Always Never Yours(74)

I hit the stairs to the boys’ dressing room two at a time. It’s markedly smaller than the girls’, but it’ll have to do. Ignoring the thick stench of boy clothes, I do a quick sweep of the space, afraid of another uncomfortable walk-in. I drop my bag on the counter, closing the door behind me. Not a minute to waste, I rip the costume out of my bag and fling it onto a hanger, then undo my belt and shimmy out of my jeans.

I peel off my shirt next and throw it over my head. But when I open my eyes—Owen’s staring right at me.

Not into my eyes.

My mouth won’t work for a couple terrifying seconds. The thought crosses my mind this was a regrettable day to wear my red boy-shorts with “Super Sexy” printed on them.

“What the hell, man?” I yell after what feels like an eternity.

Owen blinks and blushes furiously in his friar’s frock. Like he’s just remembered his decency, he looks away, then turns a full one hundred and eighty degrees. I guess averting his eyes wasn’t enough. “This—this is the guys’ dressing room,” he stammers.

Remembering he’s right, I hastily pull the dress over my head. “Jeremy and Cate were doing something decidedly off-script in the girls’,” I mutter by way of explanation. Eager like I’ve never been for anything to extricate myself from this situation, I yank my dress down and—it gets caught.

I can’t figure out on what. I have one arm halfway in a sleeve and the other sticking out what I suspect is the neck hole. The other sleeve is tangled in the straps of my yellow pushup bra. “Fucking shitty costume,” I gasp, pirouetting feverishly and trying to fix the problem.

“Is— Um, what’s going on?” Owen’s voice sounds pinched.

“My fucking costume is stuck.” I whack my arm on the counter and swear again.

“Uh, where?” He still doesn’t turn.

“If I knew, Owen, I’d fix it,” I snap. “Just give me a hand.”

I hear his voice after a couple more frantic seconds of pulling on the sleeve. “It looks, um, stuck on your bra.” He clears his throat, like the effort of keeping his voice level was too much to bear. “I’ll go get someone,” he offers.

“There’s not enough time. Jody’s going to kill me if I’m not down in, like, negative-one minutes.”

“But, the green room—” he protests.

“The only girl up here is Cate. If you’d really rather interrupt that than help me with my bra, then go right ahead.”

He looks to the door like he’s considering it. But a moment later, I feel his hands on my back, twisting the fabric to unfurl the sleeves.

“Just, pull the collar—” I prompt.

“Move your—”

“Now my arm’s stuck.”

“How did you—? Have you ever put on a dress before?”

“Have you, Owen?”

“Stay still,” he orders me. I feel him struggling with the bra. This is hopeless. He circles me to try from the front.

“Just take it off!”

Owen’s hands still. “What?”

“Unhook the bra.”

He looks up at me, expressionless. “I am not taking off your bra right now, Megan.”

I let out a short, rattling sigh. “Okay, I will.” I reach behind me. But right then, Owen gives the dress a final yank, and mercifully it comes free.

He instantly steps back and turns around again, like he wasn’t just nose-deep in my décolletage. Ten hurried seconds later, I’ve pulled on both sleeves and straightened the bodice over the guilty bra. I’m reaching for the door when I hear, “Wait.”

I do, not entirely knowing why. I’m not expecting the fervor of the past few minutes to have prompted him into an apology or a declaration of love, like this is some stupid rom-com.

I feel Owen’s hands on my back once more. He sweeps my hair out from under the dress, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. It’s impossible to ignore how I shiver under his touch, try though I might.

“Thanks,” I say, a bit breathless.

“No problem.” His reply is short and distant. He edges past me to the door.

I follow him, unsteady on my feet, unsure what just happened. Owen’s been cold to me for weeks, and he practically told me he’s devoted to his girlfriend. But the way he gently touched my neck felt—well, intimate.



* * *





Rehearsal keeps my mind from wandering. First full run-throughs never go smoothly, and between remembering my lines and hitting my cues, I have no time to talk to Owen—other than the brief scene in which Friar Lawrence sells Juliet poison, which isn’t exactly brimming with sexual tension.

Rehearsal ends twenty minutes behind schedule, and I roll through stop signs on the way home. Dad’s waiting impatiently in the driveway. He hustles me into his car with only a “Come on, Megan. We have to go.”

It’s an hour to the Medford Airport, and I anxiously listen to Dad list off dinner plans and travel arrangements for Ashland while the redwoods fly by in the window. I keep waiting to hear strain in his voice at the prospect of being around his ex-wife again, but it hasn’t crept in yet.

We pull up to the terminal, and I’m startled by the little leap my heart does when I catch sight of Mom. Before Dad’s even put the car in park, I’m jumping out of my seat and running to give her a hug.