Always Never Yours(21)
Of course Madeleine had the perfect night. I’m glad it was perfect. I am. While Madeleine’s watched me date a nearly constant stream of guys, I’ve watched her spend all her free time studying and volunteering and not having a boyfriend, and meanwhile becoming this incredible, beautiful person. It’s nice to see her finally have the boyfriend piece, too.
“I told you you had nothing to worry about,” I say finally.
“I guess.” She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, smiling softly at her feet. “Anyway, I should get back to the library. I just wanted to tell you in person.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say, but an unexpected pit opens in my stomach. I walk her to the stairs. “Skinny-dipping under the stars at a beautiful lakeside cabin,” I add, forcing a smile. “You give us mere mortals hope that true love is possible.”
She laughs. “It is, Megan.” She grins and practically bounds down the stairs.
I stand in the hallway, her words echoing in the small space. It is. I don’t know why her confidence upsets me. Or why hearing about Madeleine’s perfect night feels like a lump of lead under my lungs. I knew this was coming, and I wasn’t lying when I told her I was fine with it. But I can hear the words Madeleine didn’t say. Tyler gave her a night he never gave me because what they have is more real, more worthwhile than what we had. In his head, our night is forgotten, obliterated by something better.
Which it should be, I remind myself. They love each other.
But I guess I liked the idea that Tyler’s and my first time meant something to him—that for one boyfriend I was worth remembering. Instead I’m realizing, however close I felt to the center of Tyler’s and my stage, I was far off. Far from important. Far from extraordinary.
I try to push the feeling away. I open the door to the green room and find Owen reading lines under his breath. I remember what he was saying about Rosaline, how she doesn’t have to be just a precursor to someone else’s happy ending.
Madeleine and Tyler are perfect together—they’re Romeo and Juliet without the tragedy. I’ve known their relationship was unique since the first time they sat together at lunch as a couple. Madeleine laughed at something Tyler said, and his eyes lit up like he’d never heard something so lovely before. It reminded me of the way my dad smiled at Rose. There are some things a person can’t get in the way of.
But I’m not going to be just a bystander to their epic romance. I don’t want Tyler, but I do want to be wanted.
“I need your help with Will.” I interrupt Owen’s reading and sit down next to him.
His head pops up. “Okay, first, you just made me lose my place,” he says, sounding exasperated, but he shuts his book and gives me his attention. “Second, you don’t need my help. You’re doing fine on your own.”
“No, I’m not,” I admit. I’ve watched Will build sets after school three times, and still he hasn’t said one word to me since we met. “What you were just telling me about Will being new-hot, that’s the kind of insight I need. I don’t know a lot about him, about what to expect, how to read him, what he’s interested in. I like him,” I say. “And I don’t want to screw it up. You’re his friend—you could help.”
Owen doesn’t say anything for a moment. He begins tapping his pen on his knee, and it takes everything in me to resist grabbing it out of his hand. “It could get uncomfortable if Will figures out I’m trying to set him up with someone,” he finally replies.
I smile slightly, hopefully not enough for him to notice, because his answer wasn’t a no. He knows I’m right.
He moves to drumming his pen on his notebook, and I realize how I can convince him. “I’ll help you with your play.” It comes out sounding like a statement, not an offer.
His pen stops, and he looks at me with curiosity, or hesitation. “I’m not really looking for a cowriter,” he says gently.
“Not a cowriter.” I shake my head. “I’ll help you figure out Rosaline’s character. You said you were having trouble getting into her head. Think about it. I am Rosaline.” Owen blinks, his contemplative look returning. “You liked the idea I had about Rosaline convincing herself not to want what Romeo and Juliet had. I can give you more of that. I know what it’s like to watch your ex fall for someone they’d die for, over and over,” I go on. “I could tell you about first dates, last dates, breakups—oh, the breakups.”
He’s tempted, I can tell by the spark in his eyes. But he only asks, “Wouldn’t that be kind of weird? Interviewing you about your romantic history?” His ears turn pink.
“It wouldn’t be weird for me. I’m not embarrassed by it,” I say with a shrug. But by the blush spreading to Owen’s cheeks, I know it’s not me he’s worried about. I’m going to enjoy scandalizing him if he agrees. “Besides,” I continue, “you said the play was inspired by me. You’re a writer, Owen. How can you refuse the chance to get real, deep emotional insight into a character? That’s what I’ll give you,” I finish triumphantly.
He thinks for a long second. I watch the wheels turning behind his dark eyes.
I stick out my hand. “Do we have a deal?”
When he puts his hand in mine, it’s without a trace of hesitation. His fingers wrap all the way around my hand, and his palm is surprisingly rough. “Deal,” he says.