Always Never Yours(27)

“Really?” He looks interested, and my stomach somersaults. He crouches down next to an amp to plug something in. “Give me a—”

“Hey, Will!” The voice comes from what must be one of Will’s bandmates, who’s standing on the other end of the stage. “The PA’s broken again. I’ve tried plugging shit in everywhere and—nothing. We need that stagehand magic.”

Will sighs, frustrated, and looks at me apologetically. “I have to—” he starts.

“No worries,” I cut him off, hoping he doesn’t hear my disappointment. “The show must go on. I’m looking forward to it.”

His devastating grin returns. “Find me after, okay?”

“Definitely.” Like he has to tell me. Even though it physically hurts to pull myself away, I retreat into the crowd growing on the edge of the stage.

Will must be a genius with PAs, because it’s only five minutes later that he steps up to the mic while the rest of the band take to their instruments behind him. Without introduction, Will counts them off and strikes the first chord. He’s incredible. I am dead. They’re playing a kind of alternative punk that I’d probably enjoy even without the hot singer.

I try to move up, but I’m blocked by Dean Singh, my ex from two years ago. He’s dancing overeagerly with Amanda Cohen, whom he left me for when she transferred to our school three months into our relationship. I watch him smash a sloppy kiss on her lips in front of me.

I hesitate, wrestling with the warring desires to get a better view and to avoid Dean. I didn’t exactly exit the relationship gracefully. I wasn’t completely used to being dumped yet, and I let Dean know I was pissed. There might have been defiling of his locker involved. We haven’t spoken since, and I’m not looking to break the streak. In a moment of panic, I spin and search for a new vantage point to watch the band. My eyes find Anthony on the outdoor balcony.

I quickly go inside and step over a worrisome bikini top on my way up the stairs. It’s less crowded up here with everyone on the dance floor. When I walk out onto the balcony, Anthony’s draped on the railing, his eyes fixed on the crowd below. Immediately, I know something’s wrong. In no typical party would Anthony be by himself while everyone else is having fun.

“What’s up, Anthony?” I hesitantly ask when I reach the railing.

He wordlessly points to the edge of the dance floor, where I glimpse a flash of neon. Eric.

He’s dancing—with a girl, the sort of girl someone like Eric would be expected to attract. Bleach-blonde hair, tall, curvaceous.

“They could just be friends,” I say, watching the girl press her butt into Eric’s front. “Besides, you said things were going great. I bet it’s nothing.”

Anthony turns to me, his eyes combative. “Does she look like just a friend?” He nods to where Eric’s now running his hands down the girl’s sides.

I have to admit, it doesn’t look good. A guy in a Saint Margaret’s School lacrosse jersey walks past Eric and thumps him on the back. That’s where Eric goes to school, I have to guess. He exchanges bro-nods with the lacrosse guy, then returns to his concentrated grinding.

“I don’t get it,” Anthony mutters. “I really felt like we connected in the car.”

“I’m sure you—” I hear my name shouted up from the lower level. Anthony and I both turn, startled, to peer over the railing.

Owen’s standing under the balcony. He must be the only person in the entire party not dancing or watching the band. He’s wearing a gray sweater and black jeans, and even though I know I’ve seen the outfit before, it looks somehow better tonight. When our eyes meet, he grins.

“What’re you doing up there?” he calls.

I gesture in the direction of Will and the band, who’ve finished their first song to drunken cheers. “Better view!” I shout.

“How Juliet of you.” Owen nods at the balcony, his grin widening. I have no choice but to roll my eyes. Beside me Anthony groans, and I glance to Eric—whose hands have risen perilously close to Blondie’s chest.

Anthony’s head drops into his hands. But he jerks upright when I take him by both shoulders and spin him to look me in the eye. “Anthony,” I say urgently. “This?” I gesture to him crumpled on the railing. “Isn’t how you get guys interested. Especially not when you’re wearing the blazer and button-down you know leave people breathless.” He gives me a weak smile. “Pull yourself together. Get down there,” I continue. “Talk to him. Dance with him.”

My monologue doesn’t exactly leave Anthony looking like a virile sex god, but some of the despondency’s gone out of his expression. He straightens his blazer and walks inside, and I lean over the balcony’s edge.

“Owen,” I shout. “This is ridiculous. Come up here.”

Will counts off the second song, and I take special note of the way he pushes his slightly sweaty hair out of his eyes. Sometime between the hair push and Will gripping the mic with both hands in a way that makes me wish it were my face, Owen comes out onto the balcony.

“Did you bring a date?” I ask him when he joins me by the railing.

He frowns, but I can tell he’s trying to hide a smile. “No, Megan. I didn’t bring a date. I have a girlfriend.”