Always Never Yours(67)

“He inhales it. I don’t know. It’s insane,” he replies, taking a bite of his own nearly finished dinner.

Sam stomps into the doorway. “You guys aren’t going to go kiss now, right?” he asks, like the question’s a bomb he’s been waiting to drop since I got here.

I laugh and dart a glance at Owen, who just points a finger into the hall. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” he says, doing an impressive job of covering any embarrassment he might be feeling. “Homework. Now.” Sam trudges into the hallway wearing a mischievous smirk he definitely didn’t learn from Owen.

I spin a forkful of spaghetti. “Sounds like you do this kind of thing often,” I say to Owen. “Sweep girls off their feet with the perfect-brother routine, then take them to your room for some kissing.”

Owen scoffs, obviously playing dumb. “What perfect-brother routine?”

“Oh, please,” I say through pasta. “The home-cooked dinner, the helping with his homework. Girls love that.”

He feigns surprise. “I had no idea. I’ve had the perfect chick magnet right here the entire time.” He picks up my plate, ever the gentleman, and brings both of our dishes into the kitchen. I walk over to help him. Usually now is when I’d nettle him about Cosima or keep teasing him about Sam’s “kissing” remark, but for some indiscernible reason, I don’t. Instead, we wash dishes in silence for a couple minutes before he speaks up. “Hey, uh, how are you . . .”

“Since your asshole friend cheated on me?” I supply.

“Former asshole friend,” he quickly corrects, and I have to smile, knowing I was right when I figured he’d be the one who could lift my spirits.

“I’m okay,” I say, and for the first time today I feel it’s true. “I sent him a breakup text this afternoon. More than he deserves. Honestly, I’m happier eating spaghetti with you—and Sam, of course—than going to Club Trying-Too-Hard with him.” He laughs, and I shrug. “It’s for the best. I have a thousand lines to memorize by Monday, and I’m way behind because of the Senior Showcase.”

Owen pauses. He takes the towel out of my hand. “You want to stay? I could help,” he offers, his voice casual but something searching in his eyes.

I meet them. “It’s the Capulet Manor scene. Don’t tell Sam, but there’s definitely some, uh—kissing involved.” Hm. I’ve never known myself to be the kind of girl to stumble over the word kissing.

“I’m no Tyler, but I think I’ll get the job done.” He flashes me a smile, but his phrasing leaves me wordless. He doesn’t mean . . . No. He’s talking about the lines. Definitely the lines. Like he doesn’t know what he’s just done to me, he points his thumb over his shoulder. “I have to check on Sam. He plays Minecraft if I leave him unsupervised. You want to wait for me in my bedroom?” He looks coy.

And god help me, I blush. “You—your bedroom?”

“Well, where else would we do it?” He walks past me, brushing his shoulder against mine in a move I know is intentional. “Read lines, I mean,” he clarifies with a cocked eyebrow.

Wait a second. I follow him into the hall. “I don’t believe this,” I say to his back. His—since when?—well-shouldered, strokeable back.

“Believe what?” he says over his shoulder.

“You’re Megan-ing me!”

He throws his head back and laughs. It echoes in the narrow hallway. “Am I?”

I grab his arm and spin him to face me. “You definitely are. This is terrible!” How does he expect me to decipher what’s for real and what’s for fun?

He’s grinning, but his voice holds none of the teasing it did before. “Now you know how the rest of us feel. We mere mortals never dare to hope your insinuations are anything but a pastime.”

“Wow, you’re such a writer sometimes.” I don’t know what else to say.

He pushes back his hair. “You never told me how fun it is,” he says, the humor returning to his voice. He leans a shoulder on the wall pointedly, his eyes inviting—demanding—a reply.

This will not stand. I do the Megan-ing around here! I put a hand on my hip and level him a goading stare. “You think this is fun? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Now his eyes widen, jumping to his door and back. “I have to check on Sam.” His voice comes out low and furtive. “I’ll only be a second.”

I toss my hair over my shoulder and strut past the Y?jir? portrait into Owen’s room. “I’ll be waiting,” I reply.

His room is dark and as orderly as I remember. My hand shakes as I flip on the lights. I force my racing heart to slow down, reminding myself I have no idea what’s going to happen when Owen comes in here. I know better than anyone that flirtatious remarks, winks, and nudges don’t need to go any further. And how much further do I think they’re going to go with Owen? He has a girlfriend. He has a girlfriend.

I walk around the room, wondering where I should be when he comes in, and my eyes fall on his notebook, half-open on his desk. He’s never shown it to me, but he’s never told me not to read it either. I know I shouldn’t. I’d be crossing a line, invading his privacy, and violating his trust. I pause in front of the notebook, willing myself to walk away.