Always Never Yours(69)

“Ugh, fine.” I stick my hand back out, knowing I’ve completely lost any chance I may have had of being Juliet tonight.

Owen clears his throat theatrically and takes my hand. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” He bends over, his lips hovering close to my hand, and he’s about to kiss me—

“I’m sorry, Romeo is ridiculous. I mean, comparing his lips to two blushing pilgrims?” I blurt for some indefensible reason, and Owen blinks and straightens up. And I want to kick myself. It’s just a kiss on the hand. It doesn’t mean anything. But I can’t explain why it makes me nervous like I haven’t felt in I don’t know how long.

“I think Shakespeare deserves a little credit for poetic language,” he says, no hint of nerves in his easy smile.

I consider telling him to run the scene from the top, giving me a second chance at that kiss. But I don’t. I’m kicking myself again when I jump right into my line. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion . . .” I say the rest of my lines trying to muster the impatient sarcasm that’s come easily in every rehearsal. But it’s not working, and I know why. It’s because I don’t really want to turn Owen’s advances down, even if they’re scripted.

Which is what has me nervous. If this goes further, I wouldn’t turn him down. But I have to. Because without Will to focus on when I sense my feelings shifting, I’m now forced to confront how much I want to be with Owen.

So much, I know it would destroy me when things collapse between us the way they inevitably would.

Before I’m prepared for it, we’ve reached the line where Owen’s supposed to kiss me. Not on the hand this time. “Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take,” he says, his voice low. He’s not delivering the lines like Tyler, but his speech doesn’t sound tight or hesitant like I would have expected. He sounds like Romeo, and I feel myself closer than ever before to the precipice of becoming Juliet. I feel like I could close my eyes and fall in.

But I don’t close my eyes. I keep them on Owen. Even though I know in the rational part of my brain he’s definitely not going to kiss me just because it’s the stage direction, it . . . kind of looks like he’s leaning in.

“Romeo might have terrible pick-up lines, but I have to give him credit for going for it,” I say abruptly, ending the leaning-in question right there. I walk to the other side of the room, not really having a theatrical explanation for the distance. We recite the lines before their second kiss from opposite ends of the room. When the moment for the kiss comes, I wait for Owen’s eyes to find mine, or his voice to waver, or something. But he does nothing.

“You kiss by th’ book,” I say, and exhale, relieved that’s the final line, wanting this pointless, poorly written, totally not-romantic scene to be over.

“Does that mean Romeo’s a good kisser or a bad kisser?” Owen wonders aloud, clearly not understanding we need to move on to a different scene.

“Bad, definitely bad,” I say. He wanders over to the dresser and leans on it, closing some of the distance between us. “Juliet’s saying his kisses feel studied and boring,” I inform him.

Maybe it’s the way he smiles then, or maybe it’s how much he loves this play—how he’s memorized the entire thing and wants to pull apart its lines and figure out how they work. But I find myself leaning on the dresser too, my nervousness fading.

It’ll destroy me to lose Owen after having him. I know that. But it’ll destroy me now to never have him at all.

“Okay, then,” he says teasingly. “Tell me, kiss expert Megan, what does Juliet think Romeo should do better?”

I pretend to consider, giving in. “It’s a fine line. Too stiff or too repetitive and it feels like you’re not interested. Too enthusiastic and you’re overeager. The key is a lot of passion and a little creativity. You want each brush of lips to feel like the first time, like you don’t know where it could lead—”

He kisses me.

Owen Okita kisses me, drawing my face in with his hands like it’s not enough for only our lips to touch. He hits me with such force that we flatten against the dresser, the script held between us. If I’d ever let myself wonder about kissing Owen, I couldn’t have imagined the way his lips draw the breath from mine or the way he guides my head, tilting me to deepen the kiss. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. This kiss isn’t just one moment—it holds the possibility of innumerable kisses to come. It’s extraordinary, and precarious.

It feels real.

He pulls back just an inch, his eyes searching mine. “Is this—”

“Yes,” I breathe. I tug his collar to bring us back together. The second kiss—or perhaps it’s the second act in one long kiss—is slower, more measured, like he’s taking the time to savor every touch. His body becomes flush with mine, and the script falls to the floor.

“By the book or not?” he whispers with a faint smile.

“Not by the book. It’s like you’ve never heard of the book. It’s like you’re illiterate.”

Owen’s smile widens. “Well, I’ve thought about doing that for long enough.”