Always Never Yours(59)

“Well, we should do something about that.” It’s out of my mouth before I fully realize what it sounds like I’m implying. Owen stiffens.

But he’s not the only one. The flirtatious stuff I say is always designed to put guys on edge and intrigue them, to make them think about me in a way they might not have. But this time, it backfired. This time, I’m unable to think about anything but where my skin touches Owen’s below my sleeve. My face gets hot, and I realize I’m blushing at my own joke.

I feel an unfamiliar urge to put distance between the two of us, but I’m penned in by the wall. Instead, I settle for clearing the air. “It sounds like it would be a great date spot,” I say haltingly. I uncomfortably rub the Ophelia bracelet from Will.

“It’s where I’d take you,” Owen replies quickly. Realizing what he’s said, he stutters, “I mean, where I’d—where’d you—where Will should take you.”

Well, now we’ve both gone and said way too much. I have to smile. Nudging his shoulder, I watch his ears go that delightful, familiar shade of red. “You and I should go there.” His eyes widen. “To brainstorm for your play,” I add with a wink.

I lean farther into him, and it feels like giving in to how much I like the sound of the things we’ve suggested. I don’t exactly know why, but I’m drawn to Owen. I probably have been for a while. I guess the reason my flirtatious joke backfired is that it wasn’t a joke at all.

Except I have a boyfriend. Having to remind myself of that is as unexpected as everything else tonight. In all of my relationships, I’m never the one to forget her commitment.

Will. I want to go to Bishop’s Peak with Will. I’m going there with Will.

Owen’s face is still close to mine, our shoulders still pressed tightly together. And when I lift my gaze to meet his, I find him watching me with inevitability in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I was close to doing because he’s been waiting for it.

Which is why I blurt out, “I need to pee.”

He pulls back, looking confused. “Oh,” he says.

“So I need to get out,” I say heatedly, beginning to step over him. My lingering confusion has given way to frustration with myself, frustration about not knowing what I want. Or worse, worrying that I might know exactly what I want.

“Oh.” He stumbles out of the booth. “Were you just going to climb over me?”

I slide down and straighten up. “You say that like it’d be a bad thing,” I say, stepping past him, attempting to force my voice into its old flirty flippancy. I don’t think it works. Not wanting to hear Owen’s reply, I dart in the direction of the bathroom, nearly colliding with a group of middle-school girls.

I barrel through the swinging door. Like every other inch of this restaurant, the bathroom’s walls are covered in Shakespeare verses. I face the mirror and ignore them, the way I always do.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. “This is ridiculous,” I tell myself out loud in the mirror. I do not like Owen Okita. He’s a great friend, but he’s not my type. Tyler, Dean, Will, they’re my type. Owen’s bookish, quiet, and constantly preoccupied with his journal, I remind myself.

Okay, he’s kind of cute, with his startled smile and the way his ears redden every time I—

“Stop,” I order myself. “I have a boyfriend.” He’s overcommitted, but my boyfriend nonetheless. Owen has an imaginary girlfriend. We’re friends. Nothing else.

I turn and head for the stall. But one word written in several places jumps out at me from the quotes on the wall. “LOVE is merely a madness.” “I know no ways to mince it in LOVE, but directly to say, ‘I LOVE you.’” “LOVE comforteth like sunshine after rain.” “The course of true LOVE never did run smooth.” Whoever bothered to paint them there used obnoxiously iridescent colors everywhere they wrote love.

I slam the stall door behind me.

As I’m about to sit down, I hear the bathroom door open and close, followed by a low voice asking, “Megan?”

“Eric?” I nearly stumble. That could have been tragic.

“I—I know,” he rushes to reply. “This is bad.”

“Why— What are you doing in here?” Why does this keep happening? Why do people get the impression cornering me in a stall is a good time to start a conversation? I pull up my pants.

“It’s about Anthony.” Eric walks farther into the bathroom. Grudgingly, I unlock the stall and step out to face him. “I didn’t want him to overhear. He’s pissed, isn’t he?” he asks nervously. I open my mouth to answer, but he continues. “Of course he is. He probably hates me. You probably hate me, too. I promise I wasn’t using Anthony because I can keep him a secret. I don’t want to keep him a secret, it’s just— My dad called. He wanted to know where I was. I think he guessed, and— He doesn’t— And Anthony— He’s, you know—”

I interrupt him. “Eric, I feel like you should be saying this to”—I glance toward the door—“someone else?”

He vehemently shakes his head, and he looks defeated. “Not while he’s avoiding me. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I don’t want to force him. I just want him to know what happened.” He raises his gaze from the floor and looks at me. “If you could just—”