He sits down across from me, looking quizzical. I push the almond blueberry coffee cake I ordered toward him. “You want something to drink?” I ask.
He stares down at the cake, then looks up at me, lightly amused. “What’s happening here?”
I take a deep breath. “A date.” I turn one of the forks so it faces him. “Coffee cake?”
“A date,” he repeats, reaching for the fork. He doesn’t look entirely convinced.
I begin reciting the speech I prepared in my head on the drive over. “I feel like we’ve been off ever since the night we hooked up at my house. I have a tendency to rush things, but I don’t want to do that anymore. Which, I guess, means I’m not ready to have sex with you”—I pause—“yet. It’s definitely a yet.” Will smiles. Encouraged, I continue. “I like you. I want to be with you. I want to date.”
He puts down the fork. For a horrible moment, every doubt I’ve had about this plan floods my mind. He’s not interested. He likes Alyssa. I came on way too strong. He wants to have sex now. And worst of all, Owen was wrong—I don’t give up too easily. People give up on me.
Instead of saying any of those things, Will puts his hand over mine on the table. “I . . . have to tell you, I was a little intimidated when we started hooking up. Everyone knows you’re hot, and funny, and talented. It was hard to measure up to.”
I blink. I didn’t know “everyone” thought that. To the rest of the school, I thought I was just Madeleine’s flirty friend. Madeleine’s perpetually dumped friend.
Will goes on. “I didn’t know how to handle it, but I want to be with you, too, Megan,” he says with a growing smile.
Muscles I didn’t realize were tensed relax, and I feel unbelievably relieved. But I’m not done yet. It’s now or never. “Okay, then I want a straight answer,” I say. “Boyfriend?”
Will nods once, definite and unmistakable. “Boyfriend.”
“Well,” I say, beaming, “great.”
“I guess that makes this our first date. And we are . . .” He looks around the room. “Where, exactly?”
I let my eyes wander over the familiar surroundings. In the front of the shop, antique books, foreign titles, and bestsellers vie for space on wooden shelves that look on the verge of collapse. Posters of long-dead literary figures curl away from the walls over the register. A spindly staircase in the center of the room winds up to an alcove overcrowded with Shakespeare paraphernalia. The smell of what must be the strongest espresso in Oregon wafts from the coffee counter in the back, where Will and I are sitting. It’s dimly lit, dusty, and perfect.
“It’s Birnam Wood Books,” I tell him. “I first came here to annotate Macbeth for a scene workshop. I found it because of the reference. Ever since, it’s been pretty much my favorite spot.”
Will sniffs the air. “Kind of musty.”
“It’s great, isn’t it?”
He takes a bite of the coffee cake and shrugs. “It’s definitely the first time I’ve gone on a date to a bookstore. But then,” he adds, almost like an afterthought, “it’s the first time I’ve gone on a date.” It’s not as if I’m surprised, but it’s sort of endearing to hear him admit it. “How’s Romeo and Juliet going? I notice the balcony scene’s on the schedule again this week.”
“Don’t remind me.” The last rehearsal went terribly. I’m hopeless on the lines where Juliet declares her love for Romeo, no matter how much emotion Tyler puts into it or how often Jody stops us to repeat it. “Right now, I’m more focused on the Senior Showcase and the scene I’m directing,” I say.
“But that’s one scene,” Will says slowly.
“I’m directing one scene,” I quickly counter. “I’m organizing the entire showcase.”
“I just don’t get why you’d focus on that.” His tone’s light, but underneath it there’s something nearly judgmental. “Romeo and Juliet’s going to Ashland. Come on,” he says, the grin I once found dazzling losing a little of its luster, “you’re the lead in a professional-level performance. That’s way bigger than Stillmont’s Senior Showcase.”
I shrug, trying not to be annoyed that he doesn’t get it, or offended by the way he said Senior Showcase. “It’s my senior year. I’ve been a part of the showcase since I started high school. I want it to be perfect, you know?” Will nods, but his eyes remain skeptical like, no, he doesn’t know. “Besides, I’m not going to let the showcase interfere with Ashland.”
“Do you have a cast yet?” he asks after a second, and I’m relieved he’s taking an interest.
“No, why?” I raise an eyebrow flirtatiously. “You interested?”
“I might be,” he says slowly. “If I’m promised special attention from the director.”
“I think that could be arranged.”
He grins. Then without warning, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the front of the shop. “A first date merits a first gift. Don’t you think?” he asks over his shoulder.
Butterflies I haven’t felt in a while flutter in my chest. “You don’t have to,” I half protest, enjoying Will’s affection if a bit thrown by the gesture.
“I insist,” he says unhesitatingly. He doesn’t slow his steps, and I follow him.
Near the front, I find my eyes drifting to the shelf of leather-bound notebooks on one side of the door. I admired them the past couple times I was here, and—
“This.” Will holds up a black bracelet. “This is perfect.”
Oh. “It’s beautiful,” I’m quick to say.
He gives me a pleased smile. When he places it on the glass counter by the register, I notice there’s a word engraved on the inside. Or—a name.
“Ophelia?” I ask.
Will hands a twenty to the cashier while turning to me. “Yeah!” he says enthusiastically. “Isn’t Hamlet the best? Or, like, definitely”—he holds up a hand, correcting himself—“one of the best.”
He takes the bracelet out of its packaging and hands it to me. I slip it on with a grateful smile, choosing to overlook that Ophelia does nothing for the entire play except obsess over her boyfriend until she goes crazy. And it gives me a quiet, familiar thrill. I appreciate Will’s eagerness, his affection, and what it represents—togetherness. It doesn’t matter what the bracelet says. It’s a gift from my boyfriend.
FIFTEEN
MERCUTIO: A plague o’ both your houses!
III.i.111
DESPITE THE SUCCESS OF WILL’S AND MY date, I get to school on Monday in not exactly the greatest of moods. When I went home on Saturday, two hours and one torrid make-out session in the Shakespeare section later, I overheard my dad on the phone. It was on speaker, and I only stuck around long enough to figure out he and Rose were talking to a realtor whom they’d hired to appraise the house. To put a price tag on seventeen years of homemade dinners, birthday parties, fights, tears, and memories.
For the first time ever, I stopped myself before instinctively texting Madeleine. There’s a part of me, a very big part, that wanted to tell her what I’d overheard. But then I remembered that I’m not talking to her. That she’s not the friend I thought she was.
I ignore her during English and pass her without looking at her between classes. Eventually, I notice Anthony’s giving me the same treatment. But I have Will to distract me, a task he accomplishes with impressive tongue work, and the day goes pretty much okay. Until lunch.
I walk to the hill outside the drama room, knowing Madeleine’s going to be there. I’m not going to talk to her. Not a chance. But I’ve decided I won’t be the one to run from her. She’s not going to steal my boyfriend and my lunch spot.
I march right into the middle of the group and sit down next to Owen. I can feel Madeleine looking imploringly at me. “Hey, Megan,” she pleads. “Can we talk? I tried calling you this weekend.”
Without looking at her, I unwrap the chicken-salad sandwich Rose insisted on pa
cking for me. “There’s a reason I didn’t pick up.” Not wanting this conversation to go any further, I pointedly turn to Kasey Markowitz, the junior who played Olivia in Twelfth Night. “Kasey, I know you’re a junior, but I want you to sign up for my senior scene. I’m doing a gender-flipped Happy Loman, and I think you’d be great.”
She flushes, obviously flattered, but Madeleine interrupts.
“You’re seriously just ignoring me right now?” Her tone’s gone from pleading to pissed.
I finally whip my head in her direction. “I’m sorry, I’m not in the mood to talk to my former best friend who was screwing around with my boyfriend behind my back.” Next to her, Tyler’s eyes widen, and I briefly wonder if she even told him that I know.
Everyone falls silent, and Madeleine’s cheeks ignite. Hurriedly, she drops her Thermos into her bag and gets to her feet, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands. Tyler tosses me an apologetic look. “I have to . . .” He gestures in her direction. “I’m sorry, Megan,” he says before leaving to follow Madeleine. I don’t know if he’s apologizing for walking away from the conversation or for betraying me while we were dating. Either way, I’m not ready to deal with how furious I am with Tyler.
Everyone gradually resumes their conversations, occasionally stealing glances in my direction. Everyone except Owen, who leans into me. “I’m getting the sense something . . . changed since we talked about Tyler and Madeleine.”
Seriously? Now? “Get your notebook out, Owen. I’ve got some great material for you,” I snap.
He jerks back. “What? No.” He sounds stunned, even hurt. “I’m not trying to get material. I’m trying to be your friend.”
I feel a stab of guilt. Of course Owen’s just trying to be my friend. It’s what he’s been doing since the day we met. I exhale. “It turns out I was an idiot for not believing what everyone told me. Madeleine let it slip this weekend she and Tyler hooked up a month before he and I broke up.”
“That . . .” Owen reaches for words. “Definitely sucks.”
“I’m not surprised on Tyler’s end, honestly. But Madeleine . . . She’s the one person I couldn’t believe would do that to me.” I stare at the ground and absently rip out blades of grass. “The messed-up thing is, part of me wants to pretend it didn’t happen. There’s more stuff going on with my dad, and I wish I could talk to her, have her sleep over, like we did when my parents were splitting up.”
He nods. “What are you going to do?” he asks evenly.
“Do? I’m not the one who has to do anything. I want her to . . . I don’t know. Figure out a way to make it right.”
“She will,” Owen says without hesitation.
I shoot him an incredulous look. “How do you know?”
He glances down like he’s considering the question. “I don’t,” he admits. “But she will if she’s the kind of friend worth having.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I want to believe Madeleine’s the kind of friend who would want to fix things between us. And I do believe it. I’d forgive her if she showed me that I mean more to her than how she treated me.
I feel my stomach sink. I’m not the only one who deserves to feel that way. Anthony means more to me than the way I’ve been rushing him, too. He should take his relationship—or flirtation, or whatever it is—with Eric at whatever pace he wants.
“You know,” Owen says, and I realize he’s been waiting patiently during my lengthy introspection, “I’m not Madeleine—sleepovers with me might be a bit weird—but I’m here for you if you need.”
I look up into his dark, thoughtful eyes. “Sleepovers with you wouldn’t be weird, Owen . . . unless you’re into ‘weird.’” I wink. Before he begins to blush, I lower my voice and say sincerely, “But really, thanks.”
* * *
I have Trig after lunch. Outside Mr. Patton’s door, I decide I’m going to skip class. I know it’ll be boring, and besides, I have urgent business. I turn and walk against hallway traffic until I reach the science wing, where I wait for the next fifteen minutes after the bell rings and the hallway empties.
When Ms. Howell leaves the AP Physics room, I hover by the bathroom door and try to look like I have total permission to be here. I know where Howell’s headed. I had Intro Physics with her last year, and without fail she goes to the parking lot for a smoke break fifteen minutes into each of her afternoon classes.
I slip into the room behind her. It’s a scene of utter chaos. The AP students are armed with fluorescent purple Nerf crossbows. Foam darts fly across the room trailed by students with measuring tapes and notebooks. A dart hits me in the back of the head, and I hear a whiny voice complain that I’m interrupting the data-collection process.
I don’t bother to apologize. I’m here for one reason, and he’s in the back of the room.
Anthony’s head is bent over his notebook. He doesn’t look up when I lean on the counter next to him. “I’m in the middle of class, Megan,” he says flatly.
“I know. It’ll only take a second.”
He drags his eyes from his paper and glares at me. “What, you haven’t messed with my life enough already?”
I flinch. “I’m sorry,” I hurriedly continue, knowing I won’t have long before he shuts me out again. “I shouldn’t have rushed you. You were right, even though you said some shit that really hurt.”
Anthony looks away, but he doesn’t ignore me. “Why are you here, Megan?”
“I want to be a good friend. The kind of friend worth having. You’ve been a good friend to me, and I want to make things right.” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I forced you to take things faster than you wanted to.”
“It’s not just about being sorry,” he replies immediately, his voice harsh. “You don’t understand how not like you I am. I know you wanted to help, but you never bothered to consider what kind of help or encouragement or friendship I wanted. I don’t have your no-holds-barred attitude toward relationships, and I never will. You’re fearless, and that’s awesome,” he goes on, something somber entering his eyes. “But it’s painful and honestly frustrating when you push me to date the way you do.”
“I understand,” I reply. “Or I’m trying to understand. I’m going to keep trying, if you’ll let me. To be fair, though, I didn’t exactly force you and Eric into your bedroom together,” I point out, and Anthony’s eyes flicker. “You’re hardly timid when it comes to guys. But I know I went about this wrong,” I rush to add. “I’m sorry I screwed everything up with Eric. I won’t intrude in your relationships from now on. Promise.”
His expression begins to soften. “You didn’t screw everything up,” he says gently. “It’s my fault, and Eric’s, not yours. I’m sorry, too. I took some low blows at your relationship history, and I didn’t mean what I said.”
I smile tentatively. “They weren’t entirely undeserved, but thanks. I’m not going to tell you what to do, but you know, I’m here for you.”
“I want to hit pause on the Eric situation,” he says after a long second. I know from his hunched shoulders and the waver in his voice that it’s not something he’s pleased to admit.
“I understand,” I say quickly.
“But for the record,” he continues, beginning to smile, “the entire night wasn’t terrible.”
“No night with your unbelievable carne asada could be.”
He laughs. “Stuff with Eric . . . wasn’t the worst.”
“It didn’t look it.”
Anthony’s eyes slowly widen with realization. “You did not.”
I give him a close-lipped smile. “Just for a second.”
He shakes his head admonishingly, but he’s grinning. “Well, watching you and Owen concoct your fake relationship story . . . It was almost the highlight of the night.” He fixes me with an indicative stare. “You know, you two would actually make a cute couple.”
I say nothing. I won’t pretend the thought's never flitted through my head, but he’s . . . Owen. No way would a guy who’s never without his notebook, whose current relationship consists of blurry video chats twice a week, who’s quiet and reserved, go for someone who’s brash and forward like me. No. I’d be better off sticking to guys who want to get to the point. Guys like Will.
Instead of saying all that to Anthony, I seize the crossbow from the counter and shoot a dart into his chest. He rolls his eyes. “Why are you even talking to me?” I ask with joking indignation. “You’re in the middle of class.”
SIXTEEN
JULIET: O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
II.ii.36
“DENY THY FATHER AND REFUSE THY NAME, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love—”
“Nope!” Jody’s voice rings sharply to where I’m standing on the balcony set. It’s the first day of rehearsal with the half-painted wooden structure Will built—a single-story tower with a staircase down the back and a trellis with plastic ivy winding up the front. I think Jody expected performing on the set would awaken my inner Juliet. No such luck.
I hear Tyler sigh from the stage below. I don’t blame him, really. It’s the sixth time Jody’s interrupted us before we’ve even finished the scene. On the other hand, I’m not exactly overflowing with sympathy for Tyler Dunning at the moment. It’s been a week since Madeleine’s confession, and I haven’t forgiven either one of them. Not even close.
Jody climbs onto the stage. “This isn’t working,” she says, her eyes on me. “I know you’re trying to find the softer Juliet, Megan, but it’s not coming through. No one is buying this romance.”
“It’s partly my fault,” Tyler butts in before I have the chance to reply. He glances over at me pityingly, and I feel my blood heat with anger. He’s got some nerve, implying my performance is falling apart because of personal stuff between him and me. It’s not just patronizing, it’s wrong.
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