Always Never Yours(46)

I don’t even bother turning on the lights. I head straight for my bed. But once I’ve buried myself under the covers, I can’t sleep. I dwell on the words Anthony flung at me. He said things a person shouldn’t say to a friend even when angry.

Nevertheless, they rang painfully true. Anthony might be right. I’ve always thought my relationships give up on me. It’s easier, in a way. They’re out of my control—comfortably predictable. Inevitability has become my coping mechanism.

Except what if it’s become more than that? The question comes with a queasy rush. What if somewhere along the way, a coping mechanism became a chain around my neck, pulling me in directions I didn’t want to go? I’m beginning to feel like whatever happens to my relationships, my negativity can’t be helping. What if they don’t give up on me—what if I give up on them?

I turn over to face the wall, fighting to calm my racing thoughts. This time of night, fresh from what happened with Anthony, is not the time to fray the edges of those questions, hard though I’m finding it to force them down.

There’s one thing I do need to do tonight. I have no business going for a guy who has a girlfriend while I have feelings for someone else, no matter how thoughtful, perceptive, and witty he is. I reach for my phone on my nightstand and type out a text to Owen.

sry for earlier. b4 anthony

He doesn’t reply, and I can’t help remembering how quickly he did when I invited him to Anthony’s. He could just be putting his brother to bed, I tell myself. I try to let it go, but twenty minutes go by and I’m still awake, still worrying I lost two friends in one night.

i hope i didnt mess stuff up btwn us, I type before I can stop myself, then a second later I add, ur a good friend. I hit SEND.

This time, it’s only a couple minutes before his reply comes.

You’re a good friend too. You don’t need to apologize . . .

I feel myself let out a relieved breath. Then I receive a second text.

I get it. I know I’m a really hot friar.

I laugh, hurting a little less. I send him my reply.

the hawtest. can’t wait to c u in ur frock





FOURTEEN




JULIET: Was ever book containing such vile matter





So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell


    In such a gorgeous palace!


III.ii.89–91


IT’S DAWN, AND I’M DRIVING UP THE dirt road to where Madeleine texted me to find her for tree planting. It’s thickly forested on both sides, and my mom’s old Volkswagen skips over the loose rocks. I crest the hill, and spreading out below me is the horizon painted pink by the rising sun.

It’s beautiful. And I hate it.

I take one hand off the wheel to rub sleep out of my eyes. Only for Madeleine would I get up at five in the morning on a Saturday and venture into nature. I spot her car on the side of the road, where she told me it would be, and pull in behind it.

Walking into the woods, I pull my scarf over my very messy ponytail. October’s giving way to November, and it is cold. In the crisp morning light my breath is depressingly visible. I hear rustling up ahead, and voices drift to me a second later. I can’t believe Madeleine actually convinced other people to come to this.

When I enter a clearing in the forest, I find a handful of volunteers working with shovels, among them Madeleine, whose head is bent over the hole she’s digging. She looks better than anyone has the right to at this ungodly hour in the middle of the forest, wearing a blue bandana with perfect carelessness over her tidy bun and a baggy Windbreaker that somehow still flatters her frame. She doesn’t notice when I come up next to her.

“You know,” I say, and Madeleine’s head pops up, “this is awesome. Whenever I look into the woods, what I find myself thinking is, needs more trees.”

She rolls her eyes. Grinning, she grabs the small sapling beside the hole and drops it in. “They’re to replace the foliage lost when a couple of drunken idiots on a camping trip started a fire.” Now that she mentions it, the ground here does look ashy. “Besides,” she continues, patting the dirt around her tree, “it looks great for college.”

She straightens up and produces a trowel from her back pocket. Holding it out to me, she gives me an expectant look. Is she serious?

I pull a fake pout.

She’s not amused. One eyebrow arches, and she waves the trowel in the air, flinging dirt at me.

“Okay, okay,” I grumble. We walk to the next sapling, a few feet over. Following Madeleine’s lead, I kneel and shove my trowel into the earth, no idea what I’m doing. Far away, I hear the chattering of some indiscernible woodland creature. Madeleine, however, knows exactly what she’s doing, and she confidently removes a shovelful of dirt in one even motion. “Doesn’t it ever get tiring being perfect?” I ask, watching her.

I meant it half-jokingly, but she wrinkles her nose. “Perfect?”

“I mean, saving the forests, volunteering at the library, perfect GPA, perfect boyfriend. It’s a lot to keep up. Don’t you ever just want to screw something up?” I got two hours of sleep after somehow ruining one of my closest friendships, and here Madeleine is, saving the planet.

She stops digging and stabs her shovel into the ground. “What’s with you today? You’re snarkier than normal.”