Always Never Yours(72)

I say nothing.

“What’s up, Megan? I feel like we haven’t hung out in a while,” he says, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“Sorry, Wyatt. I can’t,” I tell him. I can’t flirt with you anymore, because I don’t only want flirting. I want everything. I had it for just a moment, and I can’t lie to myself any longer. Flirting was never enough. “Good luck with your poems,” I say instead, and walk away.

In the middle of the room, I spot Jenna waving me over from a couch. I make my way through the tangle of people seated on every surface possible, and she moves her arm, giving me a place to sit on the armrest right as Anthony steps up to the mic.

“Okay, I know there’s often a kind of sharing-is-caring spirit with open mics, but I’m going to hold this shit down for the next half hour.” He’s dressed in the charcoal suit I know he bought for his audition in New York. “I’m testing monologues. Stomp if you hate it, cheer if you love it. Sound good?”

I cheer with the rest of the drama group, earning eye rolls from the only other open-mic participants I can pick out—two bearded guys with mandolins in the corner.

Anthony extravagantly clears his throat. The rest of us hold our breath, and except for the hiss of the cappuccino machine the room is silent. “About three things I was absolutely positive,” Anthony begins. I frown. This isn’t one of the monologues we prepped. Chekhov? Ibsen? Beckett?

“First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him—”

The room erupts into stomping punctuated by a few exuberant cheers. I whoop from the armrest, recognizing Stephenie Meyer’s iconic declaration of love from Twilight. Anthony collapses onto the mic stand, laughing.

“Okay, for real this time,” Anthony promises, straightening his tie. He closes his eyes, taking a beat to find his composure. When he looks back up at us, he’s transformed. “Because you can’t handle it, son. You can’t handle the truth. You can’t handle . . .”

He continues the speech, and I watch my classmates’ expressions for reactions. He’s doing Shakespeare for both the classical monologues Juilliard requires and Chekhov for one of the contemporary, but he needs one more contemporary. I’ve been trying for weeks to dissuade him from the famous speech from the play version of Aaron Sorkin’s A Few Good Men. It invites inevitable Jack Nicholson comparisons, and Anthony’s talents are better suited to the subtle than the overexpressive. Sure enough, I notice skeptical looks and pursed lips on the faces of the crowd, and while I hear the occasional cheer, the stomping builds slowly until Anthony stops in mid-line.

“Really? You’re not feeling Sorkin?” he says, breaking character and rubbing his neck.

The stomping continues, even louder. Anthony shakes his head ruefully.

I call out from my seat. “Scorpius!” I’m expecting the exasperated sigh Anthony heaves when he recognizes my voice. Every time he’d begin the Few Good Men speech in the Verona bathroom, I’d cut him off and insist on Scorpius Malfoy’s monologue from Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Anthony’s been adamantly resisting—he protests that it’s too commercial to command respect. But it doesn’t matter. He’s brilliant at it. He switches seamlessly from righteous anger to wounded vulnerability and captures a world of sorrows in just a few lines.

“Can you even slightly imagine what that’s like?” Anthony begins, his voice aching. “Have you even ever tried? No. Because you can’t see beyond the end of your nose. Because you can’t see beyond the end of your stupid thing with your dad.”

Immediately, I’m proven right. The crowd goes quiet, this time watching Anthony with unconcealed interest. Even the baristas stop pouring drinks and listen from the counter. Anthony’s eyes dance, and I know he feels the energy in the room. I get up and toss him an I-told-you-so glance. He sees me but doesn’t break character. He’ll definitely be performing this one in New York. Taking advantage of the lull in the line, I step up to the register, where one of the baristas looks annoyed to be handling my order.

I walk to the other end of the counter to wait for my cappuccino, watching Anthony from behind the coffee machines. When it’s been a couple minutes with no cappuccino, I turn to check who’s waiting in front of me and—

“Eric?”

He whirls, looking panicked. When he realizes it’s me, he relaxes.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m, uh—” he stutters like he’s searching for an explanation, then stops himself. With a soft smile, he nods toward the stage. “I’m here for Anthony’s monologues.”

“Thought so.” I smile. “Have you two . . . figured things out?” In all the time I’ve spent at Verona, Anthony’s never mentioned Eric, but I haven’t wanted to press. It’s possible they’ve talked.

“We haven’t,” Eric says stiffly, his smile fading. “And we’re not going to. I know I’m not the type of guy Anthony wants or deserves to be with. But I wanted to watch the monologues because Anthony told me a lot about the audition before . . .” He looks away. “I heard about tonight and had to come.”

I have to give Eric credit. For someone whose wardrobe consists of only lacrosse jerseys, he’s pretty emotionally insightful. “But it’s clear you still care about him,” I say.