Always Never Yours(11)
“You noticed?” I ask dryly.
“Megan. Everyone noticed. I think William Shakespeare himself felt it in the grave.” Now he elbows me. “It’s about time for your next torrid whirlwind romance.”
I take a second to study Billy’s skinny jeans. “I’ll meet you at Verona in twenty minutes.”
I drift over to where Billy and Owen are talking and overhear a snippet of their conversation. It sounds like they’re discussing poetry. Billy’s praising the “forest imagery” but says the internal rhymes need work.
“I love it when guys talk internal rhyme,” I remark, walking up next to them. “Hi, Owen. Hey, Billy.” I smile.
Owen cuts in. “Uh, it’s Will now.”
Billy rolls his eyes, and I look from him to Owen. “I feel like I’m missing something.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Billy—Will—says. “I just decided I prefer to go by Will.”
Yes. Yes. We prefer Will. Everything about him works together perfectly. The blond hair, the fitted clothes, the elegant, understated name. I think I just might die.
“Cool,” I say instead.
Will unleashes a dazzling smile. “Hey, I really liked your original interpretation of Juliet. You nailed that scene.”
“Well”—I try to sound nonchalant—“I had to make her interesting somehow. It’s hard for me to relate to someone so coy and hard to get.” I see Owen’s eyebrows shoot up, but I’m focused on Will’s growing smile.
“It could be worse. You could be trying to get a guy to fall in love with you while pretending to be a man.” He crosses his arms, daring me to get the reference.
“Twelfth Night—or As You Like It. Yeah, I guess it’s better than having my hands cut off by two lunatic brothers,” I say, playing along.
Will raises an eyebrow. “I like Titus Andronicus! You know, it definitely beats having to get it on with a donkey.”
“Well, Tyler is an ass,” I mutter under my breath, knowing he’s referring to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“This is really cute,” Owen interjects, “but, Will, did you want to give me your notes on the lyrics?”
“Lyrics?” I turn to Owen. I would be annoyed he interrupted my boldfaced flirting if I weren’t intrigued.
“Owen writes lyrics for my band,” Will says with the studied casualness of a guy who practices telling girls he’s in a band.
My eyes widen. “You’re in a band?” I ask Owen. Will I could believe, but shy Owen . . . ?
His ears go red. “I’m not. I just write the lyrics.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer.” It would explain the ever-present pen and notebook.
“Are you kidding?” Will says, and I look back at him. With his debonair smile and incredible hair, I can’t believe I ever looked away. “This kid does nothing but write. I can barely get through a conversation without him jotting down an idea for one of his plays.”
“Will, the lyrics?” Owen holds out his hand, visibly uncomfortable.
Will hands Owen a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and I go into conversational desperation mode. I’m not inclined to let Will leave before I procure a phone number. “Hey, you guys want to go to Verona for some undercooked pizza?”
“Alas,” Will says, “I have to go over a scene diagram with Jody. But I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“What’s happening Wednesday?” Not that it matters.
“It’s the first run of your balcony scene. I’m head of the stage crew, so I have to be there. But besides”—he smiles a smile it’s hard to believe occurs in nature—“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You don’t want to see—”
“Yes. I do.” He looks me right in the eyes, and I swear my knees might give way. I guess I won’t brainstorm boyfriend prospects tonight. Will could be exactly what I’m looking for. Even if I have to run the balcony scene a thousand times, suddenly Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
Will walks off, treating me to a new perspective on his hotness.
“So, uh . . . pizza?” Owen’s voice returns me to earth.
It takes me a second to realize I invited him, too. “Uh, yeah. Let’s go.”
* * *
The shortest walk from school to Verona is through the woods. It’s not like Stillmont is encircled by trees—it’s more like they intersperse the town, encroaching in surprising stretches. I like walking in the woods. I’m not one for Transcendentalist poetry and Bon Iver and stuff, but I’ve come to crave the quiet. Especially since Erin arrived.
I lead Owen onto a faintly defined path over the thick roots. “I didn’t know you and Will were friends,” I say.
“We’re not,” Owen replies, then corrects himself. “Well, we’re not good friends. I’m friends with Jordan, and he was friends with Jordan. But now Jordan lives in Chicago, and he was—”
“The friend-glue,” I finish the sentence. I know exactly what he’s talking about. I’ve tried hanging out with Anthony’s Math Olympiad friends while he wasn’t present, and it did not go well. They glared when I confused the titles of Star Trek: The Next Generation and Star Wars: A New Hope.