Always Never Yours(65)

The word family from Randall flips me upside down and shakes out my thoughts like the pieces of a puzzle. Family. Mom and Randall. It’s the kind of thought that on most days would have me asking myself all the questions I have for months. If they start a family like Dad and Rose did, where will I fit in? Who will I be except the bump in the road before my parents found the families they wanted?

But today, something’s different. My eyes find the place on my wrist where Will’s bracelet no longer rests. I know none of my relationships can even begin to compare to what my parents had—years and decades of marriage, of messy effort, of memories stinging and sweet. I’ve never fallen for someone the way my mom fell for my dad.

Yet I know a piece of her pain. I know what it’s like to watch the people you care about replace you and never look back. I’ve gone through it eight times now. In the hardest moments, when I face my mom and find my reflection, I can’t help feeling convinced we’ll end up the same in love, forever cast to play the Rosaline in real life. If Randall changes that for her, if he heals even a fraction of the wounds my dad inflicted . . . she should be with him, even if it means starting her own family without me.

I lift my gaze back to Randall. “I think you should definitely propose to my mom. It would make her really happy,” I say softly, ignoring how the words ache.

He lets out a breath of relief. “I’m delighted to hear it!” He grins broadly. “I want to do it when the three of us are together. I thought . . . the trip when we’re here for your performance in December might be the right time?”

Numb, I force myself to nod. “It sounds perfect.”



* * *





When I get back to my car, I stupidly check my phone. Force of habit. Six unread messages from Will stare up at me.

Wait, what??

I think you might have heard something and gotten the wrong idea . . . Call me, and I’ll explain.

You can’t just ignore me, Megan. We at least have to talk.

Fine. You’re acting really immature, but if this is what you want, then fine.

I scroll through the first couple, then delete the thread without reading the rest. I delete his number, too, just for good measure.

He and I were supposed to go on our date tonight to the shitty club on Route 46. That won’t be happening, which at least spares me from a night amid sweaty, gyrating teenagers and throbbing techno music. With my weekend now pretty much unscheduled, my first thought is to text Madeleine. It’s a post-breakup ritual to go to her house, bake homemade Pop-Tarts, and break out the middle-school yearbooks to mock the pictures of the boy in question.

But I hesitate. Madeleine spent the majority of her time with Tyler while I was pursuing Will. I love her, and talking to her would be a comfort, but she’s not the one who knows every detail of the relationship. Instead, I find myself remembering the hours spent with Owen discussing even the most insignificant facets of my interactions with Will.

Owen. He’s the one who’s been there for me through the whole relationship. It’s only right he help me with its end.

I drive to his neighborhood on the other end of town. It’s nearing nighttime, and the streets are empty. The couple of people out walking are wrapped in coats and scarves, their breath visible under the streetlights. I crank the heat up in my car to compensate for winter settling in.

I park under one of the trees on Owen’s street, a couple of houses up from his. Realizing I should probably check if he’s busy before arriving on his doorstep, I pull out my phone and send, hey, testing the waters.

Hey. You doing okay? he replies a moment later.

my mom’s getting married, I watch my thumbs type out and send, not fully knowing why.

It takes Owen longer to respond this time. A couple minutes go by. Is that good or bad? he sends.

good i guess. dont want her to be alone. I rub my bracelet-free wrist. It crosses my mind that I drove over here to talk about Will. Yet here I am, talking about my mom after one sentence.

You’re not alone either, Megan. Do you want to come over for dinner? It takes him only a few seconds to reply, which is nearly as surprising as what he’s said.

i wasnt talking abt me. Once I’ve sent that, I type out a second text. but yes i wud thx.

I’m reasonably certain you were.

I let that one lie, but I’m smiling to myself as I step out of the car. im outside, I send, walking up his driveway. He replies a second later.

Outside where?





TWENTY




ROMEO: Thus with a kiss I die.

V.iii.120


INSTEAD OF REPLYING, I RING THE DOORBELL. In my billowy floral dress, tights, and a denim jacket, I’m hardly dressed for the weather, and I hug myself while I wait. Running footsteps sound from the other side of the door, followed by Owen’s voice.

“Sam, what’s the rule about the door?” I hear him yell sternly.

The footsteps stop, and the voice that answers Owen sounds about ten years old. “No opening it without checking who it is first,” the voice glumly replies. I step back, smoothing my dress, expecting scrutiny through the small peephole. “It’s some girl . . . wearing grandma clothes.” I cross my arms, affronted if not a little amused.

“She’s pretty,” the voice—Sam—continues, redeeming himself. “Prettier than Cosmo.”