Always Never Yours(7)
“Well . . . you can change your mind anytime,” Mom says reluctantly. “What’s this about Ashland, though?”
“It’s nothing. Jody in her infinite wisdom put us up for a high-school feature at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and they took us,” I say to the floor.
“That doesn’t seem like nothing.” Mom sounds excited. Uh-oh. “When is it? I’d love to come!”
“No, Mom, it’s not a big deal, really,” I hurriedly protest.
“Resistance is futile, Megan. If you won’t tell me when it is, Dad will.”
I’m rolling my eyes when from downstairs comes an ear-splitting wail.
“Sounds like you have to go,” Mom speaks up over the screeching.
“What? You don’t want to stick around? This will be going for the next twenty minutes,” I say with half a grin, and she laughs. “I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”
I hang up and go downstairs. The source of the howling is sitting in her high chair in the kitchen. My nineteen-month-old half sister Erin is adorable, but she’s got lungs that’d make her the envy of the spring musical cast. I stop in the doorway, wanting a final moment to myself.
My stepmom reaches for Erin. Rose is tall, blonde, and undeniably beautiful. If she looks like she just turned thirty, it’s because she did. She and my dad have been married for two and a half years. I wasn’t thrilled when I first met her. It was only months after the divorce, and I was still holding out childish hope my dad would change his mind and realize Mom really was his meant-to-be.
Rose ended that. When I learned my dad was dating a woman ten years younger, I had my doubts about his sincerity. I figured he was turning forty and having a midlife crisis, dating a pretty blonde who made him “feel young.” He was a cliché.
Then I took one look at the two of them, and I finally understood what I didn’t in two years witnessing my parents’ crumbling marriage. He wasn’t going through a midlife crisis. He wasn’t chafing at the institution of marriage—he just wasn’t in love with my mom. I saw the smile my dad gave Rose the day I met her, a smile I’d never remembered seeing on him, and I knew he could never really regret the divorce.
Because he’d fallen in love with Rose. It wasn’t about her age, or about anything but the two of them together. He had become a cliché—only not the one I’d expected. He’d found his soulmate.
“Hey,” Dad says from the stove, pointing a spatula at Rose. “I told you not to get up for anything.” He glances back at her, his same adoring smile looking like a love-struck teenager’s.
Rose also happens to be seven months pregnant.
She rolls her eyes but lays a hand on her stomach, her expression warming as she sits back down.
I should hate Rose. I should hate the very idea of her. Sometimes I even wish I did, but the truth is, I never have. It’s not her fault my parents’ relationship wasn’t forever like I imagined. I don’t blame her for my dad loving her in a way he never could my mom. Still, despite my inability to hate her, she and I are more like somewhat-awkward roommates than two people with the same last name.
Dad drops the spatula, wincing when Erin lets out a particularly shrill yell, and races to hand Erin her favorite stuffed elephant.
I give myself one more moment. I love Erin, and I don’t dislike Rose, but it’s hard sometimes. This is my senior year. I should be studying on weeknights and going to parties on Saturdays. Instead, I’m struggling to concentrate through my earplugs and babysitting. I should be figuring out my future and finding myself—instead, I’m figuring out a relationship with a new stepmother and finding baby food on my books.
It’s not only that, though. What’s hardest is watching my dad build a new life that I’m less a part of every day. Especially with Erin and the baby on the way, it’s like they’re just letting me live here for the year before I go to college. Before they have the family they want.
THREE
FRIAR LAWRENCE: These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume.
II.vi.9–11
I RECOGNIZE HIS HAIR FROM A BLOCK behind him. Black, pushed in one direction like he’s recently run his right hand through it a bunch. Which he probably has—I remember the way he fidgeted constantly in the Verona booth. As if when he’s not writing in his notebook, his hands search incessantly for something to do.
Owen Okita walks by himself up to a corner, where a giant puddle’s overtaken the curb, a remnant of yesterday’s rainstorm. I spent the day watching and re-watching Olivia Hussey’s performance in Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet for preparation, which only tightened the knots in my stomach. Today is Monday, the day of our first rehearsal.
I reach the stop sign and roll down my window in time to catch Owen crossing the street.
“Hey,” I call. “You want a ride?” I’d welcome the conversation to keep my mind off the rehearsal.
He looks up, searching for the source of my voice. When he finds me, his eyes a little surprised, he says, “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
I wrinkle the corner of my mouth, putting on an offended pout. “I did shower, you know. I don’t smell.”