Always Never Yours(60)

“Eric, it’s not my place to get between the two of you,” I say firmly. What Anthony told me was that he wanted to hit pause on things with Eric, and I promised him I wouldn’t meddle or rush him along. Telling Eric anything about Anthony’s feelings would undermine his wishes and break my word.

“But—” Eric starts.

“No buts. I’m rooting for you, Eric, but you have to talk to him yourself,” I say with finality.

Eric nods forlornly. “I just really like him,” he says after a moment’s pause. Knocking his knuckles once on the sink, he turns to leave.

“Eric,” I call him back. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” Confusion narrows his eyes, but he holds out his phone.

“For when it goes well with Anthony,” I tell him while I type my number into his contacts. “I’ll want to hear about it without you cornering me in the bathroom.” I pass the phone back to Eric, whose expression has lifted into a smile.

He gives me a nod and pushes open the door. Briefly, I wonder if anyone notices him exiting the girls’ bathroom before I go back into the stall to do what I came here for. I follow Eric out a couple minutes later.

I start to return to our table, but I stop when I see Owen’s back on his side of his booth, writing in his journal. I don’t know if I wanted him to have moved or not, but it doesn’t seem like what a guy would do if he was into whatever was happening between us before.

It hurts a little. I consider dropping into the seat next to him, our shoulders touching like they were minutes ago. Out of an impulse that’s part instinct and part something deeper, I want to recapture the way it felt to be pressed against him while he looked at me with guarded anticipation. To—

No. Owen moved for a reason. I should respect that. It felt good to honor what Anthony wanted regarding Eric, and Owen deserves the same consideration. Even if I did like him—which I probably don’t, not really, not in a way that could last—I wouldn’t want to push him into something he obviously doesn’t want. Not to mention the fact he has a girlfriend.

I slide into the booth opposite him. Feeling bold bordering on reckless, I grab a slice of lukewarm Montague Meat Lovers. Owen doesn’t look up from whatever he’s writing.

“I’m going to take Will to the club of the college DJs,” I nonchalantly announce.

“Wait, why?” Owen’s head pops up. Blue ink stains his throat just beneath the corner of his jaw, and I wonder what he was mulling over while he rubbed his neck. “What happened to Bishop’s Peak?” he asks tentatively, either relieved or disappointed.

I’m not going to bother wondering which it is—I just want things back to normal. “You should have it. If you call it quits with the imaginary girlfriend and settle for a humble Stillmont girl, you’re going to need a place to get it on.”

He says nothing, but he gives his startled smile, and his ears redden.





EIGHTEEN




BENVOLIO: Alas that love, so gentle in his view,





Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!


    ROMEO: Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,


   Should without eyes see pathways to his will!


I.i.174–7


IT’S THE FINAL MOMENTS OF BRIAN ANDERSON and Jason Mitchum’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead scene. It never fails to surprise me how tranquil everything seems on stage, how measured and quiet. The actors are the only moving pieces on the fixed world of the set, in front of the audience watching in hushed stillness.

Backstage, it’s chaos. But I’m not complaining. Despite the nonstop commotion in the wings of the theater, the Senior Showcase is going beautifully, and I love the frenzy of the minutes before a performance.

In the girls’ dressing room, I step over piles of midcentury coats and medieval dresses in search of a tie. I spot it sticking out underneath someone’s bright purple bra. I pull the tie out and rush for the door. But before I reach it, I glance into the mirror and have to stop.

Jenna Cho, aka my Linda Loman, is smoothing her hair, seemingly oblivious to the fact she’s wearing only one eyelash.

“Jenna!” I hiss, and she looks at me in the mirror. “Check your eyes. I think you’re missing something.”

“Ohmygod,” she gasps, fumbling for her makeup bag.

I dart from the room and duck into the green room down the hall. It’s wall-to-wall insanity. With everyone else’s scenes done, the rest of the actors have begun sneaking drinks from the flasks some of the guys smuggled in, still dressed in a wild array of half-costumes and stage makeup. My eyes quickly find Kasey Markowitz in the corner, muttering to herself, rehearsing her lines.

“Kasey. Here.” I hand her the tie. She’s dressed in a suit, her hair tucked up under a fedora. She grabs the tie without pausing in her line. “You need help with that?” I ask, the syllables stringing together so they sound like one word.

“Nope.” Effortlessly, she wraps the tie around her collar and winds it into a perfect knot.

I don’t have time to be surprised before a stagehand taps me on the shoulder. “The briefcase prop,” he says breathlessly. It’s little Andrew Mehta, a sophomore.

I wait for him to say more. “What about it?” I fire back when he doesn’t.