“Just because your mother understands how I feel about her doesn’t mean it won’t hurt her sometimes. It hurts me, too.” He rubs his face distractedly, his eyes desolate. “It’s a hard thing, ending something that permanent. It’s a pain that never goes away.”
I try to reconcile his words with what I know. It doesn’t work. “But you moved on. You moved on so quickly,” I say weakly.
Dad straightens up, looking surprised. “I fell in love with Rose, but I haven’t moved on,” he amends carefully, uncertainly even. “I guess I never considered how it looked to you. How quickly I brought Rose into my life. But finding Rose has nothing to do with what I feel for your mother. Your mom is an invaluable part of my life, and no matter what, she always will be.” From the vulnerability in his voice, I feel the truth of what he’s saying. He pauses, something searching in his expression. “I hope you know, Megan, if you think Erin and the baby change your place in our family—nothing could ever change that.”
I say nothing. I don’t know how to tell him he’s wrong. They have changed my place. It’s impossible to admit out loud.
“Hey. Look at me,” he says gently. I do, tears I wish I could banish brimming in my eyes. His voice is rough when he continues. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I haven’t been there for you the way you needed, the way you deserve. I’m trying to figure out how to be a new father and raise an intimidatingly smart, self-possessed teenager, and I know I haven’t gotten it right every time. But us moving to New York isn’t us leaving you behind.” He pauses as if for permission, which I give by waiting. He goes on. “You’re kind of scarily grown-up now, Megan,” he says with a faint grin. “Next year you’re going to college. You’re going to be pursuing your own future. I want you to have that experience on your own—being the incredibly independent adult you already are.”
I smile back, a tear stumbling over my eyelashes.
“That said,” he continues, “if you ever need us, or want us, or you’re tired of being grown-up for a while, then come home.”
Home? I feel my smile fade. “New York’s not my home,” I say. “It won’t be the same. You’ll have your own life, and I won’t belong.”
“Where we are doesn’t matter,” he says with half a laugh, as if he’s surprised I could imagine otherwise. “Wherever we are, we’re family.”
His words dissolve the weight on my chest, the weight I hadn’t fully realized had lain there for years. He stands up and walks across the room, placing his hands on my shoulders and looking down at me.
“Nothing could ever change how much I love you,” he says, and I collapse into a hug against his chest. I’m crying into his shoulder without even realizing it, his hands stroking soothing circles on my back. We remain that way until I’m out of tears.
Finally, I pull back, noticing the ugly snot stain I’ve left on his shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind. “So,” I say, casting around for something to defuse the heavy emotion in the room, “how pissed did Jody seem on the phone?”
He laughs. “Pissed. Not pissed enough she wouldn’t talk to you about the role, though.”
“I’m fine with just being Lady Montague. I only need the acting credit for SOTI,” I say, stepping away and picking up my new costume. “It doesn’t matter what part I play.”
“I don’t believe that,” Dad replies sharply, and I whip to face him, surprised at his sudden conviction. “For months, I’ve heard nothing but Romeo and Juliet. This role is yours. You earned it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I protest. “They found a new Juliet.”
“So what if there’s a new Juliet?” he asks, throwing the thought away with a wave of his hand. “I want to know that if you don’t go on stage to do what you’ve worked for, you won’t regret it tomorrow.”
Still clutching the Lady Montague costume, I picture walking on stage in the Angus Bowmer Theatre just to say two lines. I could do it, but it’d hurt. I’ve put hours and hours into this play, I’ve made Juliet my own, and to just walk away . . . Then I picture standing on Juliet’s balcony, delivering lines to Tyler Douchebag Dunning—and it doesn’t feel impossible.
I thought I wasn’t meant to be a main character, on stage or anywhere else. But I also thought Madeleine was perfect and she and Tyler were meant to be, that my dad didn’t care about my mom and my place in our family was disappearing, and that Owen could never want someone like me. I thought I couldn’t fall for someone absolutely and completely. I’ve been wrong before.
I look back up at Dad, and I know he sees the resolve in my eyes, because he’s smiling. “Jody’s in the lobby. I saw her returning when I got here,” he says, taking the costume out of my hands. “Go.”
In one step I’ve reached the door. But before I pull it open, I double back and throw my arms around him. “Thanks, Dad.”
* * *
I enter the lobby, and I’m momentarily overwhelmed by the pre-performance chaos. The noblewomen of Verona have gathered in full costume around the brunch buffet and are chattering excitedly. Nearby, one of the prop masters explains to Anthony for the hundredth time how to use the blood squib for his death scene. The stage crew, Will included, have chosen the center of the room to go over the set changes one final time.
I pick out Jody by the front doors talking to a couple of parent chaperones, none of whom looks happy. Threading in between the costumed girls, I catch snippets of their conversation.
“Heard he was . . .”
“She just called . . .”
“. . . Italian girlfriend.”
Wait. I stop so abruptly that Jeremy crashes into my back. He mutters an apology and darts around me. I know there’s only one person Italian girlfriend could refer to, but I have to be certain. I come up beside Courtney, ignoring the indignant looks I get from everyone I just cut in the buffet line.
“Megan! You’re here!” Courtney doesn’t bother hiding the curiosity in her voice.
“Uh, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well,” I lie, eager to dodge this conversation. I match their gossipy tone. “Hey, did I hear you talking about Cosima?”
Jenna cranes her head past Courtney. “Yeah, I think she might be real.” She giggles.
“What—uh—makes you say?”
“Owen’s roommate was telling everyone that Owen and Cosima were on the phone this morning,” Courtney rushes to say. “They were talking for, like, an hour. Apparently it was . . . intense.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.
“Intense how?” I force myself to ask.
“We heard he was doing a lot of apologizing and reassuring. Whatever Owen did . . . he regrets something.” Courtney sounds obviously pleased with herself.
I don’t know why I asked. I knew what I would hear. “Still doesn’t prove she’s real.” I fake a laugh as my heart is ripped from my chest. “I’ll see you guys later,” I say while they’re laughing.
Leaving the line, I pause by the stairs to catch my breath, my chest tight. I don’t want to be the kind of person who jumps to conclusions based on gossip, but with my romantic history, it’s pretty much impossible not to. When Owen left my room this morning, he probably realized he wants to be with Cosima and regrets being with me. He called her to apologize.
I thought I’d done something different when I fell for Owen. He said I’d repeatedly chosen the wrong guys—I thought he was the right one. Instead, I’ve done exactly what I did every time before. It’s like I can’t escape putting myself in a position to be discarded and replaced.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jody walking toward the door.
Asking for the Juliet role might just be putting myself in the same position once again. Jody could say no, and I would have to watch Alyssa take everything I’ve earned. But I have to try. I’m happy I tried with Owen. I know deep down I am. Even if things with him are over without having hardly begun, I don’t have time to fall apart right now. The pl
ay’s too important.
I march up to Jody, sidestepping everyone in my way. Her hand’s on the door. I slide in front of her, stopping her from leaving, and her expression hardens.
“I’m really sorry about yesterday,” I say in a single breath. “It was unprofessional and disrespectful to you and to everyone involved in the production.”
“Yes, it was,” she says, unwavering. “I don’t have time for this. I’ll deal with you after the performance.”
“No, we have to talk now,” I tell her. I’ve talked back to Jody before, but this degree of boldness startles even me. It definitely gets her attention—she drops her hand from the door and crosses her arms. “You need to give me the role back,” I continue before she can reprimand me.
Surprise joins the sternness in her eyes. “Why’s that?”
“I didn’t think I could relate to Juliet before. I thought she was an idiot, giving up everything for a guy with mediocre flirting skills.” Jody raises an eyebrow but doesn’t smile. “But I understand her now.” I pause, hoping she’s willing to hear more.
“What do you understand, Megan?” she asks, sounding tired.
Encouraged, I go on. “Everyone’s an idiot like Juliet sometimes. Or everyone should be. Juliet dares to care about something. It makes her do crazy things—crazy like confronting her director in the middle of a crowded hotel lobby to beg for something she probably doesn’t deserve.” Jody permits a small grin. “I’m ready to be like that. To care. I want to be Juliet, for you, for everyone in the play who I’ve worked with—and for me. I want this.”
I finish my monologue, the most impassioned one I’ve ever given, and there’s a horrible, quiet moment. Not quiet in the lobby, obviously, but between us, there’s the silence of the empty stage before the curtain rises.
“Finally,” she says at last. “I didn’t come talk to you yesterday because I was hoping you’d come to me. You’re a wonderful director, Megan. I’ve seen you break down and explain countless characters, all but delivering the lines yourself. I gave you the role of Juliet because I knew you could do it, but I wanted you to realize you could do it, too.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Wait,” I say hesitantly, “does this mean I have the role?”
“What do you think?” Jody gives me a wry smile. It’s all the answer I need.
Relief races through me, followed by the thrill of this having actually worked. Then—“What about Alyssa?” I wonder aloud.
“That’s the other reason I’m glad you came to talk to me.” Jody shakes her head, sounding relieved herself. “One of our chaperones caught Alyssa trying to sneak back into her room this morning during room checks. I don’t know where she went last night, but the conduct handbook requires I send her home, which would have meant forcing Jenna Cho to memorize the entire play in two hours. Now Jenna won’t have to, and one of the stagehands will be reading Lady Montague.”
She checks her watch. “Better get in costume, Juliet.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
JULIET: My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep. The more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
II.ii.140–2
I DO A THOUSAND THINGS IN THE next hour. I hurry up to my room, where my dad gives an honest-to-god cheer when I tell him I’ve got the part. I practically have to push him out the door before I take the world’s fastest shower. Throwing on my sweats, I walk with wet hair dangling down my back to the parent chaperones’ room, the Lady Montague dress wrapped in a ball under my arm. It takes reciting a portion of my final monologue to convince Jeremy’s mom I need the Juliet costume back. I catch her grumbling about having to re-re-alter the dress.
Before I change, I drop by the dining room to grab an apple, which I’ve eaten by the time I’ve reached my room. I pull my costume on—no help from Owen this time, unfortunately—and text Anthony, who deserves an explanation, and Eric, who wants directions to the theater. If I survive the play, I’ll try to corner him in the back and convince him to at least say hi to Anthony. I don’t think that counts as meddling. Eric decided to come on his own, after all.
I do a good job not dwelling on Owen in the fifty-seven minutes it takes me to finish everything. I rush downstairs into the lobby, which I find has emptied out, unsurprisingly. Everyone’s already on their way to the theater for an hour of makeup and mic checks before the performance.
I push open the front door, only now remembering I forgot my parka. Even with the sun streaming through the cloudless December sky, the air is eye-wateringly cold. But it’s not the end of the world—Juliet’s dress involves long sleeves and tights. I step out, hugging my arms to my chest. Only a few pedestrians cut me glances as I walk down Vista Street in full costume. I guess they’re used to this sort of thing.
My dress fluttering in the wind, I march into the crosswalk on Fork Street. I’m in the middle of the road when, several steps in front of me, I spot a familiar friar’s costume.
“Hey, Owen,” I call to his back. How do I talk to someone who was heard having an “intense” conversation with his Italian ex hours after I took his virginity? I’ll figure it out.
He turns in the middle of the street, his eyes lighting up when he sees me.
Whatever’s going on with Cosima, I’m not going to be weird about it, I decide. I want to keep Owen as a friend, no matter how last night redefined everything for me.
“I heard about your epic speech to Jody,” he says when I catch up to him. He’s holding the schedule binder Jody handed out to everyone. “I’m really glad you’re going to be Juliet.”
“Thanks.” I scramble to hold together everything his smile unravels in me.
“You look beautiful,” he says, not doing me any favors.
The way he’s looking at me—I can’t help but remember him helping me when I was stuck in the dressing room, his hands brushing my back, his fingers lifting the hem up my body. And yesterday. Yesterday. But I play it cool. “You look chaste.” I nod to his frock.
Owen steps up onto the sidewalk and twirls in place. “You know, appearances can be deceiving, Megan,” he says, stunning me with a wry smile.
I blink. He’s 100 percent flirting with me. I know it when I see it. I take a breath, walking beside him. “Hey, so, um, I heard you talked to Cosima this morning.” I force myself to sound casual.
His eyes narrow quizzically. “Who told you that?”
“Just . . . some of the girls, you know.”
He shoots me a sidewise glance like I’ve just claimed the Earl of Oxford wrote Shakespeare’s plays. “No, I don’t know. But, yeah, I did talk to Cosima. She just wanted to clear the air. We left things kind of ugly the last time we talked.”
“Oh.” I pause, replaying his words in my head and searching for clues. “And . . . ?” I finally ask.
“And . . . then we hung up?” he says like he has no idea what I could be implying. He looks over at me again, and he must notice the desperate curiosity in my expression. “Oh my god. Megan! I was reassuring her the breakup wasn’t her fault.” His eyes go wide. “Tell me you didn’t think I was getting back together with her.”
I feel my face redden. “I thought you might feel like last night was a one-time thing—” I begin defensively. I hear how empty it sounds, how illogical. It’s a reflex, born of breakup after breakup.
“I snuck out of my room after room checks,” Owen cuts in, talking over me, “I told you you were irreplaceable, I showed you my play, and then we—” His face flushes spectacularly, and he gestures emptily in the air. “Which, remember, is something I’d never done before and something I’m desperately hoping is not a one-time thing.”
We stop in front of the door to the back of the theater. When I look up at Owen, for the first time today I don’t hold back what I’m feeling for everything about him, every part of him. Not for th
e crooked smile he’s giving me this very moment. Not for the way he made me laugh while telling me exactly what my heart wanted to hear. Not for his intelligence or his humor. Nor any other part belonging to a man, I hear Juliet’s voice in my head.
“I’m hoping it’s not a one-time thing either,” I say softly. “I kind of . . .” I feel a thought forming, and I follow where it leads. “I want to make this official. I don’t know. What do you think?” I ask fumblingly.
Owen looks surprised, and then an uncontrolled laugh escapes him. “O, speak again, bright angel,” he quotes, and I roll my eyes, recognizing Romeo’s line. I move to shove him lightly, but he pins my hand to his chest. “I really want to make this official, Megan.”
He kisses me, and I feel like call time might as well be in a million years, because I could do nothing but this forever. It’s every bit the raging rush it was only hours ago in my hotel bed. His hair—ever too long—brushes my cheeks. My fingers, numb with cold only moments ago, tingle and trace burning lines over his shoulders. My pulse races.
I hear giggles behind me, and I realize what we look like to whoever’s walking into the theater. Here I am, Juliet kissing a Romeo she never expected, who’s dressed in the costume of a monk. Owen evidently notices them, too, because he holds up the binder to hide us from view, never once breaking our kiss.
I finally pull back and look up at Owen, arms still encircling his waist. “You’re in luck, you know,” I say. “Every one of my boyfriends finds the perfect girl right after we break up.”
Owen kisses the top of my head. “Not every boyfriend,” he murmurs into my hair. “I have her right here.”
I don’t have words for how this feels. I don’t know that there are words. Not even in Shakespeare.
* * *
Heavy makeup coating my face, I wait in the wings for the curtain to rise. I didn’t often force myself to imagine what this moment would feel like, but on the occasions I did, I didn’t imagine this. There’s no knot in my stomach, but I’m not giddy with excitement either. I feel calm. Centered. Each of my scenes lies before me in a lighted path to the final bows.
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