Always Never Yours(70)

I run a hand down his chest in answer. I know a thing or two about kissing, and when I bring my lips to his, I hold none of it back, walking him to the other end of the room and pressing him to the edge of the desk. I know it works, because he withdraws a moment later, his eyes wide. “Whoa,” he exhales.

I shush him. “Let’s not talk, Owen.”

He complies, instead lowering his hands to my waist and spinning us so I’m the one pinned to the desk. The back of my leg hits a drawer with an unexpected bang, causing us both to break apart and laugh at the interruption.

“What about Sam?” I whisper.

“He’s fine.” Owen pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “He’s probably playing Minecraft with the volume up.”

He kisses me again, but I pull back a moment later. I don’t know how much time we’ll have before Sam interrupts us, before everything falls apart and Owen changes his mind. I won’t waste a single second. “Should we move to . . . somewhere quieter?” I glance toward the bed.

He swallows, but his eyes say he’s not opposed to the idea. I slide out from in front of the desk and take his hand, leading him to the bed. He watches me recline first onto one elbow, then both on top of the comforter. Without hesitating, he joins me, his body held as if by a thread over mine.

He brings his face to mine, and—he blinks. “What are we doing?” The intensity in his eyes goes distant. He recoils, rolling off me, and onto his knees on the bed. His voice is low with uncertainty.

I sit up. “Hooking up, I thought.” I try to say it lightly, but his expression unnerves me. I can feel whatever I have with Owen—whatever I could have—falling apart already.

“You and Will broke up just this afternoon.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“So?”

“So . . . what is this, your next fling?”

I jerk back, stunned. Studying his face in the silent seconds that follow, I try to work out where this is coming from. How could Owen, who knows me so well, not know this—right now—is like nothing I’ve felt before?

He must notice the way my expression flares with anger, because his face falls. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, I don’t know what to expect because you tend to move from one relationship to the next pretty quickly.”

I flush with anger and embarrassment, and like that, I’ve found my voice. “Hey, you’re the one who kissed me,” I seethe, “while you supposedly still have a girlfriend.”

He looks stricken, like he’s just remembered her. He hurriedly climbs off the bed, then fixes me with a narrow stare. “Why do you say ‘supposedly’?”

“Because she isn’t a real girlfriend, Owen.” I slide to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Enough with that, Megan,” he snaps. “Now is not the time. Cosima’s not a joke.”

“I’m not joking,” I reply coolly. “I know she’s real. But your relationship’s not. You hardly ever talk to her. I asked you to tell me what she’s like, and you told me where she lives. Your entire relationship is based on one summer camp together. You even forgot about her long enough to hook up with me. I think you’re only with her because it’s easier, or safer or something. You can’t get hurt by someone you don’t really know, someone you keep at a distance of five thousand miles.”

He’s clenching his jaw like he did the other times I’ve seen him really mad, when Tyler insulted me and when Will cheated. “What would you know about my relationship?”

“I watch you, Owen. I watch you delay and hedge and keep your distance with Cosima, and I watch you do the very same with your play.” I gesture to his notebook, stuffed in the drawer. “You’re scared to finish. You’re scared to put yourself out there because the more you do, the worse you might get hurt.”

I half expect him to fall silent, but he doesn’t even glance at the notebook. “Just because I didn’t tell you everything about my girlfriend doesn’t mean I don’t know her,” he shoots back. “She’s not just some placeholder.”

Of course she’s not. I fight to push down tears. Cosima’s not the placeholder. I am. I’m always the placeholder. I shouldn’t have expected anything else, not even with Owen. Owen, who would prefer to be with someone he talks to twice a week than with me.

“Well, if you’re in love with her,” I say, getting off the bed and crossing my arms, “you shouldn’t have kissed me. But whatever. It’s not like this meant much to me either.”

He flinches. “Then you shouldn’t have flirted with me. But I guess that’s just what you do. I should have known you never mean it.”

“You know me, Owen.” My voice is ugly, bitter with resentment. Not only for him, of course. Why did I ever imagine something like this could happen for me, the girl who’s the punch line of a hundred oh-she’s-boy-crazy jokes? I push past Owen to the door, my vision glassy. “I’m going to go.”

“Megan—” I hear the regret in his voice, like he knows he went too far. But I don’t turn back, knowing there’s nothing he could possibly say to fix this—and not wanting him to see the red in my eyes. I slam his front door behind me.

I get into my car and drive up his street. When I know there’s no chance of him following me outside, I pull over and do something I haven’t in years.