Always Never Yours(23)

He frowns and raises an eyebrow at me. “She’s social, she has a lot of friends. And a sarcastic sense of humor. Better?”

I grin. “Getting there,” I toss back. “I’m still not convinced.”

“Do you want help with Will or not?” he asks loudly. Without waiting for my answer he continues. “I thought we were here to work on my play.”

“Fine,” I say with a dramatic sigh, then take a seat on his bed and recline on his pillows. “Ask me anything.”

Owen rolls his eyes at my posture before sitting down in his desk chair. He pulls a notebook from the top drawer, and suddenly his whole demeanor changes. His shoulders drop, he sits up straighter and fixes his eyes on me. I wait for him to ask about my thoughts on love or my feelings about myself, the kinds of things I’d imagine a playwright would want to know.

“How far do you and your boyfriends typically go? Like, sexually?” he clarifies.

My mouth drops open for a second, both at the question and at Owen’s unexpected composure. Not about to let him think he’s scandalized me, I give him a lazy grin. “You get right to it.”

I expect Owen to blanch, but he doesn’t. “It’s important to the play.”

“Well, if it’s for the play.” I smother a smirk. If he wants detail, it’s detail he’ll get. “Tyler was my first. We only did it a couple times, mostly on the couch in his basement in the middle of cast parties, with everyone upstairs.” I ignore the lingering bite of comparing those memories with Madeleine’s recent account, instead preoccupying myself with hoping I’ll catch Owen’s ears going red.

When he only continues writing, I deflate a little. I’ll have to work harder. Which won’t be a problem given the detail I could provide. “I wouldn’t say it was amazing, but there was a reason we did it more than once . . .” I say suggestively, frowning when Owen only nods. I’m used to hushed laughter and gossip-glittering eyes when I provide details of my escapades—the consolation prize for their early, inevitable ends. Owen is . . . resisting. It’s unexpected, and I’m uncertain what to make of it.

“I’m trying to get an idea of what Rosaline might feel if she’d slept with Romeo before the whole Juliet thing.” His eyes remain fixed on his notebook. His hand moves with practiced speed, his pen in precise jolts. “Do you feel differently about Tyler than your other exes?”

“Not really.” I shrug. “I did plenty with other guys.”

For the first time, Owen’s shoulders stiffen. I grin. Everyone has a sex-awkwardness pressure point, even young Shakespeare over here. I go on. “I went to third base with Chris behind the gym after homecoming sophomore year. Only hands were involved with Charlie because his mom was always coming home at inopportune times. Obviously nothing with Anthony—oh, third base with Dean, which took freaking forever. I had to—”

“That—that’s enough, thanks,” he cuts me off, completely crimson.

“Ha! Finally,” I explode.

He looks up. “You were trying to make me uncomfortable?”

“Well, a little, yeah.” I eye him playfully.

He lifts his pen, looking like he wants to say something, until he finally does. “Is this . . . how you are?”

“Is what how I am?”

“This, you know . . . forward. Provocative.” I know it’s not a criticism, or a joke. He watches me, his mouth a neutral line, his eyes searching. He really wants to know.

I laugh harshly. “I’ve earned the right. When you’ve had as many relationships as I have, you learn to find the humor in . . .” I reach for the right word.

“Heartbreak,” Owen says.

“That’s a bit more poetic than I would have gone with, but basically.” He says nothing, and I pounce on the opportunity to change the subject. “Besides, teasing you is too much fun to resist.” I reach toward the chair and pat him on the knee. “You’re just so . . . sweet.”

He shakes off my hand. “No, I’m not,” he huffs.

He’s looking at the floor, and I feel a sting of remorse. Owen is sweet. He’s been nothing but kind to me, and I just turned that into something he feels self-conscious about. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I have other questions, you know.” Owen recovers his composure, returning to his notebook. “If you’re ready to answer them like a mature human being.” He flashes me a brief smile.

“Okaaaaay . . .” I drag out the syllables, relieved I’m forgiven.

“Does how far you go with a guy affect your feelings in the breakup?”

I pause a second. He deserves a thoughtful answer this time. “The sex doesn’t matter, per se. But if I’ve been with a guy long enough to have done things with him, I’m used to having him in my life, and it’s worse when we break up. Even then, though, when I see him with someone else and they’re perfect in every way he and I weren’t, it’s hard to stay upset.”

Owen stops writing. “I would think it’d be the opposite—that it would hurt worse.”

“Not when you’re expecting it. My relationships end for something bigger. In the end, it’s comforting.”

He gives me a long look, like he’s waiting for me to elaborate, or to burst into tears or something. I don’t know what he’s thinking. When I do none of the above, he makes a couple more notes. “Do you believe in true love?” he asks out of nowhere.