Always Never Yours(73)



“Yeah, I do.” Eric’s eyes drift to Anthony. “When I’m with him, I feel like there are a million reasons why we should be together. I feel like I’m . . . my entire self, not just . . .”

While he’s talking, I notice a familiar head of black hair framed in the doorway. “Playing who you’re supposed to be,” I finish Eric’s sentence as I watch Owen walk into the front and take my seat on the couch.

“But sometimes it doesn’t matter,” Eric continues. “I’d just mess things up for Anthony—there’s too much in the way.”

The applause from the other end of the room tells me Anthony’s finished his monologue, and I pull my gaze from Owen to find Eric putting on his jacket. “I think I should go,” he says.

“Eric. You definitely don’t want to talk to him?”

He shakes his head, his eyes pointedly avoiding where Anthony’s bowing by the mic. “I don’t want to interrupt his night. It’s better if he doesn’t see me.” He nods once before brushing past me to the door.

“Cappuccino,” the tattooed barista calls out.

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the ceramic cup and gingerly carrying it back to where Anthony’s joined Jenna and everyone on the couches. The room’s beginning to clear out, and no one’s listening to the folk musicians’ gentle Iron & Wine cover. I sit on the edge of the table, putting plenty of distance between myself and Owen.

Jenna drapes her arm around Anthony. “Which one’s it going to be?” she asks, flopping her head on his shoulder.

“Harry Potter.” Anthony sighs and gives me a grudging smile. “Definitely Harry Potter.”

“It’s a really cool pick,” Owen speaks up. “You’re great at capturing subtler dynamics. Seems like this is definitely your best option.”

I scowl. It’s enough he’s here—he didn’t have to go and have the exact same opinion as me.

“You only saw the one!” Jenna straightens up and slaps Owen on the knee. I scowl again. “Where were you? We said we’d meet here an hour ago.”

Owen stiffens. “I, uh . . .” His eyes flit to mine for the first time in weeks. It’s a glance so quick I nearly miss it, but I know exactly how to read it.

“Talking to Cosima?” I guess loudly.

Now he levels his gaze with mine. “Yeah. I was.”

“On a Thursday? Wow,” I say with unrestrained bitterness. “What, is she helping you run lines?”

“What’s it to you?” Owen’s eyes are unreadable.

“Nothing,” I say, ignoring the confused expressions on Anthony's and Jenna’s faces. “It’s nothing to me, Owen.” I get up, cappuccino unfinished. “I’m going to get—a muffin,” I finish, painfully conscious of how undramatic that sounded.

But turning toward the counter, I freeze in place. Will and Alyssa are stepping up to the line, her hands in his back pockets, and they’re kissing for the whole world to see. Well, perfect.

“Actually, I’m just going to head out,” I tell the group.

I walk past Owen on my way to the door, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him start to stand. He looks torn, like the part of him that wants to comfort me for what he obviously just saw happen with Will is wrestling with the part of him that remembers we’re in a huge fight.

He looks like he wants to follow me, right up until he sits back down.





TWENTY-TWO




PARIS: Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

IV.i.8


OWEN AND I DON’T TALK FOR ANOTHER WEEK.

It’s December, and Ashland is this weekend. I’m running late for the first full run-through before we leave tomorrow. Not helping matters, it’s a dress rehearsal, and right now I’m struggling to stuff a full medieval gown into my bag. I forgot to bring my costume to school—to Jody’s open-mouthed horror—because I had a twenty-minute discussion with my dad this morning about dinner plans for when my mom and Randall fly in tonight. Jody had me run home the instant school let out. Apparently, the world will end if the costume designer doesn’t have one final opportunity to make alterations before we leave town for the performance.

I rush into the auditorium, nearly colliding with an irate Jody. “Why aren’t you dressed?” she shouts in the shrill voice she inevitably gets in the final days before a show.

I know how to handle her. “You told me I had to be back in ten minutes. Here I am. Now let me go change,” I return over my shoulder, pushing past Tybalt and Benvolio engaged in a duel with their wooden swords.

“Five minutes, Megan!” I hear behind me. “We’re doing the Nurse’s scene before we take it from the top.”

I dash up the stairs to the stage and dart behind the curtain. Everyone’s waiting in the wings in full costume, and I have to elbow past lords and ladies and an apothecary on my way to the dressing rooms. Pulling off my scarf and unzipping my jacket, I pass through the green room, where three crewmembers are bent over a mic pack. I open the door to the girls’ dressing room, but I’m brought to a halt in the doorway. Cate Dawson’s making out sloppily with Jeremy Handler in between racks of clothes, his hand unmistakably up her shirt.

Not a chance I’m going in there.

Emily Wibberley & Au's Books