Always Never Yours(44)

I carry the plates to the sink and turn on the faucet. Owen comes up next to me with a couple more dishes. He hands them to me, then stops beside the sink, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something. “A really hot friar?” he finally asks way too nonchalantly.

I shake a spoon at him, splashing water on his face. “I didn’t know I was impossible to resist, either.”

Owen swats me with a towel, grinning. “Yes you did, Megan.” I laugh, noticing how he didn’t deny it.

Only once we’ve finished the dishes do I realize we haven’t heard anything from down the hallway in a suspiciously long time—no, a promisingly long time. Like he’s just read my mind, Owen glances in the direction Anthony led Eric. “What do you think is going on in there?” he asks softly.

“How about you go check?”

He whirls, eyes wide. “No. No way.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “You wait here.” I throw my towel at his face and tiptoe down the hall. Anthony’s bedroom is on the left, next to a very realistic portrait of Jesus. I only know where his room is from the study sessions where he helped me not fail my finals—definitely not from when we were dating. His door is ajar, spilling light into the darkened hallway. First I see one pair of knees jutting off of Anthony’s bed, then I adjust my angle to get a better view of . . . Anthony and Eric kissing to their hearts’ content.

I feel a rush of vindication. I linger only long enough to see Anthony push Eric down onto the bed. Quietly, I return to the kitchen, where Owen’s waiting. I beam at him. “They’re totally making out,” I whisper, and start cleaning off the counters, looking for dessert. I know Anthony made something.

“This is kind of weird. We’re just going to hang out here while they . . . uh . . . while things progress?” Owen stands stiffly to the side.

I move a giant bag of flour to reveal a golden apple pie. “Uh, yeah,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m not going to let this pie get cold.” I pass Owen on my way into the living room and notice his skeptical look. “Anthony’s fine with us having pie while things progress,” I promise. “Believe me. I’ve done this before.”

I drop onto the couch and hold a fork out to Owen while digging into the center of the pie, not bothering to slice it. I think it’s my moan of pie-induced ecstasy that persuades Owen to grab the fork and sit down next to me.

“Howv da play gumpf?” I ask through a mouthful.

“What?” Owen studies me.

I swallow. “How’s the play going? Can I read it?”

He shakes his head with surprising vehemence. “It’s nowhere near ready. I’m still deep in outlining.”

“Outlining? I’ve given you so much material.”

He stabs the pie with a little less enthusiasm. “I haven’t had a lot of time.”

“Because of Romeo and Juliet?”

“Yeah, and home stuff.” He doesn’t lift his fork, and it remains in the center of the pie. “You know, picking up my brother, making him dinner, helping him with his homework.”

There’s something serious in his eyes, his squared shoulders. I set my fork down. “You do a lot for your brother,” I say after a second.

Owen shrugs. “It’s not so bad. It’s my mom who works night shifts and two jobs.”

He falls silent, but I don’t want to interrupt in case he’s going to say more. Besides, I wouldn’t know how to respond. I wish I did—I’m even a little embarrassed I don’t—but while I’ve bared family problems to him, I’ve never heard his. Instead, I poke at the pie.

He does go on. “My dad walked out on us the year my brother was born. My mom works really hard to make things possible for us, like the theater camp I did last summer—it wasn’t cheap. It’s nothing to take care of Sam in return.”

“I had no idea,” I say, hearing how inadequate it sounds.

He gives me a quick smile. “Yeah, I’m not exactly the oversharing type. I’m more comfortable writing in my notebook than talking to most people.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem talking to me.” I nudge his shoulder with mine.

“You’re not most people.”

He’s looking at me intently, and there’s a hum in the air I wasn’t expecting. One I don’t know what to do with. I look down. “No,” I say, trying to sound undisturbed, “I’m loud, sarcastic, boy-crazy—”

“—thoughtful, perceptive, witty,” Owen finishes. He doesn’t look away, and I lift my gaze to meet his. The truth is, I could say the same thing about him. He’s quiet and patient enough for me to talk while he listens, and yet he keeps surprising me by making me laugh. I nearly do tell him. Instead, in the silence that follows his comment, I inch closer to him on the couch and take his hand, entwining my fingers with his.

Owen doesn’t move. I watch him look down at our hands and then up at me. There’s possibility in his eyes. I lean forward, but before I reach him, he quietly says, “You like Will.”

I pull back just a bit. I definitely felt like Owen wanted this. Why would he bring up Will? I tell him what I haven’t wanted to admit before now is the truth. “It’s not going to happen with Will.”