Always Never Yours(13)

In Verona, I find Jenna Cho and a couple of noblewomen from today’s scene sitting in a booth by the soda fountain. Mercifully, Tyler and Alyssa are nowhere to be found. I could use a break from his smugness and her constant judgment. I slide into a seat as Anthony sidles up to take our orders.

“Wow, Anthony.” I try not to laugh. “You look ravishing.”

He’s wearing a T-shirt printed to resemble a medieval tunic, and there’s a Robin Hood–esque hat two sizes too small perched on his tight black curls. It’s hideous, and wonderful.

“Megan, nothing you say can take this away from me,” he says defiantly. He searches the room behind me. “Hey, where’s Billy?”

“It’s Will now,” I correct. “He’s not coming, but Owen’s on his way. He’s talking to his girlfriend right now.”

“Cosima?” Jenna asks, something knowing in her smile. The rest of the table chuckles.

I feel like I’m missing the joke. “Yeah, why?”

“You know she’s not real, right?” Courtney Greene answers with a conspiratorial smirk. “Owen’s totally making her up. There’s no proof.”

Anthony clears his throat. “I have other tables, you guys. Would you like to, you know, order?” He pulls a quill out of his pocket. Unable to contain myself, I burst out laughing. We order a couple Benvolio’s Banquets (pepperoni, sausage, and peppers, in what feels like a reach of textual interpretation), and Anthony gives me a final chastising look.

Owen shows up a few minutes later, looking out of sorts. He slides into the booth opposite me. Unhesitatingly, I smile and ask, “How was Cosima?”

“Blurry,” he grumbles. The group exchanges glances. I know Owen notices because he turns to Jenna wearily. “You seriously don’t still think she isn’t real, do you?”

“There’s no proof,” Courtney repeats.

“Is this normal cast behavior?” Owen asks me, half-jokingly exasperated. “They’ve been interrogating me since my first day of drama about my real”—he levels Courtney a look—“genuinely human girlfriend.”

“Better get used to it,” I reply resolutely. The corners of his mouth curve upward. “Does she have a Facebook?” I try to give him a chance. I pull out my phone and open the app.

Owen frowns like he’s heard the question before. “Cosima thinks social media’s frivolous,” he mutters.

Now I have to smile. “Awfully convenient.” But before he can reply, I see I have an unread email. The subject line reads, “Your upcoming Southern Oregon Theater Institute interview!” I lose track of the Cosima discussion as my eyes scan the email. I’ve put off dwelling on the interview, but now it’s in a couple days, and I’m having trouble thinking about anything else. The churning in my stomach only worsens when Anthony drops off the greasy pizzas.

“Hey, um, Megan,” I hear him say quietly beside me. “Could I talk to you for a second?”

Eager for the distraction, I jump up and follow him to the salad bar—overwhelmingly the least crowded part of the restaurant. “What? Do you need me to go get you a change of clothes?” I ask when we’ve stopped.

Anthony cocks his head, not amused. “I’ll have you know, I intend to wear this to your wedding. And your second wedding. And your third wedding.”

I cross my arms, holding back a smile. “That’s okay. It’s the fifth wedding I have a good feeling about.”

He laughs. “But really”—he drops his voice—“I need your wise counsel.”

“Is it about boys?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place.” I lean into the counter. “What’s up?”

“Eric invited me to a party,” Anthony explains. “But I’m not sure if the invitation was casual or potentially something more.”

“Well, do you even know if Eric—” I break off when I notice the hostess walk by leading a family of five to a table. Anthony’s hardly in the closet—everyone at school definitely knows he’s gay. He just might not want his personal life publicized to his coworkers and random neighborhood families. “Do you know if Eric . . .” I try again, “enjoys sausage pizza?” I finish, wincing, and Anthony’s eyes widen.

“That was bad,” he admonishes.

“I know.” I grimace. “But . . . does he?”

Anthony takes a deep breath, like he needs to prepare for what he’s about to say. “I don’t know, Megan. I’ve never seen him . . . order it. But I don’t know if he enjoys it in private. If it were served to him, he might partake.” Anthony rolls his eyes, halfway to a grin. “I just want to know what this kind of invitation means to guys. Is it definitely casual? Definitely a date?”

“It depends,” I start. “Both have happened to me. When Charlie invited me to Courtney’s birthday, I knew it was a date because he’d pursued me pretty obsessively for weeks before. When I went to a movie with Chris, I didn’t really know. You know how Chris is. He barely has facial expressions. When Dean—”

“You’re no help.” Anthony sighs, frustrated, then looks behind me. “Hey, Okita, come over here for a second.”