Always Never Yours(64)

“Thanks,” I say. He wraps an arm around my shoulder, and I know he understands I don’t just mean the door.

Walking into the empty auditorium, I remember every time I’ve joked with Madeleine, Anthony, and even Owen about my “curse,” my “whirlwind romances,” my endless stream of breakups. It’s less funny now. It’s easier to joke when I’m not feeling this, when I’m not feeling replaceable. But the truth is, I have no reason to hope I won’t be playing this role forever. To hope one day I’ll be the one chosen and not just the girl before.





NINETEEN




FRIAR LAWRENCE: Confusion’s cure lives not





In these confusions.


IV.v.71–2


I KNOW ABOUT ALYSSA. WE’RE DONE, I text Will the following day. I silence my phone, not wanting to read whatever he replies, and in a final moment of closure, I slide off Will’s Ophelia bracelet and throw it behind me.

I’m sitting in my car in front of Luna’s Coffee Company, the only coffee shop in town other than Birnam Wood Books and the Starbucks in the mall. It’s in the nicer part of Stillmont, up the street from the salon where Madeleine and I had our hair done before junior prom last year. I proposed Randall and I meet here when we coordinated this morning.

It’s a testament to the awfulness of my weekend that the prospect of coffee with Randall doesn’t sound terrible. I’m here early, but I decide I don’t need to spend more time sitting in my car dwelling on Will. I walk in and begin to head for the line, but I stop when I realize Randall’s already sitting at a table, giving me a tentative wave. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he’s here early. He sounded especially enthusiastic on the phone this morning.

For whatever reason, he stands up when I reach the table. I try to take a seat, but before I have the chance, he’s bending forward for one of those uncomfortable one-armed hugs. “Oh, uh . . .” I stutter, returning his hug.

We sit. It’s only then that I notice Randall looks . . . better somehow. He’s trimmed his usually overlong curly hair, and it’s possible he’s lost a couple pounds. He’s not wearing one of his customary short-sleeve button-downs and opted for a navy polo instead. His mustache remains, however.

“Thanks for sparing the time to meet me, Megan,” he says, grinning bashfully. “I ordered your favorite. Unless your favorite’s changed since you visited over the summer.” He gestures to the solitary cappuccino on the table.

“Thanks,” I say. Despite whatever questions I have about Randall, I can’t deny he’s thoughtful.

I wait for him to say something. The burden of conversation is on the inviter, right? When a few moments go by and he doesn’t, I try the only question coming to mind. “How was the flight?”

He looks startled, like he didn’t expect us to talk during this coffee date. “It flew by. I had a full binder of spreadsheets to review,” he says as if the one relates in any way to the other.

With no response to that, I wrack my brain for other Randall-related topics while the conversation descends into silence. Finally, one comes. “How’s your and Mom’s pottery class?” I know I’m fidgeting with the handle on my mug.

“It is terrific,” Randall replies unhesitatingly. “Your mother’s nearly finished a complete set of bowls for the house.”

My mother, finisher of bowls.

“Cool,” I say because I have literally no other way to contend with that statement.

“How’s Romeo and Juliet going?” Randall asks.

I know he’s trying. But right now, I’m in no mood to remind myself of playing Juliet on Will’s sets, in front of Alyssa whispering behind my back. “It’s good,” I reply shortly.

He says nothing, and faced with the prospect of having to come up with a third conversation starter, I consider faking a call from my Dad or a forgotten obligation. But I decide to try one final question first. “Why’d your firm send you out to middle-of-nowhere Oregon?”

Randall’s demeanor changes visibly. He shifts in his seat, his shoulders rising, and he reaches for a napkin and begins anxiously folding it in his lap. “They, uh, they didn’t,” he finally says. “It’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

If his firm didn’t send him to Stillmont, why is he here? “Does Mom know?”

“She doesn’t,” he replies haltingly, “and I, well, I need you to keep it that way.”

“Okay, now you’re making me nervous. I don’t—”

“I want to propose to your mother,” he interrupts.

My hand clenches on the cup of lukewarm cappuccino. “Oh.” My mind empties. I’m unable to process what he said. “Um, okay.”

Randall’s face breaks into a grin. “Okay?”

“Yeah, uh . . . Wait, what?” He’s looking at me like I’ve just done him a huge favor, but I don’t know what it is.

“I wanted your permission.” His grin falters when he realizes I haven’t exactly given it. “You’re the most important person in your mother’s life, and of course you knew her before I did. I wouldn’t feel right trying to build a family with her without your blessing.”