Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  In the middle of the room, I spot Jenna waving me over from a couch. I make my way through the tangle of people seated on every surface possible, and she moves her arm, giving me a place to sit on the armrest right as Anthony steps up to the mic.

  “Okay, I know there’s often a kind of sharing-is-caring spirit with open mics, but I’m going to hold this shit down for the next half hour.” He’s dressed in the charcoal suit I know he bought for his audition in New York. “I’m testing monologues. Stomp if you hate it, cheer if you love it. Sound good?”

  I cheer with the rest of the drama group, earning eye rolls from the only other open-mic participants I can pick out—two bearded guys with mandolins in the corner.

  Anthony extravagantly clears his throat. The rest of us hold our breath, and except for the hiss of the cappuccino machine the room is silent. “About three things I was absolutely positive,” Anthony begins. I frown. This isn’t one of the monologues we prepped. Chekhov? Ibsen? Beckett?

  “First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him—”

  The room erupts into stomping punctuated by a few exuberant cheers. I whoop from the armrest, recognizing Stephenie Meyer’s iconic declaration of love from Twilight. Anthony collapses onto the mic stand, laughing.

  “Okay, for real this time,” Anthony promises, straightening his tie. He closes his eyes, taking a beat to find his composure. When he looks back up at us, he’s transformed. “Because you can’t handle it, son. You can’t handle the truth. You can’t handle . . .”

  He continues the speech, and I watch my classmates’ expressions for reactions. He’s doing Shakespeare for both the classical monologues Juilliard requires and Chekhov for one of the contemporary, but he needs one more contemporary. I’ve been trying for weeks to dissuade him from the famous speech from the play version of Aaron Sorkin’s A Few Good Men. It invites inevitable Jack Nicholson comparisons, and Anthony’s talents are better suited to the subtle than the overexpressive. Sure enough, I notice skeptical looks and pursed lips on the faces of the crowd, and while I hear the occasional cheer, the stomping builds slowly until Anthony stops in mid-line.

  “Really? You’re not feeling Sorkin?” he says, breaking character and rubbing his neck.

  The stomping continues, even louder. Anthony shakes his head ruefully.

  I call out from my seat. “Scorpius!” I’m expecting the exasperated sigh Anthony heaves when he recognizes my voice. Every time he’d begin the Few Good Men speech in the Verona bathroom, I’d cut him off and insist on Scorpius Malfoy’s monologue from Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Anthony’s been adamantly resisting—he protests that it’s too commercial to command respect. But it doesn’t matter. He’s brilliant at it. He switches seamlessly from righteous anger to wounded vulnerability and captures a world of sorrows in just a few lines.

  “Can you even slightly imagine what that’s like?” Anthony begins, his voice aching. “Have you even ever tried? No. Because you can’t see beyond the end of your nose. Because you can’t see beyond the end of your stupid thing with your dad.”

  Immediately, I’m proven right. The crowd goes quiet, this time watching Anthony with unconcealed interest. Even the baristas stop pouring drinks and listen from the counter. Anthony’s eyes dance, and I know he feels the energy in the room. I get up and toss him an I-told-you-so glance. He sees me but doesn’t break character. He’ll definitely be performing this one in New York. Taking advantage of the lull in the line, I step up to the register, where one of the baristas looks annoyed to be handling my order.

  I walk to the other end of the counter to wait for my cappuccino, watching Anthony from behind the coffee machines. When it’s been a couple minutes with no cappuccino, I turn to check who’s waiting in front of me and—

  “Eric?”

  He whirls, looking panicked. When he realizes it’s me, he relaxes.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I’m, uh—” he stutters like he’s searching for an explanation, then stops himself. With a soft smile, he nods toward the stage. “I’m here for Anthony’s monologues.”

  “Thought so.” I smile. “Have you two . . . figured things out?” In all the time I’ve spent at Verona, Anthony’s never mentioned Eric, but I haven’t wanted to press. It’s possible they’ve talked.

  “We haven’t,” Eric says stiffly, his smile fading. “And we’re not going to. I know I’m not the type of guy Anthony wants or deserves to be with. But I wanted to watch the monologues because Anthony told me a lot about the audition before . . .” He looks away. “I heard about tonight and had to come.”

  I have to give Eric credit. For someone whose wardrobe consists of only lacrosse jerseys, he’s pretty emotionally insightful. “But it’s clear you still care about him,” I say.

  “Yeah, I do.” Eric’s eyes drift to Anthony. “When I’m with him, I feel like there are a million reasons why we should be together. I feel like I’m . . . my entire self, not just . . .”

  While he’s talking, I notice a familiar head of black hair framed in the doorway. “Playing who you’re supposed to be,” I finish Eric’s sentence as I watch Owen walk into the front and take my seat on the couch.

  “But sometimes it doesn’t matter,” Eric continues. “I’d just mess things up for Anthony—there’s too much in the way.”

  The applause from the other end of the room tells me Anthony’s finished his monologue, and I pull my gaze from Owen to find Eric putting on his jacket. “I think I should go,” he says.

  “Eric. You definitely don’t want to talk to him?”

  He shakes his head, his eyes pointedly avoiding where Anthony’s bowing by the mic. “I don’t want to interrupt his night. It’s better if he doesn’t see me.” He nods once before brushing past me to the door.

  “Cappuccino,” the tattooed barista calls out.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, taking the ceramic cup and gingerly carrying it back to where Anthony’s joined Jenna and everyone on the couches. The room’s beginning to clear out, and no one’s listening to the folk musicians’ gentle Iron & Wine cover. I sit on the edge of the table, putting plenty of distance between myself and Owen.

  Jenna drapes her arm around Anthony. “Which one’s it going to be?” she asks, flopping her head on his shoulder.

  “Harry Potter.” Anthony sighs and gives me a grudging smile. “Definitely Harry Potter.”

  “It’s a really cool pick,” Owen speaks up. “You’re great at capturing subtler dynamics. Seems like this is definitely your best option.”

  I scowl. It’s enough he’s here—he didn’t have to go and have the exact same opinion as me.

  “You only saw the one!” Jenna straightens up and slaps Owen on the knee. I scowl again. “Where were you? We said we’d meet here an hour ago.”

  Owen stiffens. “I, uh . . .” His eyes flit to mine for the first time in weeks. It’s a glance so quick I nearly miss it, but I know exactly how to read it.

  “Talking to Cosima?” I guess loudly.

  Now he levels his gaze with mine. “Yeah. I was.”

  “On a Thursday? Wow,” I say with unrestrained bitterness. “What, is she helping you run lines?”

  “What’s it to you?” Owen’s eyes are unreadable.

  “Nothing,” I say, ignoring the confused expressions on Anthony's and Jenna’s faces. “It’s nothing to me, Owen.” I get up, cappuccino unfinished. “I’m going to get—a muffin,” I finish, painfully conscious of how undramatic that sounded.

  But turning toward the counter, I freeze in place. Will and Alyssa are stepping up to the line, her hands in his back pockets, and they’re kissing for the whole world to see. Well, perfect.

  “Actually, I’m just going to head out,” I tell the group.

  I walk past Owen on my way to the door, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him start to stand. He
looks torn, like the part of him that wants to comfort me for what he obviously just saw happen with Will is wrestling with the part of him that remembers we’re in a huge fight.

  He looks like he wants to follow me, right up until he sits back down.

  TWENTY-TWO

  PARIS: Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

  IV.i.8

  OWEN AND I DON’T TALK FOR ANOTHER WEEK.

  It’s December, and Ashland is this weekend. I’m running late for the first full run-through before we leave tomorrow. Not helping matters, it’s a dress rehearsal, and right now I’m struggling to stuff a full medieval gown into my bag. I forgot to bring my costume to school—to Jody’s open-mouthed horror—because I had a twenty-minute discussion with my dad this morning about dinner plans for when my mom and Randall fly in tonight. Jody had me run home the instant school let out. Apparently, the world will end if the costume designer doesn’t have one final opportunity to make alterations before we leave town for the performance.

  I rush into the auditorium, nearly colliding with an irate Jody. “Why aren’t you dressed?” she shouts in the shrill voice she inevitably gets in the final days before a show.

  I know how to handle her. “You told me I had to be back in ten minutes. Here I am. Now let me go change,” I return over my shoulder, pushing past Tybalt and Benvolio engaged in a duel with their wooden swords.

  “Five minutes, Megan!” I hear behind me. “We’re doing the Nurse’s scene before we take it from the top.”

  I dash up the stairs to the stage and dart behind the curtain. Everyone’s waiting in the wings in full costume, and I have to elbow past lords and ladies and an apothecary on my way to the dressing rooms. Pulling off my scarf and unzipping my jacket, I pass through the green room, where three crewmembers are bent over a mic pack. I open the door to the girls’ dressing room, but I’m brought to a halt in the doorway. Cate Dawson’s making out sloppily with Jeremy Handler in between racks of clothes, his hand unmistakably up her shirt.

  Not a chance I’m going in there.

  I hit the stairs to the boys’ dressing room two at a time. It’s markedly smaller than the girls’, but it’ll have to do. Ignoring the thick stench of boy clothes, I do a quick sweep of the space, afraid of another uncomfortable walk-in. I drop my bag on the counter, closing the door behind me. Not a minute to waste, I rip the costume out of my bag and fling it onto a hanger, then undo my belt and shimmy out of my jeans.

  I peel off my shirt next and throw it over my head. But when I open my eyes—Owen’s staring right at me.

  Not into my eyes.

  My mouth won’t work for a couple terrifying seconds. The thought crosses my mind this was a regrettable day to wear my red boy-shorts with “Super Sexy” printed on them.

  “What the hell, man?” I yell after what feels like an eternity.

  Owen blinks and blushes furiously in his friar’s frock. Like he’s just remembered his decency, he looks away, then turns a full one hundred and eighty degrees. I guess averting his eyes wasn’t enough. “This—this is the guys’ dressing room,” he stammers.

  Remembering he’s right, I hastily pull the dress over my head. “Jeremy and Cate were doing something decidedly off-script in the girls’,” I mutter by way of explanation. Eager like I’ve never been for anything to extricate myself from this situation, I yank my dress down and—it gets caught.

  I can’t figure out on what. I have one arm halfway in a sleeve and the other sticking out what I suspect is the neck hole. The other sleeve is tangled in the straps of my yellow pushup bra. “Fucking shitty costume,” I gasp, pirouetting feverishly and trying to fix the problem.

  “Is— Um, what’s going on?” Owen’s voice sounds pinched.

  “My fucking costume is stuck.” I whack my arm on the counter and swear again.

  “Uh, where?” He still doesn’t turn.

  “If I knew, Owen, I’d fix it,” I snap. “Just give me a hand.”

  I hear his voice after a couple more frantic seconds of pulling on the sleeve. “It looks, um, stuck on your bra.” He clears his throat, like the effort of keeping his voice level was too much to bear. “I’ll go get someone,” he offers.

  “There’s not enough time. Jody’s going to kill me if I’m not down in, like, negative-one minutes.”

  “But, the green room—” he protests.

  “The only girl up here is Cate. If you’d really rather interrupt that than help me with my bra, then go right ahead.”

  He looks to the door like he’s considering it. But a moment later, I feel his hands on my back, twisting the fabric to unfurl the sleeves.

  “Just, pull the collar—” I prompt.

  “Move your—”

  “Now my arm’s stuck.”

  “How did you—? Have you ever put on a dress before?”

  “Have you, Owen?”

  “Stay still,” he orders me. I feel him struggling with the bra. This is hopeless. He circles me to try from the front.

  “Just take it off!”

  Owen’s hands still. “What?”

  “Unhook the bra.”

  He looks up at me, expressionless. “I am not taking off your bra right now, Megan.”

  I let out a short, rattling sigh. “Okay, I will.” I reach behind me. But right then, Owen gives the dress a final yank, and mercifully it comes free.

  He instantly steps back and turns around again, like he wasn’t just nose-deep in my décolletage. Ten hurried seconds later, I’ve pulled on both sleeves and straightened the bodice over the guilty bra. I’m reaching for the door when I hear, “Wait.”

  I do, not entirely knowing why. I’m not expecting the fervor of the past few minutes to have prompted him into an apology or a declaration of love, like this is some stupid rom-com.

  I feel Owen’s hands on my back once more. He sweeps my hair out from under the dress, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. It’s impossible to ignore how I shiver under his touch, try though I might.

  “Thanks,” I say, a bit breathless.

  “No problem.” His reply is short and distant. He edges past me to the door.

  I follow him, unsteady on my feet, unsure what just happened. Owen’s been cold to me for weeks, and he practically told me he’s devoted to his girlfriend. But the way he gently touched my neck felt—well, intimate.

  * * *

  Rehearsal keeps my mind from wandering. First full run-throughs never go smoothly, and between remembering my lines and hitting my cues, I have no time to talk to Owen—other than the brief scene in which Friar Lawrence sells Juliet poison, which isn’t exactly brimming with sexual tension.

  Rehearsal ends twenty minutes behind schedule, and I roll through stop signs on the way home. Dad’s waiting impatiently in the driveway. He hustles me into his car with only a “Come on, Megan. We have to go.”

  It’s an hour to the Medford Airport, and I anxiously listen to Dad list off dinner plans and travel arrangements for Ashland while the redwoods fly by in the window. I keep waiting to hear strain in his voice at the prospect of being around his ex-wife again, but it hasn’t crept in yet.

  We pull up to the terminal, and I’m startled by the little leap my heart does when I catch sight of Mom. Before Dad’s even put the car in park, I’m jumping out of my seat and running to give her a hug.

  “I wasn’t expecting this treatment from my seventeen-year-old daughter,” Mom tries to joke, but the lopsided smile on her face betrays how pleased she is. “Shouldn’t you be rebellious or something?”

  “I missed you,” I say into her shoulder. “I’ll resume standard operating rebelliousness tomorrow.”

  Randall’s holding the suitcases behind her. He gives me a conspiratorial wink over her shoulder, and my heart sinks a little. In just under a week, my mom’s going to be engaged.

  I hear the trunk pop,
and Dad walks around the car and wraps my mom in a delicate hug. “Catherine, it’s great to see you.”

  Mom gives a small smile in reply, and I notice a faint blush on her cheeks. Dad turns to Randall and reaches for a suitcase, but inevitably Randall insists on carrying it himself. The two of them end up awkwardly walking the suitcase between them the entire way to the trunk.

  Mom and I exchange a glance. I follow her into the back of Dad’s Rav-4, not ready to give up Mom proximity just yet. “You haven’t traded this thing in by now, Henry?” she asks with a laugh while Dad and Randall get in the front. Randall slides his chair back to fit his six-foot-four frame, plowing the back of the seat into my knees.

  “No,” my dad answers, grinning. “You’d be surprised how long a car can hold out when someone’s not riding the brakes to every stop.”

  Mom holds up a hand in defense. “I do not—”

  “She does. She really does,” Randall confirms, making Dad laugh.

  I say nothing, not believing what’s happening. I didn’t dare expect this drive would be anything but small talk and long silences, and here we are, laughing already. But this trip’s far from over.

  * * *

  Dad and Randall fight over the suitcases the entire walk up to the porch. The house smells like sweet potatoes when I open the front door, and Mom heads straight for Erin, who’s shouting noo-noos in her playpen.

  “Look how big you’ve gotten,” Mom coos, earning a giggle from Erin.

  Rose emerges from the kitchen, holding an assortment of silverware, her other hand on her back. I watch my mom for the death glares she gave Rose the last time they were in the same room, and I’m stunned when Mom pulls Rose into a one-armed hug. From the look on Rose’s face, she’s stunned, too. I can’t decipher my mom’s unexpected warmth toward her. It could be the years since the divorce, the distance, the fact my mom has a boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé.