprisingly, I feel good about how I handled the fight. Not about the reason for the fight, obviously—I feel really betrayed. I honestly believed my best friend when she promised she hadn’t hooked up with my boyfriend behind my back. Even if they are the perfect couple, what they did fucking sucks. But I’m genuinely proud that I stood up for myself and didn’t just let something go instead of meeting it head-on.
Which has me thinking about Will.
Yeah, Alyssa flirtatiously touched his arm and wanted to “read lines” with him—the oldest trick in the book. But it was just a week ago he was in my room telling me I’m beautiful. I’m done waiting for him to drop some hint about how he sees our relationship. I’m going to find out.
I grab my phone off my desk. u busy? I text him.
Not right now. Why? he replies.
I text him a location and, 30 min!!! And I don’t let myself worry about whether he’ll be there.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the bell chimes on the front door of the place I told him to meet me. Will’s head of immaculately slicked hair appears in the doorway. His eyes flit over the shelves, and I signal to him with a wave from my small table in the back.
Always Never Yours Page 14
