Always Never Yours(78)
We drive on past a quaint, three-story inn with a picket fence and a gabled roof, and I begin to look forward to falling into bed with a view of the theater. But we keep driving, and two right turns later, we’re parked outside a Springview Hotel. Despite the proprietor’s meager efforts, including a couple of ceramic plates on the walls, it’s charmless and corporate.
I grab my room key from Jody, who’s watching me with concern, but she’s busy with the thirty other students clamoring for their keys. I slip out to the stairs, not in the mood to bustle into the elevator with my giddy cast-mates.
My room is empty when I open the door. Feeling the irresistible urge to wash off the bus ride, I walk into the bathroom. When I turn on the shower I think I hear the beep and click of my roommate coming into the room, but I’m intent on relaxing in the steam before I’m forced to have a conversation. Under the hot water, half of the tensed muscles in my back unclench.
Once I’ve put my clothes back on, I open the bathroom door and come face-to-face with Alyssa.
“Unbelievable,” I say under my breath at the precise moment she gives me a glare of ice. Thank you, Jody. A night stuck in a room with Alyssa is exactly what I need right now.
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying,” Alyssa says sharply from her seat at the edge of the bed. “I’m waiting for Will to text me, then I’m going to move my stuff to his room. I’ll be sleeping there.” She tosses her shiny black hair over her shoulder.
“Of course you will,” I mutter. I expect the mention of Will to hurt, but it doesn’t. I really don’t care what he’s doing tonight, or who he’s doing it with.
But Alyssa’s eyes have narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Something in me snaps. The combination of Owen, my parents, this stupid fucking play, and now Alyssa staring at me does not have me feeling like playing nice. “I get it now,” I reply with false lightness. “I wouldn’t sleep with him, and you will.”
She stands up to her full height of five feet, four inches. “I’m not going to be shamed by a girl who’s had ten boyfriends in three years. You go right ahead and tell yourself I’m the bad guy, but I won’t feel guilty for finally getting with a boy I like.”
“It’s not that you got with a boy you liked. You got with a boy who had a girlfriend.” I push away the memory of kissing Owen, feeling the cold of my wet hair down my back.
“You date everyone, Megan!” Alyssa’s voice goes shrill.
“And? Because I’ve had a lot of boyfriends, my relationships don’t matter?”
“No, I don’t—” She looks away, and suddenly there’s something besides indignation in her tone. Something like pain, or purpose. “I mean, you think you’re the only girl who’s had a crush on Tyler Dunning? Or Dean Singh? Or Will? Do you even know what it’s like to want someone who will never notice you? I watched myself get overlooked for you time after time. Finally, a guy liked me, too.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Of the ways I’ve understood my relationships over the years, usurper to Alyssa wasn’t one of them. But with everything else pounding through my head right now, I can’t deal with hearing her out.
“Whatever,” I say with what I hope passes for finality. I walk to the door. “Enjoy your night,” I say, the door closing behind me.
* * *
Without knowing where I’m going, I head toward the stairs. I only know I need something to occupy me, to keep me out of Alyssa’s way, and to keep my thoughts from Owen and my family. I decide the lobby’s the best bet. I’ll run some lines until I figure it’s safe to return.
Rounding the corner at the other end of the hall, I catch sight of Tyler in front of the vending machine. I pass him with my head down and shoulders squared, hoping to convey I don’t want to talk.
“You don’t want to go down to the lobby,” I hear him say cheerfully before I reach the door to the stairs. “Jody’s enlisted everyone in folding programs.”
His words bring me to a halt. “Thanks,” I mutter, realizing now I have nowhere to go. While I’m considering my dilemma, Tyler swears under his breath, and I turn to find him shaking the vending machine to what sounds like little effect.
“Fucking money-eating piece of . . .”
“Louder. I don’t think it heard you,” I tell him, unable to resist the urge to heckle Tyler.
He eyes me, and then he clears his throat and repeats himself in his grandest stage voice. “Fucking money-eating piece of vile, execrable filth.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “Better. Imagine the vending machine sitting in the back row,” I say, adopting my most directorial demeanor.
He’s laughing, too, but he halfheartedly kicks the vending machine one final time. “Make fun all you want,” he replies, grinning ruefully, “but I’m a man in a crisis right now.”
I take two steps toward the vending machine, where I glimpse a bag of Skittles caught in the spindle and hanging half off the shelf. “A Skittles crisis,” I elaborate, smiling inwardly at how perfectly Tyler Dunning the situation is.
He nods gravely. “The worst kind.” I step up to the glass, scrutinizing the stuck spindle. “I tried shaking it,” he explains. “I even reached my arm up through the door—”