Always Never Yours(29)

I lock eyes with Anthony.

Horror, heartbreak, and anger collide on his face. I open my mouth, trying to think of something to say—of what I could possibly say—but he’s storming off before I’ve even gotten his name out. The crowd’s breaking up, staggering back into the house. I push aside exhausted couples clinging to each other on the patio, following Anthony.

I finally reach him by the pool, but he holds up a hand. “Please, Megan,” he says in a low, uneven voice. “I just need to be alone right now.”

“Let me drive you home at least,” I say, because it’s the only thing I have to offer.

“No, go back inside. Find Will. I’ll be fine, really. I’ll get a ride with Jenna.” He irons a little of the waver out of his voice.

I stand there and watch him slowly walk into the house with everyone else, wondering if I’d be a shittier friend to let him leave or try to follow. Before I’ve decided, Owen steps up beside me.

“Is he okay?” Owen asks.

“Not really. But Anthony’s tough.”

He nods. “Well, I wanted to catch you because the band’s packing up. Now’s your shot with Will.”

He’s right. I’m here for a reason, and I can’t leave without trying. I look to the stage, where Will’s drummer and guitarist are hauling equipment toward an open van parked in the back. But Will’s caught in a circle of girls near the mic stand, each of them leaning in a little closer than what could be considered friendly. I’m not surprised to find Alyssa’s among them.

Part of me irrationally hopes he’ll look for me over the heads of his new groupies. But of course he doesn’t.

“Are you going?” Owen sounds expectant.

I gesture to the girls encircling Will. “I’m not interested in playing that game.” And I definitely don’t want to stick around and watch him notice someone else. “I’ll just wait until everyone’s leaving and talk to him then.”

With nothing better to do, I follow Owen into the enormous, trashed living room, where inexplicably he begins picking up beer cans and Solo cups and throwing them into the black Hefty bag taped to the wall. Feeling guilty next to Mr. Party Samaritan, I grab a towel and wipe up a salsa spill on the chip table.

“You’re his friend. What has Will said about me?” I ask after a couple minutes.

Owen drops a can into the trash bag, then stops, seemingly weighing his words. “He said you’re hot in a deep way.”

I straighten up. “What does that mean? No, wait, it doesn’t matter. It sounds promising.” I take a seat on the stairs and smile to myself, until curiosity gets the better of me. “But what does that mean?”

Owen laughs at my change of heart. He leans on the banister, his eyes becoming contemplative. His words come slowly at first, but they gather momentum while he speaks. “It means you’re, like, this unafraid force of being. You know exactly who you want to be, and you never pretend to be someone you’re not. It’s inspiring. Being around you—” He looks up sharply, then shakes his head. “This trash bag’s going to break,” he says abruptly, tying off the bag beside him, eyes averted from mine. “Would you hand me another?” He points to the box of bags on the table.

Judging from the limp outline of the one he’s tying shut, it’s nowhere near full. But I grab a new bag anyway.

I hand it to him, saying nothing. I don’t know what to say. Owen tapes the new bag to the wall, then straightens his sweater like he’s desperately searching for a distraction. I feel something I hardly recognize—a blush rising in my cheeks.

No one’s ever said anything like that to me. I’ve never thought of myself as a force of . . . anything.

“No wonder you write the lyrics,” I say lightly before the silence gets too awkward.

Owen’s laugh sounds relieved, but he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Will didn’t say all that, did he?” My voice comes out soft, and at first I think he didn’t hear me over the music pounding through the walls. No one’s turned the iPod off even though the party’s dying down.

“Not exactly,” Owen says after a long moment. He glances sideways, and I want to ask him what he was going to say next, before he cut himself off to ask for the trash bag, when I hear someone’s footsteps coming from the now nearly empty patio.

“Hey,” Will says when he sees us.

“Good set tonight.” Owen sounds casual, none of the gentle sincerity of a couple seconds ago lingering in his voice. “I should head home,” he continues, tossing a pointed look in my direction. I know he’s purposefully giving me time with Will. “I’ll see you guys for rehearsal on Monday.”

He leaves us by the stairs. I waste no time in getting up and smoothing my dress. Without saying a word, we drift back outside. There’s a certain charge in the air, like we both know where this is headed.

Will pauses under the strings of small, dim lights strung over the patio. “I looked for you after the show, but I couldn’t find you.”

“I knew you were getting mobbed.” I shrug, not wanting to think about Alyssa and the groupies right now. “Hot lead singer and whatnot.”

He laughs, his voice rough and raspy from an hour of singing, and I wish we’d skipped the small talk. “You get right to the point. I like that,” he says, eyeing me like he’s wishing the same thing.